He was in a desert. He marched, one foot after the other, leaving indents in the sand behind him. His lips were parched, his tongue was dry, and the back of his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls: he was thirsty. Yet, he had no water. Around him, dunes stretched far into the distance, and hazy mirages covered the sands that lay ahead of him; he thought those mirages were water, and everywhere around him he saw these mirages, but no matter which way or how far he walked, there was no water. He would choose a spot and lumber towards it, but the water would just disappear as he got there, as if it were running away from him and denying him any relief from the sun that beat down on him. He was lost in a vast desert, and he was crippled with despair at his inability to escape this place. It was his prison.
He reached the foot of a dune, one of the many endless ones that covered the desert; these were ephemeral structures of nature, constructed and destroyed by wind. He didn't know where to go, and he believed that he was for sure dead; he thought about maybe just turning around and finding another route to follow, one that didn't climb the dune. Yet he truly believed that he was lost and that he would die. If that was the case, going in one direction was as good as any other. He would die, that's all that mattered. So he started to climb the dune. Even with its shallow incline, he was too tired and fatigued to stand on his trembling legs; he collapsed onto his hands and knees and started to crawl forward.
The heat of the sand burned his hands. At first, the warmth was a small trickle, but with each second that passed, his hands got hotter and hotter and hotter. His dry throat struggled to scream out the pain his body was feeling. As he neared the top, and the dune's incline got steeper, he would find that with every foot he moved forward, he would slide back down the same distance. The lack of progress was agonizing; it made him angry; he wanted to punch and kick his way through the dune. A sarcastic smile crept over his face. It was useless to fight a sand dune; yes, it was composed of a billion small and infinitely unimportant parts; a single grain of sand was defenseless; but put together, it didn't matter how many you moved with a shovel, or scooped with your hands, or in his case punched with your fists; you would only shift a couple hundred grains over by a few inches.
His heart was filled with anguish, a great sadness at the nature of his predicament. He didn't know who he was, or why he was here, but he didn't want to fall and give up here and be swallowed by the sands and heat of the desert. He lunged for the top of the dune, his hands and feet clawing at the sand beneath him, desperate to propel himself up the side of the dune. He made it, he reached the top of the dune, but his body was too tired and broken to support himself on such a narrow peak. He rolled down the other side, tumbling down the slope, his hands and feet kicking up sand into the air.
He reached the base of the other side. He coughed and spat, for sand was in his mouth. He rubbed his closed eyes with his elbow, trying to remove the grains of sand that were trying to enter his eye. He heaved great gasps of air in and out of his lungs, but it gave him no relief: the air was too hot and dry.
He opened his eyes, and in the distance, he saw another mirage, yet again taunting him. He knew it was probably another lie, another tiny speck in the distance that would shrink and disappear as soon as he neared it, but he was a desperate man. No, he couldn't go out like this. He struggled to stand up, his legs quivering underneath him from weakness. He began to march forward again towards his new target.
With each step he took, each mile he covered, the mirage would grow and grow. The tiny speck that it was before slowly enlarged; he still couldn't tell what it was, but it was all he had. So he continued walking for what seemed like hours, stumbling through the desert like an old man.
The sun was setting by the time he could begin to make out what it was. A large black marble structure. It was a statue of untold proportions. It towered into the sky for the travelers of the desert like a lighthouse would for the boats of the ocean: no wonder he could see it from so far away. He approached it, and with every step he took, he had to appreciate its magnitude. It was a man, constructed out of solid black marble, standing atop a pedestal. He was regal and frightening. This statue, it was built for some important person… a king. Shepard should have been awed by its presence. Instead, he despised it. These men, they had been the ones to lead so many to ruin, to lead so many to die for wars they had no gain in.
Shepard had arrived at the statue late. No, not an hour or a day late. He had arrived decades, maybe even centuries too late; he could have been saved, could have been found by people, only if he had arrived all that time ago. But alas, this was the story of his life. He decided that he would die here, at the base of the statue. Then, he too would lie undisturbed in the vast emptiness of the desert for years on end, at least until another traveler like him arrived.
He stumbled towards the pedestal. The sky was dark, turning red and fading into purple: it was beautiful. He would die with this view; he could at least appreciate it. As he neared the base of the statue, he looked closer at the pedestal it stood on: a large, solid block of stone. Dense, immovable, unchanging; it could withstand the harshness of this place, unlike him; he, was weak.
