Standard Disclaimer - I own nothing of Mass Effect
Author's Note - Three chapters at a time here - this is the second. If you are seeing this first, just jump back a notch! Thanks again to everyone who has been reviewing!
Exultation, like dreaming, tends to fade in the cruel cruel light of day. Or, in the case of the Normandy, the precisely wattaged glow of mid-morning. When Samantha Traynor descends the metal stairs to wake the girl, her response is a pitiful whimper followed by a heartfelt groan.
"I'm sorry," Samantha says after introducing herself, "It occurred to me that no one has probably told you about the galley hours. You can go back to sleep if you'd like, but breakfast will only be available for another forty-five minutes."
The girl sits up, squints and then looks down at the data pad she placed on the floor by the cot. As soon as possible, she'd promised Shepard. And the galley would certainly have coffee.
The prospect is enough to bring her to her feet. She voices a quiet thank you and gives Traynor a closed mouth smile.
"I brought you a spare set of clothing and some toiletries," the specialist gestures to a bundle on a side crate. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing. The head and galley both are on the Crew Deck. I can show you the way if you are ready?"
The answer to that has to be yes, even if the girl might have preferred finding her own path on the familiar ship. Declining would just be rude.
The walk isn't too taxing and Traynor points out a few areas of the ship as they pass by. Then she drops her off outside of the restrooms, presumably to return to her usual duties. The open shower stalls mean that the girl washes in record time, despite an earnest desire to linger and scrub her skin red. There's a little hesitance when it comes to putting on the clothing Traynor has provided. It seems to be identical to what she's seen on the other crew members who aren't wearing armor. Even if the girl hadn't been scolded by her husband years ago for wearing his discard-pile dungarees to the store once, she'd know that you don't wear a uniform you haven't earned.
Her husband…
She slides one leg through the pants and watches her toes splay on the tile as she shifts her weight back onto that leg. Then the other foot leads her other leg through the fabric, and she's shimmying to bring the tight material up over her hips to fasten it shut.
It's only once she's pulled the shirt on over her head that she realizes there are no rank insignia to be found.
That should be okay then.
There are no claims being made that she is something, someone, she is not.