"Conflict. Violence. Destruction. The base instincts that society is supposedly built on. Those that claim to be cultured would argue that such instincts are meant to be discarded—left behind via the process of evolution—as society is designed to eventually cull the traits that separate us from animals over time, eventually reducing violence from a constant to a deeply despised anomaly. Despite such noble predictions, history continues to prove such people to possess childlike views of their civilization, to have their wishes exist only as faint hopes, ideals for those that come after them to strive to and to act as their own fantasy.
Perhaps peace is always meant to exist as an unattainable echelon. Much like the criterions found in religion, the concept of having a galaxy without conflict can only exist within the realm of imagination, as we have not yet established the path that clearly leads us to our destination. There is no motivation for us to continue searching for this path except for our incontrovertible desire to further our own attainment.
But violence is one of those concepts that seems to possess a certain inevitability in the manner that peace does not. Violence has inspired curiosity in its actions, drawn to the possibilities of what man can do when pushed to the brink of their limits. Ritualism, cynicism, and perpetrated by the media at every turn, violence has a perennial aspect about it that defies classification. Are such depictions of violence wrong or is the exposure to the possibility that we all have a destructive side a healthy confrontation for us to enact? Short of enlisting into an actual war, for most the only way to experience violence was to watch fantasized depictions, whether artful or exploitative, in the forms of mass media. Amusingly, publicized outcries against such depictions from concerned citizens, fearful of its effect on developing minds, merely served to increase the level of attention as well as the general interest on the properties themselves. For what else, if not fascination, would have prompted auteurs such as Sam Peckinpah (The Wild Bunch, Straw Dogs), John Milius (Writer: Apocalypse Now, Dirty Harry), Gaspar Noe (Irreversible, Enter the Void), and Park Chan-Wook (Vengeance Trilogy) to bring their sordid and gruesome dreams verisimilitude? Some of these examples try to sidestep the issue by intimating that the path that violence leads other down ultimately ends up without a valid justification. Others use it as a shameless device to add momentum, pulp. Thus, the mixed messages media sends about violence leaves the audience confused in the end, with no clear answer if it represents a degenerate journey to the lowest depths of the soul or if it is a justified tool to wield in the event of one's morals being wronged."
Final Monograph: Transcriptions of an Augury
Unknown Author, (pg. 149)
Reprinted by permission of Purdue University
Vakarian
Med Bay
"Ow," Roahn groaned as she sat up on the curved bed. "Ow. Ow. Ow."
With a hacking noise, she spat. A globule of blood splattered the tile at Sam's feet. Tools in hand, the doctor looked up, his face falling at the sight of the biohazard spotting the floor.
"Goddamn it, I just had this floor washed," he said out loud, as though griping about such inconveniences could pull a resolution out of thin air.
The quarian flashed a crooked smile, unapologetic. "Sorry," she mumbled anyway, crimson trickles dripping past her lips as she talked.
"Be quiet," Sam bustled forward with more towels. "You're just making things worse."
He dabbed at Roahn's face—the cloths immediately came away soaked with blood. Sam quickly started a pile of the stained textiles as they quickly became unusable, one after another.
Roahn had certainly seen better days. The quarian was sitting in a hunched position, the lone patient in the med bay, unmasked and helmet-less, breath emitting in a slight wheeze from her mouth. Pieces of her armor had marked a dotted trail from the door of the med bay over to her bed. Several of them were cracked or bent. A couple of the plates had almost been completely coated by carbon scoring. Her visor had been deposited somewhere amongst the scattered collage, completely sans the glass plate. What was left of it existed as a ragged halo that was shaped by the titanium frame that housed her vocabulator—a few stray crumbs of shattered glass dusted the otherwise immaculate tile around where it had been dropped.
Sam's frown drooped even more, if it could be believed. He made a two-fingered gesture in the air and, responding to the nonverbal command, a medical robot swooped over via its magnetic ceiling rails—a segmented white cylinder that contained all the surgical equipment that the average person could ever hope to need.
He could not hold his disapproving look for long as he continued to stare at his patient. Roahn was, all things considered, a complete fright. Blood had coated damn near half her chin, having been expelled from her mouth—she had apparently bitten her tongue quite hard during her last outing and it was having a lot of trouble healing. Judging from the wet noises she made as she breathed, Sam guessed that she was also suffering from a collapsed lung. Caused by a broken rib puncturing it, maybe—he was going to need to fix that posthaste. A black eye also marred Roahn's right socket, an orbital void of dark and cloudy flesh that captured a similarly distressed eye, and judging by the seepage of red threatening to consume the dull green irises, it was obvious that a blood vessel had burst there as well. Roahn had also peeled the collar of her suit away for Sam to inspect, exposing her skin down to about the top of her chest. A magnificent bruise was creeping up her neck just past where the suit clung to the quarian, like an old forest growth. Sam suspected that the actual size of the injury was quite impressive. But all of that trauma was just what Sam could see on the outside. In addition to his initial diagnoses, he had a bible's worth of digital screens and holographic panels surrounding Roahn's bed on both sides that indicated far more serious internal damages that the woman had sustained. The fact that Roahn was still alive, much less lucid, had to be a testament to the sturdiness of the quarian physique.
Truthfully, Sam figured that it was the strength of Roahn's determination that could have been a factor to her survival. He did not mention that out loud, of course. He was not in the habit of stroking anyone's ego other than his own. Not on the job, at least.
"Twenty-seven separate injuries," Sam was rattling off as he appraised the summary page on his omni-tool. "Six broken bones. Two of your major organs exhibiting significant trauma. Blood cell count's on the low end. Liver and kidneys are barely holding on. All in all, the bull in the proverbial china shop would have done less damage than the ringer you've been through. I could quote your component values, just to get my point across."
"Rrrgh," Roahn grunted as the surgical tool jumped into action, using a gentle forceps to widen Roahn's enviro-suit at her side, using one of the vacuum seal lines, before applying a quick dose of local anesthetic. The suite then inserted a thick needle between her ribs—there was a dull puncturing sound and then a stale hiss of aspiration from the pleural space in Roahn's lung. Dark fluid then started to sludge its way out of her body as percutaneous chest tube drainage commenced, the discolored liquid quickly being deposited in a thin reservoir within the suite. "How about we skip the numbers this time?" she finally gritted out, answering Sam's question. "Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a bit… (arrgh!)… indisposed, at the moment."
The needle and tubes withdrew themselves from Roahn's sides, another nozzle springing into place to deliver a clotting dose of medi-gel. The quarian clenched her teeth, taking labored breaths, but they were slowing in tempo out of relief. At least she could breathe somewhat normally again.
Sam tossed Roahn a hospital gown. "Get undressed and get into that," he ordered. "I've taken care of your most life-threatening injury, but if you don't want me to keep poking holes in your suit, best you'd wear something a little more accessible."
Roahn clenched the rough fabric in her fists, balling the gown up on her lap. "Can't you just give me a quick pep-up, Sam?"
The doctor could not completely hold his guffaw back. The idea that this woman, who looked like she a Mako tank had just run over her, as demonstrated by how much blood she was currently depositing on his floor—his goddamn polished floor!—was too much for him to take seriously in that moment. How else was he supposed to react? Thick strings of bloody mucus were still dangling their way down Roahn's chin, bruises coated the woman's face, and she was still sitting up in that hunched position. His commander was hurt and it was his responsibility to nurse her back to full health. No amount of convincing would get him to release her in her current state.
