Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable depths, I ask forgiveness.
Shepard-Commander, does this unit have a soul?
Kalahira, whose waves wear down stone and sand.
You did good son, you did good. I'm proud of you.
Kalahira, wash the sins from this one and set him on the distant shore of the infinite spirit.
Had to be me, someone else would have gotten it wrong.
Kalahira, this one's heart is pure but beset by wickedness and contention.
I've got a few scratches and dents; I hope it just gives me character.
Guide this one to where the traveler never tires, the lover never leaves, the hungry never starve.
Jeff was the one who allowed me to think for myself, but only now do I feel alive. That is your influence.
Guide this one, Kalahira, and he will be a companion to you as he was to me.
Soon, your children will create synthetics, and then the chaos will come back.
Undisclosed Location, London / Earth, Sol System / 6 Months Post Crucible Event
Shepard shifted violently and awoke to the physical world as his bloodshot eyes flung open. A desperate and silent gasp would escape his lips as his body and mind were thrust back into reality. A bitter but merciful escape from his surreal nightmare.
He began to blink rapidly in a desperate attempt to clear away the dark haze that still clouded his vision and forced his eyes to focus – each eye would give a soft, almost mechanical click with each blink he took. Inside his fractured and scattered mind, he was trying to piece together the dream that he had just awoken from. He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he lay there in near darkness. It could've been minutes, hours or even days, but it didn't matter.
It was all a rhetorical puzzle. He already knew the answers and how all the pieces fit together.
He dreamt of them again. His comrades. His crew. His friends. The War.
Ever since Eden Prime, his dreams have been plagued with visions of past atrocities and premonitions of what may be, should he fail in his war against the Reapers. The nightmarish visions had gotten particularly more vivid and revealing since the destruction of the Alpha Relay over two years ago, when he interacted with the Reaper artifact; Object Rho.
He'd wake up violently in a fit of silent terror and cold sweat, adrenaline pumping in his veins as if expecting the faceless phantoms from his nightmares to morph into reality and attack him; seeking to supplant vengeance against him for some past transgression.
Apart from the hellish scenes of the Prothean's brutal demise at the hands of the Reapers and their forced transformation into the Collectors; he sometimes found himself wandering through a cursed and desolate woodland forest.
He was never sure what the forest was supposed to symbolize – some twisted theatrical representation of his mind, perhaps? Nevertheless, the darkness that emanated from it would physically manifest itself and crawl across his skin, leaving behind a foreboding feeling that would often follow him into the waking world.
The distant laughter of children would echo hauntingly throughout the forest, almost taunting him as he blindly fought the sense of unease that ate away at him. He'd periodically catch glimpses of a child apparition, but the mysterious figure would quickly disappear from his sight whenever he dared to approach it. There was an almost haunting similarity to the child that itched at the back of his mind, but he could never recall where his sense of déjà vu was attributed from.
The black ash raining from the sky above seemed limitless and the fog that settled over the forest stretched on forever as if it had devoured the sun and moon.
Even the black trees that dotted the landscape sprouted seemingly from nowhere as he blindly wandered around, disorienting his sense of direction.
He felt truly alone – isolated.
Here, he was a prisoner in his own mind. Inside a labyrinth with no beginning and no end.
He was at the mercy of unforeseen forces.
During the War against the Reapers, he was never sure if it was a form of Reaper indoctrination. The very thought of that terrified him. But now, the worst parts of his dreams were the voices of those he recognized calling out his name as they whispered to him. These voices belonged to the people who once trusted him, followed him and believed in him.
Now they were all dead.
The last vestige of a voice that echoed inside his head, before he awoke, pulled him back into a fragment of time where the sight of fire and ash, the taste of blood, and the violent recoil of a pistol dominated his senses. The decision he made to end the war. A war that killed billions, destroyed the lives of billions and left billions more without answers about the fate of their loved ones or why this all happened.
His mind began to replay the vids and messages he had received - the desperate pleas from parents who had lost their children. The anguish cries of help from children who had lost their parents. People begging him to help them find their missing family members. Strangers calling him a hero, their savior. But many calling him a murderer. A traitor. A terrorist. Blaming him for causing the War in the first place.