In the dim light, he could barely make out an engraving. Letters had been delicately carved into the stone: Submit, for you were born, live, and will die, all because I allow it. The king was taunting his subjects, showing them how weak they were, how unable they were to sustain their own lives. And the king was right, Shepard was powerless before him. He sunk to his knees before the statue. No, he wasn't bowing out of respect, he was just too tired to continue on any longer. Beneath the initial engraving, in smaller letters, the carver of this stone continued: Despair upon my works.
He suddenly felt himself growing older by the second. He looked down at his skin, and it slowly became translucent, the outlines of veins poking out from the worn flesh. The days and nights blended into one until it was just him and the statue and this infinite desert. He didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been years, centuries, even millennia. He had watched sandstorms come and go, clouds pass overhead, the stars shine against the sky, the mountains of sand shift and swarm in the distance. Little by little, he watched the angular corners of the pedestal become round. The smooth rock of the king's body slowly became pitted with ever expanding holes. The sharp features of his face and the precise indents of the engraving were gradually worn away. At first, Shepard had not realized the changes; they had been so small, almost imperceptible. However, one day, the changes were enough to differentiate from the day he had first reached this statue. He realized something: like him, the statue was growing old: it was dying.
Dust began to rain down on him, black powder from the king's outstretched hands. Shards of rock crumbled and fell to the ground. The base of the statue was forming cracks and splitting apart like it was being pushed apart from the inside. Shepard stood up again in front of the statue. He started to laugh, an evil, cynical roar of disdain. The king's statue, with its sneer of superiority and hand that had mocked him for all these years, was falling to pieces. Like him, it too would die here, in the vast desert, unadmired. He looked at the statue one last time as it slowly crumbled. The words on the pedestal had a crack running through them. Despair upon my works, he read again. He looked down at his arm, the weak appendage that had once been a muscular weapon. That's when it hit him, when he stopped laughing and really began to feel despair. He wasn't despairing because the statue was so grand. He was despairing because like him, the statue that thought it would never die, that thought it would watch its subjects die in front of it while it would live forever, was crumbling. They were shadows of their former selves, the power they once had was fading.
The statues forearm fell off. Shepard watched it accelerate through the air and slam into the ground on his left, impacting with a loud thud. The statue broke at its knees, and it began to fall forward, to fall onto Shepard. He watched the black marble structure fall towards him, waiting for it to crush him.
Shepard jumped out of his bed and scrambled to turn the lights in the room on. His heart was racing, his shirt was soaked with sweat. It had been another nightmare, although he couldn't recall it; he usually never did remember them anyway. He was afraid of something, although of what, he could not tell. He put his head in his hands and listened to the sound of his own breathing, which was little better than ragged gasps.
He didn't know how much time had passed until he lowered his hands, opened his eyes, and looked around his room again. It was just him, he was alone, with nothing that could threaten or kill him. He thought he was being ridiculous, cowering and hiding his face like a child. In fact, he should never have fallen asleep at all. He was the commander of this vessel, and he was supposed to be on duty. He looked at the clock: 19:00. He had only wanted to close his eyes for five minutes, five minutes just so he could rest and shut out everything from his mind. He'd slept for five hours.
He rose to his feet and hurriedly opened his closet. He threw his damp, sweat-stained shirt to the ground and put on a new one. Looking at himself in the mirror, he pulled down the shirt so it was even and fixed the collar. He paused when he met his own eyes. Sometimes, it still shocked him that the person he saw in the mirror was him: it was horrifying. He still found it difficult to accept, and he wished what he saw was a different person. He feared that mirror. It wasn't because he was ugly or fat or out of shape; he feared the mirror because he could put a face to the person who had done all those horrible things in his memories. He was forced to realize that that person, the person he saw in the mirror, was him.
He turned to exit his cabin. The door slid open, and he suddenly recoiled. He heard sounds. Metal clanging, loud noises… it was forks and knives, it was people talking. 1900, shit. He realized what time it was, what happened at 1900: it was dinner time. He always tried to hide himself during those times, so he wouldn't interrupt their meals by virtue of his presence, so he couldn't be asked to join them. He would get his food later, after everyone cleared out, and scarf it down in his cabin, away from everyone else.
He steeled his nerves in preparation for the impossible task that lay before him: walking by a few people while trying not to be noticed. He stepped forward, past the doorway of his cabin. Already, he could feel their eyes on him, watching him, judging his every little action. He hated it. The sounds of forks hitting plates slowed down, their conversations quieted, and Shepard was only halfway to the staircase that led to the command deck.
"Shepard, what are you running away from? Isn't my ugly face, is it?" It was Wrex, taunting him. Out of all of them, Wrex was most likely to do so anyway; at the end of the day, he was an eight-hundred-year-old krogan mercenary/bounty hunter who lived through a centuries-long civil war and the slow extinction of his species; what shits could he possibly give about one human soldier?