Which was exactly what he told her. "No amount of convincing will get me to release you in your current state," was his flat response.
The quarian wiped her chin. The back of her hand came away bright red. She tried to ignore it. "You do realize that I don't have to stay here, right?"
"Are you aware of something that I'm not?" Sam arched an eyebrow.
"Just giving you a warning. I can always walk out of here."
Right now, Sam was thinking that if he acquiesced to her wishes, if he just let Roahn walk out of here, like she was threatening to do right now, he would be subject to a rather comical sequence of watching the injured quarian heavily limp her way out the door, leaving a streaked trail of bloody footprints in her wake. A vaguely amusing image to have in his head, though Sam was not quite keen to see it play out for real. Better to let such possible futures lack a certain permanence.
As part of his own retort, Sam walked over to a nearby cabinet and unlocked the topmost drawer. From inside, he withdrew a packaged syringe. He held the package up so that Roahn could see it.
"You know what's in this?" he asked.
Roahn knew damn well that Sam didn't expect her to know the answer. She played along and shook her head, but gave him a scowl at the same time.
"I'm holding a syringe of fexopirin, possibly the most fast-acting anesthetic drug invented. I don't even have to stick it in a vein for it to knock someone out in less than a minute. If I do hit a vein, then complete loss of consciousness is achieved in less than ten seconds."
The quarian wasn't following. "So?"
"So, like I've had to tell multiple people on this ship ad nauseum, I'm responsible for everyone's well-being. And quite frankly, I've reached the end of my rope with trying to convince people to lay in the fuckin' bed for once. This fexopirin? This is literally the end of my rope. I can knock anyone out with a single drop of this crap. Works like a charm, so I'm told. Never had a chance to actually use it."
"Sam, I'm just going to—"
"See," Sam ignored her, continuing his spiel, "there's a reason why I haven't bothered to use fexopirin before. That's because the fast knock-out time comes with a price: some pretty gnarly side effects. No need to worry, they're not at all life threatening. It just tends to fuck up one's inner ear for… about a week or so. That's on top of the digestive issues that fexopirin is notorious for causing, which lasts about the same time. So, not only will you be vomiting your guts out for a week, you'll need to have a lavatory in close proximity lest you want to have to make an embarrassing explanation when all hell eventually breaks loose, if you catch my drift. And, considering the strength of this drug, it will break loose."
Roahn didn't respond. She was wide-eyed, holding her breath. Probably estimating if it was worth making a break for the exit and if Sam was actually serious at all that he would give chase. Her eyes flicked to the syringe and to Sam's unblinking face. He didn't look like he was bluffing.
Voice halting, the quarian tried one final protest, but it seemed that her brain was shorting out, running slower than her mouth. All that emitted from her were frankly pathetic noises as she struggled to even form one coherent word.
The human snorted in amusement as he witnessed Roahn's complete failure at debating. "That's what I thought. Please don't try to protest the point further, Roahn, because if you do, the both of us will soon find out how long you can keep yourself conscious after one dose of this shit. Although, if I were a betting man, I'd give you seven seconds. And that's a generous guess."
Scowling, Roahn reached up to unlock one of the catches that hid the seals to her suit at her hip. She shrugged the layer further down her shoulders.
"You're a real bastard, Sam," she said, though there was no anger in her words.
"Then we're both lucky that I'm not in this to win hearts and minds." Sam waved a medical drone over before he toggled a button to drape a curtain around Roahn's bed. "I'll give you some privacy so you can undress."
Three minutes later, the curtains parted and Roahn was lying prone on her back, molded to the curved shape of the bed. She had donned the robe that Sam had tossed her earlier—a few spots of blood blotched the fabric at the collar. Her nose was still running.
Sam walked up and inspected Roahn's right calf. A distinct multicolored bruise that looked like a blotchy rainbow stretched all the way up to her leg to her upper thigh.
"Fucking hell," Sam clucked, more out of frustration than disappointment. "You hoping to have a nifty scar collection after all this is over?"
"It's not like I planned for this to happen!" Roahn protested.
"I suppose it was that lack of planning that put you here in the first place. Maybe next time you'll be a little quicker when squaring up against a krogan one-on-one. Oh, and that you'll remember to bring extra medi-gel next time, huh?"
Easy for you to say, Roahn thought, but finally mustered the self-control to clamp her mouth shut, lest she engage in yet another argument with the acerbic human. Though, she was loath to admit that Sam did have a point—just hours prior, Roahn had been chasing down the leader of the PMC known as 9th Reactive out in the Traverse, a group led by a particularly formidable krogan known as Karvuth. The crew had tracked the krogan to a moderately populated colony on a forested world, where the private army was currently acting as a security detail for a conglomerate's refining operations. Roahn had done her usual amount of scouting of the area before she assaulted Karvuth's compound, which had been situated near the refining towers of the facility. She had not bothered with stealth to get the job done, preferring to rely on her speed and viciousness, and soon three dozen members of 9th Reactive had been firing at her from all angles and ranges, desperate to cut down the quarian that had so brazenly infiltrated their territory.
The environment had been doing Roahn no favors the entire time she had been planetside. It had been raining quite heavily when the shooting started and the entire area had been practically pitch-black, save for the industrial lighting that permeated a sodium grid that seeped a yellow-orange color throughout the compound. The light had made it appear that molten metal was reflecting off of Roahn's drenched suit as the rain whipped around her on all sides, the maelstrom threatening to cut her down. Proceeding further into the facility, the glistening quarian ducked the tracer rounds, sprinted through the ashen remnants of concussive clouds, and smashed through the guards holding taser batons which sparked and spat blue electric bolts as the quarian hurled their owners into the mud. Rainwater had been thrown in blistering arcs, the quarian softly grunting as she plowed her way through the melee in close-quarters combat, the blood of the privateers washing off her metal knuckles in the storm.
In hindsight, as she had been in the process of cutting her way through the PMC minions with ease, Roahn would later accept might have gotten just the tiniest bit complacent with regards to her expectations and her abilities. After all, she had gotten this far with nothing but her skill alone. Who was to say that utilizing the same approach would not have yielded similar results with this PMC's complete destruction? She had marched through the provinces of gas tanks, with towers flaring pale flames off in the distance, firing at anything that moved. 9th Reactive desperately tried to give as good as it got, but the privateers had been unable to muster the same drive that fueled the quarian in their midst.
Karvuth had shown himself after Roahn had finished off the last of his cadre. Unlike the other PMC leaders Roahn had faced over the past few weeks, the krogan was no pushover. Karvuth was better equipped than even the average krogan—his weapon of choice was a repurposed Mako cannon that he hefted at his hip. It could only fire the 155mm rounds from its only working barrel, but even one of those was enough to turn Roahn into a cloud of red mist, should she have made any sort of misstep.
The battle between Roahn and Karvuth had lasted far longer than the quarian expected. Through the weaving maze of pipes and bare stairwells, the combatants had traded bullets and plasma in earnest. Truth be told, Roahn had been sloppier than usual on this assignment. She hadn't been sleeping all that well and fatigue had started to catch up to her. That much was apparent, which emitted in the form of a dim thought when she was flying through the air after a nearby round had ignited part of a pipeline, the concussive blast hefting her effortlessly as though she weighed nothing. Several times, Roahn was smashed against the side of the refining tanks, whether by the pulsation of a nearby explosion or the overzealous krogan excitedly throwing her about like a rag doll, each blow breaking something in her body. Adrenaline had managed to wash away most of the pain. Adrenaline and anger. Anger at her own stupidity, mostly.