He never responded to any of them. He always let their praise and hatred wash over him. It was expected in his line of work. Men like him existed to make the difficult decisions that no one wanted to. Decisions that no one else could.
A million dead here so that a billion over there can live.
God. But the debriefs from Hackett.
The look on Hackett's face, as the Admiral told him the reality that the Alliance and Humanity found itself in. The entire situation was a political nightmare, with the entire Systems Alliance hanging by a thread and too many people asking too many questions about him, about Cerberus, about Udina, about everything he did. People have such comically short memories. It didn't take long at all for people, especially politicians and more unscrupulous types, to forget that the Reapers were gone, and the sacrifices made by those who fought for the galaxy's very survival. He figured that they needed a new enemy, a scapegoat. Someone to lash out against and blame in a galaxy almost reduced to ruin. He understood that concept very well.
Hate is a powerful motivator, after all.
A muted wince escaped him as he adjusted himself and carefully pushed his body up against the back board of the bed with his right arm. His breathing was still slightly labored as his heart rate slowly came down from having ran a figurative marathon in his sleep.
Inhale. Count to Four.
Exhale. Count to Four.
Inhale. Count to Four.
Exhale. Count to Four.
With his breathing and heart rate finally under control, a sudden wet sensation on his forehead left a trail of moisture past his tired blue eyes and down a face marred by scars. He'd lazily raise an arm and scowl at the feeling of cold sweat and with more force than was probably necessary made quick work of it by wiping it away with the back of his hand.
Satisfied, he began to squint through the near darkness that surrounded him. Both his eyes would eventually adjust to the dim lighting as he re-studied the bedroom that he has called home these past few weeks. It was a modest sized one by any reasonable measure; well-furnished and lived in. The apartment was housed within a residential building about a kilometer from Alliance London Headquarters – the de facto center of political and military power for the entire European continent.
He recalls how London HQ had held up surprisingly well during the invasion and occupation of Earth by the Reapers, but the once proud symbol of Alliance influence in Europe was reduced to a shadow of its former self. The surrounding area, also known as Central London, had been particularly ravaged in the closing days of the war. The heaviest concentration of Reapers forces found on the entire European continent had made their stand in Central London during the bloody and arduous ground invasion during the Battle of Earth.
He begins to reminisce of the battle that was fought here some months ago and idly wonders about the fate of the family who once lived within these very walls before the war, and if they would ever return. The personal belongings and mementos that littered the apartment told a story of a family of six – a mother, a father, three daughters and a son.
The photos and portraits that decorated the walls captured snapshots of happier times with the subjects unaware to the coming events that would change their lives forever. There was no doubt in his mind that this story had played out similarly a million times over across the entire galaxy. He knew it was a fool hope as stories like these seldom ever had a happy ending where the wayward family would finally return home to rebuild their lives together. Still, a part of him hoped they all made it through the war alive.
But with a shake of his head, he cleared away those thoughts.
Seconds rolled past, and he could feel the stiffness of his muscles beginning to grow. He adjusted himself again into a more comfortable position. Half-way through the motions however, he decided instead to carefully disentangle his naked form from the blankets and maneuver himself to settle at the edge of the bed as it was unlikely he was going to be able to fall asleep again. Closing his eyes, even for a few hours, had become a chore if not downright intimidating. The night became something he slowly grew to fear, and his dreams – a place of torment. He felt condemned to relive the events of times past over as his demons existed not just to torture him in the waking world, but as he slept.
He sighed and settled at the edge of the bed and resumed his study of the room. He observed that the only real source of light was from a terminal situated opposite from his position. The apartment's blinders were closed tight, and the dull illumination of the outside cityscape couldn't bleed into the room. But every so often headlights from some passing shuttle would flare briefly, illuminating shadows as it passed by onto parts unknown.
A soft and welcome murmur to his left would catch his attention, and the Asari, also tangled within their bed sheets, began to slightly stir from her slumber. With a small shift of his body, he looked over his shoulder and was beholden at how her beautiful complexion held one of peace. He continued to gaze at her and would briefly catch Liara crinkle her eyebrows at the empty space that his warm body once occupied but remained relatively undisturbed from his movements.