Shepard paused. He knew it would just be too weird to keep walking without saying anything. "No, just headed upstairs, Wrex." His voice was monotone and lacked any emotion. John hadn't even bothered to turn his head to face them as he replied. He couldn't bear to face them, to face anybody at all, especially at such a social event: dinner. Shepard had seen some of the movies, where the kid would come home and there would be a home-cooked meal on the table and they would eat it and talk about their day… it was something he never had.
Unfortunately, he was starting to get the feeling that he was full of shit, that he was the one stopping himself from becoming normal, not the world. Each of his crew was different, but they all knew how to navigate the social hierarchy here. During the first few days, things had been tense between everyone on his team; they were people from very different species and very different backgrounds; they couldn't help but be wary of each other, and sometimes even scared. Hell, Shepard didn't really like any of them back then. He'd believed the rumors about the quarians, about how they were thieves and liars. He feared having a Krogan mercenary onboard who used to get paid by the highest bidder; what could have stopped him from switching sides simply through a bank account transfer? Liara was the daughter of the enemy, and consequently, could have been a spy. Etc.
However, as time went on, each of them learned to cope and adapt. Even the ones he never expected to, who probably had life worse than him, like the quarian or krogan, had learned to be at ease here. They learned to trust one another, and on the battlefield, to trust one another with their lives. They learned to adapt, that's what made them people, because people think and change. Shepard? No, he was just an unthinking machine.
The mess was now silent. The cling of utensils had all but paused and no one talked. He could feel all their eyes on him, calling him a freak. "You should get some food, Shepard. It's no fun killing people on an empty stomach," Wrex offered. It's almost like they were waiting for him to say something, to grab some food, or take a seat, or hear out their fears about the mission, or listen to the stories of their past.
"Carry on, soldiers." He began to walk away from them. He could still feel their eyes trailing him, even as he disappeared around the corner and up the stairs. Shepard hung his head in shame.
Shepard stood at the command position on the top deck. Its elevated pedestal raised him above the galaxy map that lay before him. He was hunched over, resting his elbows on the railing as he stared at the infinity of stars in front of him. He could take solace in the fact that if he failed, or if any other catastrophe ever happened in the future, the stars would still be here, as beautiful as ever. The galaxy would be fine, but the people it housed was another question entirely. Stars didn't care if they died; people did; well, at least most people.
John had just met with Admiral Hackett in the comm room. He'd been forced to report his failures again, to report that he hadn't found anything and that Saren was still out there. Hackett wasn't happy about the progress, yet he didn't blame Shepard. The trail was dry, after all. However, it didn't make Shepard feel any better to know that he was failing. John's entire life had been a complete failure; he didn't have friends nor family, an education, and up until recently, a penny to his name. All Shepard did have was one thing: the satisfaction that came with completing his mission. It made him feel useful. He normally didn't care if he saved innocent lives (or when he took them); the satisfaction was derived from the fact that he did something, accomplished something of importance. Yet, it would seem he was falling into the general pattern of his life: failure. Shepard could not find Saren. He would always be too late to save anyone. He wasn't a soldier. He was a janitor; he was the cleanup crew; he mopped up whatever was left after the damage was already done. So, Hackett had given him another task. Recover a defunct probe with a nuke strapped to its back. Wonderful. That's all that Shepard was good for. The Normandy was headed there now.
John saw the look of disappointment on Hackett's face as he had signed off, as if he expected more from Shepard. It hurt him knowing that he was yet again a failure, he was a failure to the people who had bothered to take a chance and give him this job. Nevertheless, John had to admit that they had picked the wrong person. They had picked a brutal instrument of war, a killing machine. Shepard was beginning to realize his inadequacy. This job didn't need him; it needed a thinker, someone to connect all the clues in nuanced ways and follow the trail. It needed someone who understood the history and information about their enemy. It needed someone who was an expert at dealing with artificial intelligence. This person was not Shepard. The alliance would have been better off if they had nominated one of his crew members.
Stand the fuck up soldier. Stop feeling sorry for yourself because nobody cares. The other half of his mind, the one that propelled him to pick up his body every morning and march through the day, was speaking now. You have those people on your team, so stop whining like a little bitch. It was true, those people were on his team. He just hated having to rely on them. Every time, someone would have to hack the computer for him, or fill in the information he needed to know, or protect him from dying, and the myriads of other tasks that helped him to complete his mission. Shepard knew they were supposed to be a team, but he hated having to place that much trust in other people.