Then, to add insult to injury, when attempting to ascend a staircase in order to reengage the krogan, Roahn had tripped and landed face-first onto one of the steps in front of her. That was when she had shattered her visor.
Roahn did eventually kill Karvuth, after she had carved open damn near half her body in the process. Bleeding from a dozen cuts and limping through what natural endorphins could not mask (and what her exhausted supply of medi-gel had no hope of fixing), Roahn had managed to shoot off the krogan's arm with her shotgun after surprising him through a cloud of superheated steam. When Karvuth had stumbled back, Roahn went for the fallen Mako cannon. It had required all her strength just to lift the ordinance off the ground, but she finally managed to point it somewhat in the krogan's direction before she unleashed a singular shot. Karvuth had fallen back, twitching and gurgling. The 155mm round had punctured his neck, but amazingly did not exit through the alien. The krogan was still alive, even after being shot by such a massive round. Plastered on his back, the krogan was trying to stem the thick orange blood that pumped from the wound with his remaining limb, which was dripping onto the aluminum grating. The krogan's mouth was bubbling and less than a minute later he had expired.
After she stumbled her way down the ladder, Roahn had managed to make it fifty meters from the refinery before the rest of her crew came up to meet her, having been previously occupied with engagements of their own on the other side of the compound. She had passed out on the shuttle ride up. Not for long, but enough to give everyone on the craft a bit of a scare.
Now, as Roahn let the spindly arms of the Vakarian's medical suite do their thing—jabbing her with antibiotics and spraying precise doses of medi-gel on her wounds—she looked over to Sam, who was typing in administrative notes on his console while his patient rested. She lifted her head as she watched Sam gradually stop typing and steeple his hands, resting his chin upon them as he stared out into space, looking pensive.
"Something the matter?" Roahn asked after wiping a strand of her short hair off her forehead.
"Just thinking," he said. "Thinking if this is ever going to taper off sooner or later. Since we're talking about hearts and minds, and all."
The quarian tried to sit up, but Sam held out a hand, not looking over at her.
"Sit still. Let the bot do its thing."
With a frown, Roahn complied. The delicate clicking noises of the light metal arms tapped a staccato beat that seemed to reverberate in her skull, driving away any inclination to sleep.
"How many times am I going to see you in this room, Roahn?" Sam asked out loud. "When medi-gel fails, you rely on me to keep you alive. All of you. The crew. It's one thing to have a residency at a hospital. You see thousands of patients a year. Different faces. Different problems. The job just becomes routine, you follow?"
Roahn was not sure if she did follow, but she nodded along anyway while Sam continued.
"But on a ship… it's the same faces. Always the same faces. Treat one of you guys so often and I start to take on your injuries. Like I can feel them in some way as well. Perhaps it's a way of imparting my own guilt—you guys are out there doing the fighting and suffering, and I'm in here sewing you back up. Seeing all of you in those moments, lying on these beds with shattered bones poking through skin, blood staining the floor… I can't remain impersonal anymore. It's my job to patch you up and get you back in the fight, but sometimes I'm struggling to reconcile with myself whether it's worth letting you practically kill yourself, no matter my efforts."
"You're afraid for us?" Roahn lifted her head, one eye closed as a nozzle sprayed a sterilizing agent on her eyelid.
Sam pondered the question before nodding. "When I was offered the job, I never stopped to consider the responsibility that came with it. The whole reason I took this on was as a favor, you know? That… and I guess it was just the opportunity to be part of a something that provided more meaning to my life. Meaning that I guess I had been lacking for a while. But it was also the chance to work with some people that I greatly admired. If I'm being honest, it was that latter aspect that sold me on the assignment."
The nozzle and apparatus zoomed away from Roahn's face. Gingerly, Roahn prodded the flesh around her eye—it did not ache anymore. There were still several cylindrical housings that were working on her abdomen right now, so she made sure to keep still. But regardless, she turned her head to look at Sam, who had turned his chair to face the quarian.
She smiled faintly. "You wanted to work with my father. And Garrus. I think anyone in your position would have thought the same, Sam."
"I also wanted to work with you," Sam added, his voice now soft.
"Me?" Roahn was surprised.
"Of course. For eight straight years you visited my home on Earth to have sleepovers with my daughter. Three times a year. Like clockwork. You think I didn't have some stake in all this? I figured, if you were going to be going out there to risk your life, best that you have someone that you knew close at hand to fix you up if things got a little intense."
Roahn gently lay her head back down on the pillow. "You've never mentioned anything like this before."
"Would that have done anyone any good? Knowing that your doctor was starstruck of you for months? Of the very people I'm supposed to care for? I know when to keep my mouth shut, Roahn. My place was to be in this room, to offer you the best care you could hope to have after your campaigns. It was most certainly not to be anywhere else to socialize, pestering one of you for an autograph."
Chewing her lip, Roahn lay on the rough linen, looking at the ceiling. When had she heard Sam be so sincere before? Not too often, if ever. The human had a habit of guarding his emotions through a thick veneer of sarcasm. This sudden vulnerability and honesty, it was like she was listening to another person entirely. A lump started to form in her throat. She swallowed it back down.
"Everyone's trying to protect me, it seems," she noted out loud.
Sam smiled sympathetically. "But you can understand where I'm coming from, right?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"That's good. Humor means your condition's improving."
Roahn blinked. "That's really a thing?"
"No," Sam admitted. "That's just something I like to tell my patients. Makes them believe they're not going to be on the mend for long."
Peacefulness came over the quarian before a gray haze came and clouded her features. He's just scared, she realized. Scared he was going to lose her too. Sam had to live through Garrus' and her father's deaths. Now, he was doing everything in his power to make sure he was not going to live through hers. Roahn wished she could reach out and reassure the man that she was going to be just fine, that she was going to make it out through all this alive. However, her presence in the med bay right now was acting as evidence that such a promise would have very little weight to it. Maybe she had just failed to realize that, after all this time, Sam's continued efforts in fixing her up—dressing her wounds, setting her bones, repairing her organs—had chipped away at his mental image of her own invulnerability. All the people he had admired on this ship had slowly gone away over time. To Sam, keeping Roahn in peak condition was his own way of saving the quarian, making sure that no more of his personal heroes would have to die before his eyes. That way, he could save what was left of himself as well.
There was a buzzing noise and the thin stalactites of steel withdrew from Roahn's body and performed one final multi-laser scan that mapped her body from her lower extremities on down. Sensing no further wounds that required attention, the medical suite rose up into its ready position and slowly crept along the ceiling to its standby corner until it needed to be called again.
Roahn smoothed the robe, covering what bare skin had been previously revealed from the treatment. "How long do you want me to rest and heal?" she asked the doctor.
Sam didn't even need to consult his notes. "Ideally, I'd take things easy for forty-eight hours at the absolute minimum, but since you're going to disobey my advice anyway, you might get away with—"
"Forty-eight hours is fine," Roahn said honestly.
"—to allow the worst of your… wait, what?" Sam stammered, his train of thought momentarily derailed.
"I said, I'll take the forty-eight."