He wanted to do nothing more than forget about everything, lay back down, drape his arm around her waist, pull her close and never let go. In this new world he found himself in, Liara was the only source of constant comfort - the only form of normalcy to him. Ever since their relationship began back on the original Normandy, she would always sleep in the nude when they shared a bed and lately the feeling of her silk like skin against his helped him briefly forget not just the physical pain, but the emotional and psychological battle he found himself fighting daily.
This beautiful person - this beautiful Asari. She meant everything to him.
Relationships were something he never really bothered or seriously considered until Liara entered his life. His entire childhood and teenage years were spent just trying to survive in the slums of the Vancouver - Seattle Megacity, where the forgotten and undesirables of society made their home.
His time running with the Tenth Street Reds taught him that trust was a hard thing to come by and it could easily lead to a knife in the back. And Love was just another weakness that could be easily exploited.
When he finally enlisted at the age of eighteen, his only drive-in life was to become the best soldier he could be. That didn't mean he completely shunned out intimate encounters with women. But he knew it was just that, an encounter. He vaguely remembers the faces of the dozen or so women he's has sexual relations with in the past. No doubt he found them beautiful and worthy of pursuit at the time, but that feeling was usually fleeting the next morning.
Still, he found it difficult to express his real feelings to her and it frustrated him to no end, but he knew in his heart Liara was the best thing to ever happen to him.
Whether it be fate, destiny, or blind luck, he was thankful for it all the same.
They still had their share of rough patches. Dying once and rushing off to a suicide mission didn't really help their relationship flourish - if anything it left it hanging by a thread. But, even with all the strife his mission against the Collector and her vendetta against the Shadow Broker brought on them both, it was the War that had taken the heaviest toll on them both and they were still feeling the effects to this day.
But with a shake of his head and a deep sigh, he reluctantly tore his eyes away from her sleeping form and looked over to the terminal again. The illuminated screen displayed a date that caused a sudden burst of unease to build up inside him.
His face fell, and he suddenly felt a headache beginning to form. He took in a deep breath to clear away the pounding in his head, but the pounding persisted.
So, he did the next best thing - he ignored it.
His mouth moved, and the quiet voice that came out was raw and hoarse. "Anderson…"
In his head, he sees him: the confidence in him, the faith in him, unshakeable, unconditional. He knew Anderson would give it to him all – no matter what – to get the job done. To complete the mission. To defend him, support him, guide him and through it all be the father he never had.
I'm sorry.
He swallows the unease with practiced bravado - the fear and the guilt. He didn't have the luxury of tears as his tear ducts had been cauterized shut.
Thinking for a moment, he runs through his mental checklist to prepare and in that moment, he was tempted to wake up Liara, but thought better of it as he didn't want to disturb her further from her sleep. Normally, she would help him move around as his mobility was severely restricted, given his egregious condition.
Truthfully, a part of him hated being dependent on her. He despised the idea of being a burden to her and found himself arguing with her more often than was probably healthy or necessary. He felt degraded, useless and more importantly he despised the idea of showing weakness in front of her. He was always strong for her and his crew – he was their rock, their port in the storm. Masking his emotions behind a stoic front was almost second nature to him.
So, with calculated movements he reached forward with a firm hand and grasped his steel crutch that was leaning against the bed. He braced himself, and with considerable effort including biting his tongue at the sharp, stabbing pain that flooded his nervous system, he got up from the soft confines of his bed and struggled towards the washroom sans any clothing.
His knee slightly buckling at the weight and effort with each step – hop.
The air around him felt chilly, and he could feel goose bumps form across his sensitive and still healing skin.
As he slowly made his trek to his intended destination, he had shifted his entire weight onto his crutch, but still managed to grip any solid object that was fastened or secured down to help keep his balance lest he find himself in a more compromising situation. But after a few more painful steps into his trek, he began to regret leaving the safety and warmth of his bed as his sluggish movements became more difficult to perform.
Fuck.
His concentration was quickly beginning to falter and the pounding in his head was becoming hard to ignore - almost like the blood vessels in his brain were threating to explode and redecorate the walls a crimson color, courtesy of him.
