I'm posting this in the middle of the night like some crazy person - all right, let's be honest, am a crazy person - because I literally composed the whole thing while staring at my ceiling instead of sleeping. True story. Please forgive any silly mistakes that might be contained herein.
This chapter is brought you by insomnia, my pitch black apartment, and rambunctious Halloween revelers outside. Enjoy!
Forfeit
Fourteen:
Hackett watches her from across the room, only one ear paying heed to the discussion that circles round and round the table. Her elbow is propped on the armrest of her chair, and her chin is set in the cup of her palm. She's got that doll in her lap, and her free hand fiddles with it as she gazes out the window, paying less attention than himself. He knows what she's seeing; she's looking at those remnants of buildings still standing, jagged spires pointing accusing fingers to the sky.
He knows what she's thinking too, knows what's churning around in that head of hers. The gunman was interrogated a week past. Indoctrination would have been the nice, simple answer but truth often defies simplicity. The man had been insane, sure enough, and had acted on behalf of some fringe fanatical sect devoted to worshiping the Reapers. Hackett thinks of the man in the past tense, because he knows the body now lies in some unmarked grave somewhere. There are days when the burden of leadership grows heavy, but that day, that day Hackett pulled the trigger himself.
She's also thinking about Graham, the little boy she wanted to keep, and how his father miraculously returned from the dead. The farewell had many tears on both sides, and had left Riley looking hollow. This was a boy on whom she'd pinned her hopes for a future – a future as part of a pair. Her hand pulls on the hair of the doll.
"I'll award the Commander the Nova Cluster," says Sparatus.
"And then I," says Wrex with tremendous emphasis, "will award her the Steel Shroud." Here Riley's dragged away from her reverie to raise an eyebrow at Wrex, who grins at her. "Had to think of a new medal, Shepard. Not even a krogan has had quite your success in battle." He shrugs. "Plus, I thought Bakara might like it to commemorate that doctor, what's his face."
From across the table, the salarian dalatrass blinks. "You're naming a krogan medal in honor of an STG defector?"
Wrex fixes the woman with a long stare. "That a problem?"
"Not at all," says the dalatrass primly, then turns her large eyes on Riley. "We also wish to award you the Silver Dagger, Commander Shepard."
Which makes the whole thing a clean sweep for Riley. Hackett wonders how loudly she will jingle when she walks off that stage, how unbalanced she'll be. After this, Commander Shepard will have any choice of assignment in the galaxy, regardless of the military – not that she wouldn't even without the accolades.
Hackett leans forward to add his two credits when Riley says, "No."
All the leaders turn to look at her, but she's turned her attention away again. Her hand is laid over top of the doll's face.
"Commander," he begins, "what do you mean no?"
"I mean," she says, and fixes them all with an intensity that he hasn't seen since the war ended, "that I will not be accepting any medals and I will not be a part of some ceremony."
"Commander Shepard," says Matriarch Valaina, "this ceremony is meant to boost the morale of the survivors."
"This ceremony is bullshit," says Riley plainly. "I don't need more medals. I don't need more pomp and circumstance. I've already got my own fan club. The only thing they're missing are t-shirts, and I'm pretty sure that's more because clothing is scarce than because of a lack of desire. Will a pretentious award ceremony really boost morale right now? It won't boost mine, that's for sure."
"Shepard," says Hackett, a warning in his voice.
She meets his eyes dead on, and though there's the smallest crumb of apology in her eyes, she carries on, "Maybe this is me being selfish, but I'd say I earned it, wouldn't you?" Without another word, she pushes herself up from her chair and strides from the room.
Hackett stands as well. "Please, excuse me."
He follows Riley's back to a stairwell, and then the sound of her footsteps upward. When he reaches the roof, he finds her with both hands on the concrete barrier, staring down. The sky overhead is overcast and makes Hackett feel like he's living in a world composed entirely of greys. He follows her eyes and sees that outside the military compound, a group of people are huddled together, waiting. For her.
Walking up to her, he mirrors her pose, pressing his hands into the cool concrete only inches away from hers. He stares at the sky and says nothing. He's waiting for her too.
"This might be terrible to admit, especially to someone who's both your dad and your CO," she says, "but part of me wishes I'd died on the Citadel."
Is this what a heart attack feels like? Hackett's never had one, but this seems like it should be right. His hands tingle and it's as though he loses all feeling in his face. He inhales deeply.
"It was so much easier to save the world than to live in it," she says, and her hands hug the small doll in her hands. She looks up at the sky. "I keep waiting to feel excited that I'm alive, but… I feel like I'm the outline of a person. All those bits that were supposed to fit inside have been misplaced."
"You miss him," says Hackett. The sound of Garrus' sound of desolation rings in his ears.
"Yeah," she says, but it's more an exhalation than anything. The corners of her mouth turn up. "Never thought I'd be talking about boys with my dad."
"I never thought you'd end up with a turian," Hackett admits. He places his hand over hers.
"He saw me," she says. Her voice goes soft in a way he's never heard, and it's like she bunches herself up in anticipation of arms surrounding her. "Even when I thought I was invisible. Even when I thought I'd hidden myself real well, he saw me." She bumps him with her shoulder. "You would've liked him."
His breath becomes lodged in his throat. He takes and squeezes her hand and examines her face. The past tense drapes itself over their conversation, and in that moment, though they are touching, there is an unmoveable wedge between them. Whereas her reaction to Anderson's death was violent, this is small, nearly subdued. A lone tear rolls down her face. When it splashes on the concrete, the fragments tickle his hand.
He wants to tell her that there's still hope, that she should hold on, but the words stick in the base of his throat. Never has he hated his stubborn realism more than now.
With her free hand, Riley tosses that doll off the roof, watching as it summersaults its way down, before it shattering on impact five storeys below.
Hackett couldn't even tell you how many pieces there are, or if there's any chance they could fix it.