The human pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. He then slowly pointed at Roahn. Uncertain.
"Forty-eight hours. Bedrest."
"I know."
"Means no exertions."
"I know."
"Nothing strenuous whatsoever."
"I know."
Sam still looked at the quarian under a veil of suspicion, wondering if he was being tricked in some manner with this capitulation. However, after determining that Roahn was indeed sincere (or at least acting like it), he gave a mental shrug and stood up to hand the quarian her enviro-suit—now folded—and a tote filled with her armor, which he had taken the time to gather while her operations had been ongoing.
"There's also one thing I should mention, given that no one else has probably talked to you about it," he said.
"What's that?" Roahn sat up from the bed as she took the offered items.
"At some point, you're going to need to move your accommodations to the top level. It's been almost four weeks, Roahn. That cabin's yours, whether you like it or not."
The quarian glowered as she shakily got to her feet. "It was Garrus'," she responded, but it was said almost halfheartedly.
Sam nodded respectfully. "I understand. But I don't think that Garrus would have decreed that no one else was to use the cabin, even if he was… absent. Out of everyone here, I bet he would have wanted you to use it the most. And it's the perfect place for you to heal, in all honesty. Large bed. The only decent shower on board. Plus, you get your own level so there's no chance that anything will disturb you as you get better. You are the captain of the Vakarian after all, Roahn. The responsibility does come with some perks, you know."
Roahn personally did not care about what perks her role entitled her to. It just didn't feel right, taking over the personal space of her storied captain. It almost felt like sacrilege, even if she was technically not desecrating anything by moving in. But if she tried to put herself in the turian's shoes, to try and see if she could at least justify holding off such a migration, every single possible line of dialogue she could imagine the man making would be him flippantly granting her access to use his room to her heart's content. Garrus had never been one to get too attached to his living space, anyway. He had bunked in every single type of ship condition imaginable—the stories he regaled her of turian boot camp sounded like he had lived in absolute squalor compared to the accommodations the Vakarian provided. So why was she even worrying about how Garrus would theoretically feel when she knew he wouldn't care in the first place?
A deep breath puffed out her chest. Roahn turned to Sam, fumbled a soft smile, and with another sigh, began the slow walk, barefoot, towards the med bay exit and the lift beyond, her enviro-suit cradled in her arms the whole while.
Vakarian
Cargo Bay
Jack walked the short distance across the bay, her heavy-soled boots making a thick clomping noise as she treaded on the steel ground, which groaned and popped when she set her weight on certain spaces. Noises of exertions were coming from the leftmost side of the bay. She oriented herself in that direction.
She gave a nod of acknowledgement to Cortez as she passed him by—the former procurement specialist was hard at work, giving the Vakarian's Kodiak a once-over. Hard to shake old habits, evidentially. But Cortez was not the person that Jack came down here to see. She had been all over the ship, having combed through three decks already, searching for her wayward quarry without success. Jack had not bothered to use her omni-tool to try and locate this person, partly because if they did not want to be disturbed, then Jack did not want to chance it by shattering whatever serenity they had built up with a call. Plus, Jack hated using her omni-tool for calling people, anyway. Too impersonal.
Rounding a corner of crates, Jack was finally able to spot the source of the labored noises. Previously hidden by the stacked cargo, the muscular marine was hefting boxes from one stack to another, playing a never-ending game of constant organization. James Vega had to have been going at it for a while—sweat shone on his brow and drenched his shirt. An unopened metal bottle of mezcal sat on the floor, near where Jack was standing. She glanced at the label—it was a brand she had never heard of. She put the liquor out of mind with a half-shrug.
James set one crate on the ground. Stenciled on the side of the box was the symbol for provisions. He was not using any loading machinery to assist him in his efforts. Just his raw strength.
He turned around to take stock of how many boxes he had yet to move, hands now on his hips. James then lifted his head as he clearly saw Jack leaning against the wall, arms crossed as she simply stared back at him. His face changed not a whit as he considered her for a moment before he moved to embark upon his frenzied organization once more, grunting as he bent to heft a particularly heavy load from one of the nearby stacks.
Jack frowned. She was not one to take being ignored all that well, but she managed to hold her tongue. She unleashed a quiet breath. As James worked, Jack continued to watch. Not saying anything. Not intruding on his work. Just silently existing. An ethereal presence, if he was even drawing comfort from her proximity, that is.
There was no need to ask what was eating at James. The man was good at keeping his feelings hidden deep down, but the source of his pain was blindingly obvious this time. Everyone on board was suffering through the same thing. They were just showing their sorrow in different ways.
For everyone on board, no one could stop thinking about Garrus. James, especially.
The war had made James and Garrus brothers-in-arms many years ago. They had ventured through many a fight, and had always come out the other side bearing a few burns and scars together. There was an implicit trust that could only be forged in the fire and fury of battle. That, and the constant quips and barbs both men had traded the other from one battle venue to the next had only deepened their friendship. Withstanding the foes that had threatened the very galaxy had ironed a connection that would be unbreakable for all time. For James, to lose Garrus had been like losing a part of himself.
Jack had never been as close to Garrus as James had been. When she had first been recruited onto the Normandy, her orbit never crossed with the turian's all that much. She had thought that he was a brooding jackass. He had thought that she was a moody liability. But other than the occasional crass word being exchanged between the two of them, there had always been a begrudging respect, something that they were too proud to admit out loud, but it was there nonetheless. As she grew to know the man, she found out that he was having trouble wrestling with his demons, just like she was. The only difference was that he was in an active state of conflict with his desire to kill to achieve his goals while Jack had harbored no such barriers. Still, she had understood where he was coming from at least, and despite her initial efforts to remain withdrawn as a member of the crew, she found herself liking the man after her tenure on the ship was up. When the Vakarian had been the Menhir, Jack had been surprised at how fast she adjusted into the nearly identical routine she had undergone while under Shepard's command. When Garrus had been her captain, there had been no unfamiliar sensations that had pursued her. He was already aware of her vast biotic talents—there was no need for either of them to prove anything to anyone. He had just willingly accepted her without a second thought. It may have seemed like an oversight, but to Jack, it was as loving of a gesture as she could imagine.
Now, as Jack watched James work, she just stood and watched. There was no need to talk. She already knew everything that was in his head. After all, she was something of an expert on angst. She would wait as long as he needed.
After about five minutes of nothing else happening, James finally set down one last box right next to where Jack was standing. Doubled over and panting, the man slowly straightened, his eyes reaching Jack's as he brought himself up. The woman was looking expectantly at him, with only the faintest hint of curiosity glinting in the deep recesses of her irises.
James wiped his hands on his pants, perspiration trickling down his face. "I'm sorry," he said with a shake of his head.
"I didn't ask for an apology," Jack said, one sculpted eyebrow arched.
"True," James breathlessly nodded in agreement, "but when have you ever asked for such a thing?"
He did have a point, Jack reckoned. Regardless, she was not going to milk any shred of propriety if there was some imbalance between her and another. After all, she did spend half a year trapezing about on the Normandy with practically a belt as a bra. She had a long way to go before she could ever consider herself to be dignity personified.
"You weren't in your bunk," Jack said, by way of changing the subject. "It just occurred to me that you've been like this for weeks. Just down here during your off hours. Working. Alone." She paused. "Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"
James propped an elbow against a nearby stack of crates. "Everyone has their own tried and true method of weathering the storm that is life. Some people talk to counselors. Some people lose themselves in drink." He pushed off against the stack. "I try to burn all that out the only way I know how."
