Through the eye of a needle you create me,
Stitching polyester skin to unholy bones.
I watched with glass eyes
The embroidered veins sink into my flesh.

Perfect in your eyes,
Am I only here to watch my demise?
Perfect in your eyes,
Your own little Frankenstein.

I felt the wicked serum grant me life,
The warmth of virgin blood caress my bones.
A poor mortal's heart now beats as mine.
What a loathsome monstrosity, immortal, divine.

Floating endlessly. An aberration. A sense of wrongness filled every pore. Alchera in the distance, looming. Its cold, austere beauty mocking his every breath. He gasped but only fire filled his lungs, every crevice of his being cried out. Agony. He was in agony.

A scream echoed in the darkness.

His own?

The faux image of the tantalizing ice planet, his cruel mistress, was abruptly stolen.

Blinding light filtered through the tank, wrenching him from slumber.

His eyes flew open, taking in the surroundings. Immense tubes filled with green solvent – each large enough to house a grown man surrounded him. A tremble. That's exactly what was contained in in those glass prisons – human men. Men who wore an all too-familiar face, eerily floating, blissfully unaware. Each specimen identical in every way.

Hands, hands without skin, only metal and bone, pounded futilely against the glass. Acute pain with every bash. Suspended in a viscous liquid, a breather across his face. He struggled. Writhing. Fighting. Fighting for freedom.

A woman entered his vision. Dark haired. Her voice, a robust sound, cut through his liquid prison.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I told you something was off with the TPN. This program should ensure proper nutrition but something is wrong."

"Damnit Wilson. Wrong is an understatement. He's awake."

She marched up to him, placing a palm on the other side of the glass. Sharp blue eyes gazing inwards, surprisingly tender. "It's going to be okay. Don't try to move Shepard. We're here to help."

Darkness came then, enveloping him in a warm embrace, a welcome respite from sharp reality. The fuzzy edges melted into obscurity. Sleep.


The touch of solid, cold steel crept up his back. Edges smooth. A table. He was on a table. The woman from before loomed above him, eyes boring into his own. "We'll put you back under in just a minute. Can you move your right leg?"

Who was she? Why was she forcing this torture on him?

"I need you to focus Shepard, we can't keep you awake too long, move your right leg." Her voice was cruel, demanding.

Shepard. She kept calling him that. A familiar inkling rose in the back of his brain. A tickle. That was his name.

He obeyed. But it wasn't good enough for the harlot. Her icy voice chastised him. "No. That's your left. Try again."

A broken, wrenching shriek surround him. Shrill. What sort of creature was capable of making such an awful racket? He wanted it to stop. It echoed across the room, bouncing from wall to wall until there was nothing but that terrible sound.

Was it coming from him? From the Shepard?

"Put him under now."

The darkness returned, a warm cocoon. This was better. The empty was better.


A haze of green burst into view, hands now covered in pink flesh. He was back in the tank, surrounded by Shepard replicas. His own face directly across from his position, sleeping peacefully. Oblivious. Could he speak to them? Why were there so many? Where was he? He was Shepard. Or was he one of many? Was this some sort of clone army?

The memories were clearer now. A burst of red hair, glistening in the sun. His.. his mother? He reached for her outstretched hand, too late. Her soft smile was replaced by a heart wrenching grimace. Blood poured from her eyes. Terror surrounded him. Fire and ash. Screaming. His father bellowing into the abyss.

Bellowing for the child.

A stolen child.
Too late. He had been too late.

The dark-haired woman emerged. Her faux gentleness did not fool him. She lifted a syringe. Only this time, when she injected it into the tube, he fought the nothingness that threatened to consume him.

"No."
What a grating, menacing sound his voice had become.
She startled. Wide blue eyes.
"No."
That felt good to say.

But then the bitch lifted another syringe. The edges blurred. And he sunk back into the nothingness.

A menacing shriek. Metal on metal.
Countless planets consumed.
Trillions dead.
The Prothean's extinction.
Flesh wrenching, writhing under metal gears.
The cycle must continue.

He was a captive in a strange lab of horrors.
He was Shepard.
And he would take no prisoners when he escaped.


Notes: The poem was written many years ago when I was around 15. I came across my old deviant art account and ran with it.