He stood up straight and started to rub the bridge of his nose with two fingers as he closed his eyes. He exhaled forcefully through his nose. He was frustrated, and he didn't know what to do. That fact wasn't lost on the sparse occupants of the command deck, which currently was just him, Pressley, and Joker, who was nowhere near them.
His second in command was typing discreetly on his omnitool. What he was doing, John could not tell. He stood by his navigation terminal, which was what Pressley was supposed to be focusing on. Shepard shrugged; he didn't care. There was no reason to run his crew tight; they probably knew what they were doing better than he did anyway. However, he couldn't help but be curious. He tried peering at Pressley's omnitool without being obvious. Pressley chuckled to himself; he must have been texting someone, someone who made him happy.
But Pressley noticed. He quickly shut off his omnitool and returned to his duties. "My apologies, commander." He glued his eyes to the screen in front of him, the smile on his face replaced with a stern seriousness.
Shepard now felt guilty; he'd done it again; he'd intervened, intruded into someone's happiness and taken it away. "It's fine Pressley. It was my bad," he sighed.
"I was just talking with my son. It's been…awhile." Shepard nodded his head. He wanted to say he understood why Pressley had done what he'd done, but Shepard knew he would never understand. He would never know the burden, and as rumor would have it, the joy, of having a child.
"A son," Shepard mused, "I didn't know you had a kid."
"Well, he's all grown up now," Pressley corrected.
A small smile wavered on Shepard's face. "You must be proud." Proud, it was such an odd concept for him. No one would ever be proud of him. He wasn't even proud of himself. But Pressley, he had something to look forward to when he returned home, to give him a reason to fight. "Shouldn't you be with him." Shepard paused upon hearing the words out of his mouth. "Well, I mean wouldn't you want to serve back on Earth instead of the front lines… for his sake?" Perfect, I'm going to be responsible for orphaning another kid. Except this time, I didn't kill the parents, I just led them to their deaths.
"I could," Pressley agreed. He knew he was getting old anyway. Shepard had exaggerated when he said front lines. There was no way in hell he would be able to keep up with Shepard. "But I belong here, on the Normandy."
Shepard gulped. The pride in Pressley's voice, the purpose in his words, he truly believed that his purpose was here. Shepard wanted to ask "why?", but he could already guess the answer. Pressley was here because he wanted to stop Saren and fight the reapers. Maybe he couldn't be as much help as he used to, but he was one of the best darn map readers in the alliance. If that was all he could do, then it was more than enough of a reason to stay here.
"Does it scare you… to know that the Reapers are out there, just waiting to kill us all?" Does it scare you to know that you brought another person into this hellhole of existence, only to suffer in pain and die a sad death? It's what he wanted to ask, but he wouldn't dare.
"Of course it does. That's why I'm here, commander. That's why we're all here: to stop Saren and his geth army." Shepard was a terrible motivator. He usually got people to do things by being an utter asshole. But here, on the Normandy, there was no need to get lazy people working. For starters, Anderson had handpicked the crew all those months ago. Each and every person here was the best of the best. Yet, there was something else that motivated them all: the fear of extinction. Shepard didn't need to motivate them, the reapers did that job just fine.
"You say it like you know we're going to win, Pressley."
The navigator let out a sigh. He knew what he was getting into when this conversation had started. Leave it to the commander to knock hope down. "I have to believe we will, commander. For humanity, for my family, they're all counting on me. I can't fail them.
Shepard could only wish he had such a strong conviction. He was here only because he had nothing better to do. No, no you have a reason too. You've seen the visions, Shepard. You know what is to come, what you're fighting against. Even so, he didn't know why he bothered fighting at all. "How do you live with all that pressure? Because if you fail…" Shepard couldn't say the rest of his thought; he didn't want to give Pressley that mental image.
Pressley let out a remorseful laugh. "You probably know better than me, what it's like to live with all that pressure."
"Why? You're here on the Normandy, fighting the reapers too."
"Commander, I'm nothing more than an old, glorified map reader. I can do my part, but we both know I'm not going to be the one fighting Saren. It's going to be you. I want to believe that I'm doing something, but its really just you and your team. The entire galaxy is depending on us… you, to win." Pressley paused before continuing. "Everyone on this ship is depending on you to lead us to victory."
Shepard rested his elbows on the railing in front of him again. They chose the wrong man to lead them. He wanted to say it out loud, but he couldn't, for Pressley's sake. Let the man enjoy his ignorant bliss. Pressley was right, it was Shepard's burden. He didn't think he could save them, but at least for now, he could try and protect them from the truth. Let them die happily, thinking they did something. "We'll get there Pressley, don't worry." You won't have to worry about dying and believing that our deaths were in vain.