Jack bent down and picked up the bottle of mezcal that had been plaintively sitting on the floor next to her. "Then this isn't part of your plan?"
"It's my motivation. Something that I bought on the Atoll Stoa. When it stops hurting, I get to drink it. Until then…" James made a shrugging motion with a hand.
The woman's angular features softened. She walked up and placed a hand on James' shimmering bicep. The marine looked at where the biotic's tattooed hand was touching him, making a show out of looking intrigued at the physical contact.
"I know you miss him," she said, her voice low and private. She tried a comforting smile, but failed miserably. "I want that damned turian back just as much as you, James. I don't care if it sounds selfish, but you don't get to horde your pain to yourself. You're… damn it… you're still here. We can't—I can't lose you too."
"That a fact?" James asked, trying to look mad, but ending up sounding at the edge of fatigued capitulation. He knew she was not trying to rile him up. Merely the opposite: trying to pull him back. Perhaps deep down, some part of him wanted to wallow in all that misery, all that despair. To take it within him, churn it inside, and drag it down to join its brethren in a pit of his own making. But the old saying 'misery loves company' rang true in more ways than one—a journey like that would cost him more than he was willing to part with. And the woman who was so tantalizing close to him right now knew it.
Jack hefted the bottle of mezcal in her hand before she surreptitiously stashed it into a dark corner, out of James' reach.
"You need better motivation," Jack said as her hands came up to the scruffy man's face. Her thin and circuitry-marked fingers combed through the short black hair of the marine before they caressed his skin.
James sighed as his arms came around Jack's waist. He pulled the woman close to him. He looked down at the crown of her sandy-blond hair, which was hanging around her face. He could still see the faint edges where the sides of her hair had been shaved, but there was a very brutal beauty about him. In that moment, he wondered how the hell that such a person would have ever wanted to be with such a man.
He did not question fate. James merely raised his hand and gently ran the back of his fingers down Jack's cheekbone. A quiet murmur escaped the woman, who leaned into the touch.
"Did you have anything in mind?" he asked her.
"I think I can come up with something," Jack said, right before she gently guided James' head down so she could kiss him.
Everything left James in a rush. Everything he had ever known or thought. His father, passed out in his beach chair in California. The burned up bodies of children on Fehl Prime. The shattered spires of Los Angeles on the newsfeeds like it had become an ancient, broken city overnight. The listless faces of the husks he had killed over and over again. He only existed in this one, singular moment, arms wrapped around the tattooed woman as he kissed her, her tongue exploring his mouth, noses mashed against the other, imbued in a private world of their making.
After what seemed like an eternity, they finally parted, both breathless. They stared deeply into each other, finally having reached an understanding.
The invisible tension was then broken when Jack played with the hem of James' shirt. "You smell of sweat, marine."
"I know."
"A shower will fix that."
James sensed there was an unasked question that had just been thrust into his lap. He decided to chance it. "Might take a while for me to freshen up. Want to join?"
Jack's smiled broadened. All teeth. "It took you long enough."
"I know," James said again, but he was also smiling as his heart began singing. "One thing," he said as he began to let himself be led away by the woman.
"Yes?" Jack turned around.
"It won't be casual. Going forward. All of this—I don't want casual."
Jack let go of James' shirt. The marine felt that the bottom of his stomach was about to drop out, but the woman backed up just a step before she held out her hand, palm-up. Unmarked flesh pale-white in the lobed light of the steel lamps above. Gentle. Guiding.
The smile that inhabited the woman was sweet and tragic. A lifetime's worth of emotion, previously held back for decades, all flooding forward in a ferocious torrent.
"Neither do I," she said.
Atoll Stoa
Observation Wing 44-1C
There was a slight popping sound as the cork to the wine bottle became viciously unplugged from the stem. A faint wisp of condensation looped upward, only to be quickly blown away by the breeze from the air compressors. The bottle was still cold from its stint in the fridge. Chilled droplets clung to its sides.
Cirae filled two glasses and handed one to Avi. The human took the offered chalice with a nod of thanks. He swirled its contents, momentarily adopting the role of connoisseur, before he finally took a sip of the wine.
"The verdict?" Cirae asked as she down into her chair, which was plush and lined with a green velour.
Avi held the wine in his mouth for a bit, letting its flavor profile envelop him. Then he swallowed and lowered himself into his own chair, a small circular table separating them. "It's wine, alright," he merely said after giving a shrug.
The asari ruefully shook her head, taking a sip from her own glass. "Galaxy's most concise reporter, you are. Now I'm starting to understand why you were never assigned the review column at your site."
"Fine dining's lost on me, sadly. Can't smell or taste all that well due to a mild epidemic of norovirus that went through our battalion during the war. Not much chance of evolving a distinguished palate for me."
Cirae set her glass down as she internally winced. "That was rude of me. I apologize."
"Ah," Avi waved her off good-naturedly, "how could you have known? My literal lack of taste is not really something that I advertise."
They drank in silence for a minute, appreciating each other's company. They folded their legs and watched the growing fleet through the massive window before them, their chairs both angled toward it. Amidst the cavalcade of stars, they could pick out legions of corvettes, clusters of destroyers, a stray dreadnought or two, with flights of swift attack fighters ripping apart space as they practiced battle formations in the motley fleet. And more ships were dropping in every minute. Wayward detachments, former patrols in hiding, defecting squadrons—the Galactic Congregation was growing in size.
Word was making its way around the galaxy; the eradication of PMCs and the Radius' devastating loss at M78. But most of all, there were whispers of another Shepard leading the charge. The daughter finishing the job her father started. Memories of the wars and battles leading up to this one had not been forgotten—spurred by the desire to fight alongside such a renowned clan was motivation enough for many. After all, a Shepard had defeated the Reapers. Many were wondering what capabilities this Shepard could do to their enemies now. The very idea that they were on the side of such an illustrious heritage was more than enough to stitch wounds back together, to persuade others to join the fight and lend their ships, their might.
Cirae was not jealous at the attention placed onto the newly-promoted commander. If anything, she was relieved that someone else was temporarily lifting the spotlight away from her. As much as she relished finally being in a position to guide this galaxy on a path that was morally superior, she definitely preferred not feeling like she was underneath a microscope with so much scrutiny being placed upon her. Political pundits were already at work with their puff/attack pieces, ready to tear her policies to shreds or tout them as the second coming of any deity that was convenient to invoke at the time. Members of the Congregation were already staking lines of division, gathering political kingdoms that were focused along similar positions. Cirae didn't care. All the politicians could squabble amongst themselves to their heart's content, but eventually they would have to realize that open discourse would not alter the path that had been chosen for them—that there was only one way to muster their way from the threat of the Radius and the Monolith and pure diplomacy would not be the solution. Like it or not, they would all come around to the idea, a few of them outrageously so, but realization would sink in sooner or later. When that happened, Cirae would finally have everyone aligned to her point of view. Then, that would be when the politicians would all begin to work for her instead of against her.
The very idea that a unified government might be just days away was almost heart-stopping for Cirae to even consider. To have a legislature actually abiding by the will of the people, motivated to fight Aleph and his forces… it seemed almost surreal.
