Private Einarson was a medic, not a surgeon. Looking at what they presumed to be Shepard's body, wrapped tightly in wires and plating, he felt himself cringe away. He had no idea what to do. They couldn't touch her, they couldn't cut her out without chancing damage to whatever systems she was hooked up to—they were stumped, in short.
And he was on watch duty.
It had been two days since they'd cut the Commander's torso out of the Reaper. Amazingly, they didn't seem to have severed any connections: Einarson was secretly very creeped out by that … it felt almost as if she'd wanted to be found. Or the ship had wanted her to be found. Or something.
No one was being indoctrinated, as far as they could tell. Reports were coming in planet-wide that the final bastions of Reaper soldiers were going even more berserk than usual, and as such were easy targets. There had been no word on the effects of the blinding explosion that had occurred at the tail-end of what people were already calling the Battle of London: it had seemed to pass through everything, and quite a lot of machinery had shorted out. All the operational geth, for instance, had simply frozen in place; they'd been carefully moved into storehouses, since no one understood what had happened – and no one wanted to mess around with the geth. Though he had heard faint rumours of some quarian wanting to take a look at them. Zen? Was that her name? He only remembered because it had reminded him of his sister's daily meditations while they had roomed together in university …
Everything was way too quiet. Even though the Reapers had essentially knocked out all communication to the Sol system just before the initial attack, there had always been such frantic action that no one had really noticed the difference. Now, with almost all communications down except for relatively short-range bursts, you didn't even have the extranet to keep you company. Just you and your thoughts.
And in his case, the somnolent legend cradled ominously in the machinery of the galaxy's greatest foe.
It made for a wonderfully relaxing evening.
He sat on a crate, elbows on his knees, staring balefully at the back of her head which hung roughly six inches in front of him. Pretty cramped spot, the end of this tunnel. It was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic.
At least she didn't seem to be in pain, as far as he could tell. And his omnitool was still picking up those faint lifesigns, though they were emitting from everywhere around him according the diagnostic scanner.
On a whim, he held up his arm and flicked his omnitool to life, waving the glowing orange holographic display over Shepard. Nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the insistent 1688 mHz spike. He swung it around over his head and down by the floor: the same readings.
Huh. It was almost like she was the ship. Or the ship was her. Or the Reaper was her. Or … oh to hell with it.
He let his head drop forward, tired and bored and worried and scared. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted …
His forehead brushed the back of her head.
The universe exploded behind his eyelids, red and brown and black and so so so painful.
The death of a race he'd never seen, machines beyond his comprehension, pain and injury and death and blood—
Anguish, horror, terror, pain, a warning, a cry: flee, fly, leave, leave now, you cannot possibly understand the danger you are in—
All is lost, war is death, blood is murder, the blood of millions on your hands, on your dirty, filthy hands, you utter disgrace, you—
How long, how long, untouchable time, eons, ages, he felt his heart contracting and his mind burning, he couldn't understand, how could anyone understand—
Tears screams fear pain suffering anguish angst hatred cries orphans endless endless death death death death—
life
suddenly a great, seething, swaying, eternal blueness
deep and bright and pastel and oceanic
cool, calm waves of peace, of joy, of hope, of love
you are strong in this place, you are mighty, you have a choice
life
he could breathe, he was alive, he would be okay, not all was lost
love will come, hope will come, peace will come, rest now
whiteness
blindness
light
life
He fell off the crate, sprawling over the mess of machinery, completely unconscious, lying in the shadow cast by the woman wrapped in her metallic sarcophagus.
When he woke, several hours later, he felt calm and well-rested. He berated himself severely for having fallen asleep on watch duty, but consoled himself that no one knew Shepard was here, and there were very few people who would dare go near a Reaper – and besides, she was still there, so it was all good. It was all just fine.
When Anderson came to relieve the private at nine hundred hours, he asked the young man how he was doing: Einarson replied that he felt very zen. The medic left calmly, and Anderson took his place on the crate.
"Zen…"