And here she was, prime executive over this fledgling authority, watching over the fleets that she technically lorded over. Perhaps the image of her sipping wine while monitoring the buildup of her military was a little much, but Cirae had not had a decent break in quite a while, let alone a moment where she was not within visual contact of her assigned security detail (two of which had been posted to the door outside after she had emphatically refused to have any of them in the room with her this time). She was determined to get even an hour's peace and share it with a friend over a drink or two. It was the least she felt she deserved.
Avi looked over at her, cradling his glass in his hands. The asari was staring deeply out into space, almost without focus. He set his glass on the table, creating a light clinking sound, which had the effect of drawing Cirae back to him.
"I know you well enough to know when something's pressing on your mind," he said. "In six hundred years, you've yet to control your facial expression."
"Maybe it's something I never cared to control," Cirae retorted. "Maybe I never wanted people to think I was putting up an artificial front for them."
"Open act of rebellion?"
"As subtle as I could manage."
Avi smirked as he wiped imaginary dust from his knee. "You won't win reelection with that sort of bombshell admission."
The asari tilted her head in thought. "I'd like to think that the voting bloc might start paying closer attention to their candidates after all this is over. Paying attention to what they stand for instead of just listening to the words they say. If I lose fairly, it's back to the public sector to me. That's how it usually goes. Life of a politician, right? But if I manage to pull this off…"
Cirae had her hand half-raised in the air before she settled it back onto her leg.
"I'm thinking too far ahead," she reasoned. "All I've done is hastily organize a coalition. I'm sitting here thinking about halcyon figures and storied leaders. Thinking of how I compare to them. Or… how I will compare to them."
Leaning back in his chair, Avi folded his hands in his lap as he listened to his friend.
"How many people can say that they have ever been in a similar position, Avi?" Cirae asked, gesturing to the gigantic window before her. "Anyone that once held the role of councilor, yes, but how many of those are still around? It seems like complete lunacy if you think about it: one councilor for an entire race. And I have to do the same thing they all did, except I have the entire galaxy to lift up from my singular office. Icons and legends have been formed from more humble origins. There are people on our own worlds, Avi, that are enshrined in memory because of the profoundness of their work, even if it only truly affected a scant fraction of the knowable population. Artists. Warriors. Business leaders. Activists." The asari took a long sip of wine. "When such reformation is memorialized even on the small-scale, how do you think my tenure will be judged?"
"'Heavy is the head that wears the crown,'" Avi quoted in a dulcet tone.
"Human literary saying?" Cirae oriented her body slightly to face the man.
Avi made a gun with his finger. Pointed it at her. "It's a classic."
"So I see."
"What would leadership be without the weight of its burdens, Cirae? But if you want my opinion, trust me when I say that you're fretting about the wrong thing. If I remember my history, the best leaders worried not about how they would be perceived in the future, but if they had managed to make the future better through their actions."
"I might be the last ruler of free people in this galaxy, Avi. It's a bit hard for me not to think about how this can all go wrong."
The man stared at her, face unreadable. Fingers tapping on his glass, he quickly polished off his wine. He then stood from his seat, blocking Cirae's view out towards the massing fleet. He held out a hand for her to take.
"Let me show you something," he said.
He led her to the window, out to where the cavalry of embittered starship steel floated in formation. Some of the ships were so close that they could see the individual slashes of warpaint on their hulls and the etchings of the ship names in the language of their respective race.
Avi pointed to a few random ships in no particular order. "Take a good look, Cirae. What do you think we're looking at now?"
"The beginnings of a long-winded metaphor? Writers and their literary devices…"
The man rolled his eyes as he nudged the asari in the ribs. "Humor me, will you? I'm talking about what that fleet represents, not what it appears to be on the surface. You helped build that. These people are here right now because of your actions. Perhaps not solely your actions, but you may have produced positive ripple effects down the line. You came into the Synod and took charge when they faltered. You gave them direction when they previously wallowed in fear. In such a short span of time, you've done so much."
Cirae blew air out of the corner of her mouth but she did not shrug free of Avi's grip.
"I don't have the luxury of being arrogant," she said. "I've seen the effect of being so far up one's own ass does to someone. You may see a wonder before you, but I just see the potential to do more. There are thousands of ships out there. I can't help but think what I should have done to get thousands more on our side. I have to be my own worst critic, Avi. If not… how could I hope to do better?"
Avi considered Cirae's words. "You're a realist. Not to mention modest."
"I've always liked 'perceptive' as a descriptor, personally."
"Rare traits in most politicians," the man agreed. "Keep it up, and they'll serve you well when it comes time for you to write your memoirs."
Cirae whirled her head to look at him. "Are you suggesting that you're using your advantageous proximity to me so that you can write a book about me?" Her words were terse but her tone was clearly teasing.
"I'll need a source of income when everything's over and done with," Avi flashed a smile at the asari. "Hell, transcribing your life for the masses to read is both the easy option and the lucrative option. No better place to be, for a writer of my caliber."
How modest, Cirae nearly noted out loud, ruefully finding all this to be somewhat amusing.
"Ghostwriter," Cirae corrected. "My memoirs. My name on the cover. 60/40 on the advance fee… and 85/15 on the royalties."
"Keep the advance fee and I'll take 65/35 on the royalties."
"Oh, so we're negotiating now? All right, smart-ass. I keep the advance, but I'm only offering 75/25 my way. No higher."
Avi turned to face Cirae. "70/30… and full control over the book's content."
The asari looked dumbfounded. "Wow," she said flatly. "You'd make a terrible diplomat."
"I didn't hear a 'no.'"
"You also didn't hear a 'yes.' And stop looking at me with that pompous grin or I'll have to screw you right here."
The human opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked up at the ceiling and back down to Cirae. He then scratched his head in confusion.
"You… wait—are we still negotiating?"
Cirae stepped into his circle, her hands coming to his hips. She pushed him until he fell into the chair that he had initially vacated. Widening her stance a little, the asari kept moving forward until she was straddling the man on the chair. Now it was her turn to grin as she started to undo the twists at the side of her severe business garb, parting it to reveal shreds of cool blue skin underneath. If, for whatever reason, someone on the opposite end of the window happened to be looking in, clearly they would have plenty of questions for what was to come next.
"I'll let you be the judge of that," Cirae said, right before she bent forward with a gasp, practically falling atop the human.
Vakarian
Captain's Cabin
With a peaceful pulse of breath, Roahn's eyes slipped open. The raw glare of the lamps from the doorway turned the sterling surface of the ceiling blue. A cold hue, like sea ice. Alien and humbling all at once, bringing her an odd sense of comfort.
The quarian sat up on the bed, having slept atop the covers. She was mostly in her enviro-suit, with only her head uncovered. Yawning, she raised a hand and combed the tangles out of her hair after they had populated during the night.
"Mmmh," the quarian grunted as she felt her face—her fingers noting the bumps from her cuts that were just starting to smooth over, the healing process accelerated by the meds Sam gave her. She then prodded her orbital socket. The swelling had noticeably reduced there, too.
"Last time I go toe-to-toe with a krogan," she vowed in a hushed tone, in agreement with the absent doctor.
There was a slight twinging discomfort at her left arm. She looked over and rubbed the stump of the shortened limb. Aches, sharp in their attack but dull in their longevity, throbbed underneath the surface of her suit, of her skin. The cry of a nervous system. Phantom pain. Roahn glanced to her left—her prosthesis was resting atop the nightdesk next to the bed, elbow slightly crooked, palm tipped upward. A small bottle of pills had been placed next to it. She reached for the medicine instead of the limb. Uncapping the vial, she popped a single pill in her mouth, chewed it up, ignored the sour and chalky flavor, and swallowed it with a grimace.
Sleeping without a prosthesis had not seemingly been a conscious choice for her, in actuality. Perhaps she had wanted to get a taste of what it was like to live without an arm. To take solace in the fact that she could only confront her damaged nature, her disability, in a solitude that was completely under her control. Then maybe that meant the phantom pain was her body's slight act of aggression against her hubris, chastising her for trying to live in a dream.
Aside from that particular discomfort, Roahn was pleasantly surprised to feel that nothing else was aggrieving her. Even her head felt stark and clear. Her sleep had proceeded to be utterly dreamless. Nothing there to comfort or haunt her. The same as it had been for the past few weeks. There was once a time where Roahn would have gladly wished to have experienced moments in her fantasies where she could see her parents again, in the realms where her reveries resided. But after her thoughts had been perverted by Aleph, twisting the image of her mother to adhere to his dogma, she had abandoned all hope of crafting an illusion of being with her family ever again. The very notion of that stung her—Aleph had even taken her dreams away, the bastard.
Roahn scooted forward upon the bed until her feet were touching ground. Just being here felt wrong, somehow. This whole room—the level, even—had belonged to Garrus. Now, after withstanding the trials of fire and combat, it had passed to her. She was the Vakarian's captain and this was her home now.
Still, every once in a while, the quarian would emit a longing sigh when she let her gaze linger for too long upon any singular place in the room. Each square inch of this cabin contained a separate memory of Garrus and her together. The stories they shared. Even the menial conversations that seemed, under the surface, to be benign in nature. All of them permeated the fabric of this room—were she a Prothean, Roahn suspected she could draw a lifetime's worth of biological markers from simply standing in one spot here. Lots of places for her to lose herself in the sea of memory.
It had not escaped her attention at just how much space there was on this level, though. Roahn had not grown up on the Migrant Fleet, so she never once considered living space to be a luxury. But the captain's cabin had a bed massive enough for two people to sleep comfortably within in it without their bodies ever coming into contact with each other. It was dual-elevated, with the sleeping area in the lower section, and a personal office on the upper. There was enough open space for Roahn to complete a whole swath of aerobic exercises. And the bathroom had a shower large enough for her to pace laps around its circumference.
Speaking of…
Normally, quarians relied on their enviro-suits to take care of all hygienic aspects, but the sensation of a shower was incomparable to Roahn's usual regimen. Her race tended to steer clear of showers due to the obvious risks of exposing their immune systems to virulent pathogens. Roahn had been lucky that she had grown up with such an extravagance in the tightly regulated atmosphere of her home on Rannoch, but even as a kid she used the device in immoderation. Now, with her body's immune system running completely overclocked, there was literally nothing holding her back anymore with making a previous opulent lifestyle one of bourgeois. Plus, sleeping without a helmet made her skin feel grimy and there was a simple solution to that problem lying just feet away.
Roahn then stood from the bed and headed to the bathroom, shedding parts of her suit as she went. Her visor did not lay among the trappings, as that had been destroyed in her latest skirmish. Padding barefoot over to the shower, the undressed quarian walked underneath the shower head and switched it on.
Cold water blasted against her scalp. Roahn let out a tiny yelp, shivering in place for a moment before the water finally warmed. She always forgot to let the water warm before entering.
She touched a control on the glass panel mounted on the wall after waiting for the temperature to get just right. Flanking her, nozzles on two thin aluminum pillars that were part of the apparatus whirred into place before they frothed out several jets of mist. Every inch of Roahn's skin was soon beaded with warm droplets. A thick haze of steam began to fill the room, dampness clinging to the quarian.
Roahn reached out and maneuvered a mirror towards her. The bruising on her eye had almost faded into the gray of her skin—an acceptable rate of recovery. She turned around to examine her back. What she found caused her to emit a small sigh of frustration. Blotches of discolored injuries and angry red lines from healing cuts marred the smooth and rippled expanse of flesh. Her ridged spine caused some of her veins to appear webbed as they branched around the cluster of nerves. The muscles of her shoulders and back flexed and hardened as the quarian tried to push the sight of those injuries aside, imagining herself powerful and flawless. Any evidence of suffering merely served to upend her fantasy, her drive to stop Aleph. She could not let herself be damaged when she finally faced him. She needed to be whole, complete.
But as she stood with the water billowing down all over her, gazing at the various lacerations that marked her like tattoos, Roahn realized that she could not dispel reality and distort it to her liking. Blemished, mutilated, and nicked, looking at herself was so disparate to her own mental image that it was hard to believe she was not staring at another person.
She sighed again.
There was a knock at the door. Three distinct taps. Roahn leaned her head out of the spray, her hair trailing branches of water as she wiped it out of her eyes. She eyed the door, pondering who it might be, before she made an educated guess.
"Come in."
The door to the bathroom opened and the steam near the entrance billowed out into the cabin as if it had been awaiting release. Roahn felt a tug of cold air surge in to replace the hot air.
Korridon took a step into the bathroom, noted the humidity, and finally seemed to notice Roahn standing at the far wall of the room, stark naked under the still-running shower. Her lithe but defined form appeared almost spectral in the soft light. Immediately, he looked away, eyes scanning the array of shelves, searching for something to distract him.
Roahn rolled her eyes as she gestured to herself. "Nothing you haven't seen before."
"Just wasn't expecting to… to see you like this, is all," the turian hastily defended as he frantically drummed a beat on the wall with his fingers.
"The door to the bathroom was closed and you heard the shower running. What could you possibly have been expecting?"
Now Korridon seemed to make a concerted effort to glue his gaze to the ceiling. A rather good question. "I guess I was running on autopilot."
"Korr," Roahn said as she rotated her body to face him. "Look at me."
Rather hesitantly, Korridon complied to her wishes. Standing in the shower in her sodden state left nothing to the turian's imagination. Roahn also made no effort to hide any part of her body from him. He could clearly see the ripples of water that pooled between Roahn's limber toes, the soft definition of her abdomen and belly that was corrugated by both muscle and the jagged root-like structure of falling liquid, the glistening of her ridged ears that poked out from her soaked mop of black hair. Roahn was right in that it was nothing he hadn't seen before but the fact that he hadn't seen enough of her did not make it worth nothing.
The sarcasm now washed from her face, Roahn gave the turian a smile, one of genuine appreciation and of relief. She turned partially back to the shower, giving the turian another side of her body to view. She did realize that she was probably torturing the poor man by doing this, but she was not above such playful torments. Besides, Korridon really should have expected such a sight.
"Is someone asking for me belowdecks?" she asked as she ducked back into the nozzle's line of sight.
She heard Korridon clear his throat behind her. "I wanted to check up on you. After what you just came back from, I..."
Roahn now realized that Korridon was now getting a chance to examine the wounds on her back. The injuries to her face, too. The armor having been shed from the so-called hardened warrior, revealing the pale and sickly creature underneath. So much for feeling sexy in the moment. Roahn almost made a move to cover herself up, but relented at the last second.
I can't hide from him. He needs to see this. I… want him to see me.
The quarian turned her neck, giving Korridon an apologetic glance through lidded eyes. "It looks a lot worse than she feels," she assured, referring to her bruises and slashes that broke at her skin, but the comment rebounded weakly off the turian. It was obvious he wasn't convinced.
"If you say so," he said flatly.
Roahn frowned, a part of her aching at the turian's unspoken judgment. Her paltry attempts to sanitize her own suffering was simply ineffective against the man. She thought back to the time when all he had known of her face was a visor of blue glass, everything else clouded beneath its surface. With that all pulled away, Korridon could now see what was holding the quarian together at the seams, understanding her far better than anyone ever had before. This is what it feels like? To be vulnerable? A brief shiver crept up her, despite the shower. She placed her palm against the wall to prop her up.
Resolution rolled upon her before she could take stock of her anguish. Korridon was not letting go. He was filling in that vulnerability, the voice in her head that she had always wanted to hear. Driving out Aleph's temptations, the ruinous whispers of a deviant mother. What if she had always been falling apart and that the man was the one holding the seams together?
Turning back to face him, out through the hail of warm water, Roahn extended a dripping hand. An invitation, one granted so naturally that it seemed there was no other recourse for her to consider.
"There's room."
Again, the turian fidgeted, fighting with what he felt was some modicum of politeness. It looked like he had been caught off guard with this proposal.
"Turians and water… not a typical combination," he lamely stuttered out.
Roahn made a show of looking miffed. "Suit yourself." She turned back to face the showerhead.
Right away Korridon realized that he had just failed a test of some kind and slowly gave a blink of agitation, frustrated at his denseness. Roahn was still turned away from him, peacefully perched underneath the falling rain of the shower. Looking at the bare quarian's back, Korridon gave a derisive snort before he began flipping the catches that encased him in his clothes. In seconds, the trappings formed a pile near the entrance to the bathroom.
Eyes closed, a private smile upon her, Roahn tilted her chin up to the water, counting the seconds in her head. Waiting for the inevitable to occur. And it did—she felt a presence at her back and leaned into it. Warm and sturdy carapace met her flesh, holding her upward. She melted against the naked frame of Korridon, reaching blindly behind her for his arm (difficult to do with one hand) so she could pull it over her shoulder and across her collar.
Murmurs of relief trembled from them both. Korridon, his confidence boosted, moved forward so that his entire body was nearly flushed with Roahn's backside. Roahn leaned her head back against the turian's chest as he held her within the shower, his arms wrapped around her like she was a priceless treasure. In the shower, they remained tightly entwined with one another, the turian entranced by the softness of the quarian. Roahn in turn comforted by Korridon's sturdiness.
"Sorry it took me so long," the turian whispered into Roahn's ear, his voice easily carrying above the din of the shower.
Roahn shivered from the vibration of the turian's low harmonics. "I'm glad you came."
They remained locked in place for several long moments. Water surged down around them, soaking every pore, imbibing every molecule of their beings. Delicate trickles like porcelain cracks stained Roahn's face. Fat, pregnant drops tumbled from Korridon's flange, and mandibles, temporary granting transparent extensions to his turian frame.
Roahn felt Korridon's arms finally loosen—she twitched and jittered as she felt one of his fingers trace irregular lines on her back. Examining her wounds, she realized. The man's palm smoothed over the bruises and cuts. A deep breath escaped him. He placed his hand flush on her back.
"So many of them…" he murmured.
"They're just scratches," Roahn waved off. "Just scars."
Korridon gently guided Roahn until she had turned to face him. She clearly saw his eyes flicker to the stump of her left arm. Long enough to be perceived as deliberate.
"They still linger. They'll always remind me of what you've been through."
Her striking and accented eyes peered up at him. Silver slashes in the wet haze. So close to her, Korridon could see the faint hint of banded coloration that darkened her cheeks. Three dusty streaks slid down from her lips to her chin, ashen in the light.
The turian raised his hand and gently rubbed the patch of Roahn's face just under her eye with a knuckle, the area where her bruise was finally melting into her skin, the one she had gained in her fight against the krogan. He then moved his touch down, making a tender contour against a slate of scratches that crisscrossed her belly. His fingers gliding upward, over the raised mounds of cybernetics that slid just underneath her skin like buried coils, he came to a patch where the quarian's skin had been rubbed raw, just under her breast.
"Be honest," he said as he continued to gently caress her. "Could you have ever decided to leave this life behind? Did I ever have an opportunity to help make that happen?"
Roahn reached down, took Korridon's hand, lifted it up so she could kiss it. The flesh there seemed more pliant. It felt like the water had softened his carapace.
"You're asking if I could stand to be a little more selfish? Ironic, coming from you."
Korridon wistfully chuckled. Looked away momentarily. "The question is rhetorical, I suppose. Some days I wonder what could have become of us if… well, you know. Not much point in recanting everything."
The quarian then released Korridon so that she could cup his face, fingers brushing his damaged mandible, locking their gazes intensely. The water that fell around Roahn's face looked like tears.
"When this is over," she promised, "I will leave it all for you. The ship. My rank. I'll have my arm fixed… we'll go back to Rannoch…"
The laundry list of promises seemed to populate her mind as soon as she tasked herself to it. Thoughts so powerful that they nearly overwhelmed her. Reasons to hope. To live and love. Proof that she had a purpose beyond base conflicts and mindless fighting. Proof that her existence was not tied to this ship, or her enemies. Only now, in this damned shower, did the dawning realization start to hit her.
Korridon seemed to sense this change in her and he pulled her close to his body. Her head rested against his chest, one eye hidden as she pressed herself tight against the turian. A few tears snuck out amidst the curtain of rain. His arms made a protective shield around her thin form.
"If that's what awaits us," he whispered to her, "I'll do everything to make it a reality. We'll live in a galaxy that will no longer need us. No more fighting. No more being left behind. No more secrets."
No more secrets… save for one, Roahn reminded herself miserably. "Nothing… except us," she said instead.
They held each other as the hot steam coddled them, the water warming their tired and aching bodies. They barely moved as they clung onto one another, feeling the pulsation of their heartbeats, the churning of their muscles underneath skin and sinew, the pressure of their ribs as they breathed.
Fingers buried in Roahn's hair, ever so gentle with her, Korridon kept the woman close as he felt her hand creep up his back.
"Tell me what you need," he murmured to her. "Tell me what I can do to help."
Roahn gave a soft groan from Korridon's efforts. The fingers on her remaining hand briefly hooked into claws as tender pleasure pulled at her tendons. Glints from the reflective mirror played tricks with her eyes—she swore she saw a curve of chrome glare at her from beyond the pale surface. It disappeared in an instant before she could hone in on it, but was left with a tender chill that ached her body, the heat of the shower useless in its wake.
She buried her head into Korridon's chest. "Hold me," was all she said. "Just… hold me."
A/N: Did my best to bang this one out at my usual pace - wanted to ensure that you all had a few moments to breathe with these characters before I launch the next action sequence. The upcoming chapter will be delayed for a few days, unfortunately, as I'll be going on my first post-COVID vacation next weekend and it will be time I desperately need to take off. Good news is that I'll be able to tinker with the remaining chapters in my outline, just to get every little detail lined up for the upcoming final act.
Playlist:
Botched Fight Anecdote
"Riot & Flames"
Daniel Pemberton
King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
Shower Talk
"A Long Road Back"
James Horner
Southpaw (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)