He'd eventually reach the sanctuary that was the master bathroom as the interior lights of the room switched on as soon as it detected his presence. But like trading one problem for another, the urge to suddenly vomit became impossible to resist. He methodically took a knee on the floor, gripped the side of the toilet and vomited from the horrendous pain in his lower extremities and head.
His breathing was once again ragged, and his heart threatened to burst from his chest. He began debating with himself if the solo trek had been worth it. A smarter man than him would have said no, and that man would be correct under all circumstances, however he had built a reputation over the years for doing the impossible and insane, not the smart thing.
Once he was done relieving himself of what little food and water he had inside him, he struggled to stand back up, the movement nearly taking the wind out of him. Still, he managed to haul himself into a standing position with his crutch and instead shifted his weight against the steel sink.
He gently twisted one of the faucets and watched and listened as cold water spung to life. He scooped up small handfuls of water to rinse his mouth out from the taste of vomit and bile. After which he closed his eyes and splashed cold water against his face to further chase away the last remnants of sleep that nipped at him. The pain in his body was still raging as his eyes re-opened - the motion slow and forced. He blinked a few more times - trying to refocus them again and would come face to face with a clear reflection of himself.
Over the past several weeks, he'd come to barely recognize the person staring back at him. The glowing red scars that decorated his face hinted at the unnatural means of his resurrection at the hands of the Lazarus Project. The soft lighting of the room only amplified the angered glow of the cybernetics underneath his skin.
He next shifted his focus and scrutiny on the naked form that reflected in front of him. While he was never one for vanity, he felt self-conscious at the way he looked. His skin was raw and pink from the numerous skin-grafts he had received as a direct result from the third-degree burns and gunshot wounds he had suffered during the Battle of London. Doctor Chakwas and Miranda reassured him that the cloned tissue would eventually merge with his original skin color, but there would be deep scarring throughout his body that would likely never fully heal.
His left arm and right leg had also been crushed when the entire Citadel super structure collapsed on top of him. Bones had been smashed, muscles torn asunder, and limbs were violently ripped from their sockets.
Most men, even Krogan, would have succumbed to such heinous wounds.
Severe Brain Hemorrhage,
Punctured Lungs,
Shattered Pelvis,
Shattered Rib Cage,
Cranial and Spinal Nerve Damage,
Oculus Nerve Damage in both Eyes.
The list went on and on and on.
On top of that, he had also lost a significant amount of weight due in no small part to being in a medically induced coma for several weeks. A medical necessity, as he understood it, to save his life considering the amount of damage his body had sustained. It also didn't help with the fact that he often forgot to eat or drink anything unless someone reminded him to.
Even then, keeping anything down long enough was hard.
Staring at himself now, a humorless chuckle would escape his lips at the thought of getting back to active duty from his current state and if that would be even possible. Going to hell and back too many times had taken its toll on him, but this time not every part of him made it back in one piece.
He'd briefly close his eyes again and the rolling memories of the London battlefield flickered to life in front of him. He began to hear the frantic screams of terror and desperation, the sounds and impact of gunfire, Reaper horns that echoed in the distance and the demonic screams of their victims' turned slaves.
And for that moment, he found himself back in that hellscape – no man's land.
The smell of burning and melted flesh would begin to linger inside his nostrils. He remembers taking a glancing hit from Harbinger's beam during the final rush to the Conduit. Most of his armor had been either destroyed, melted away or fused with his skin, but he didn't remember feeling any pain.
Maybe his memory was fuzzy or maybe the nerve endings had been burnt away – he settled for both.
His mind continued to run away with the memories of the battle, and it was starting to become too crowded for comfort. A thousand thoughts and voices were vying for his attention, but it eventually settled on a lucid image of three dark figures. Muted words were exchanged as a clash of fates took place when suddenly one of them acted out and a gunshot would echo inside his head. The memory of Anderson recoiling backwards clutching the gunshot wound, with his own hand still holding the smoking gun while a maniac laughed in the background.
He stood motionless. He wasn't sure when he had re-opened his eyes again, but he was staring at himself in a trance – both eyes still locked at his reflection again.
But with practiced bravado he pushed it all deep inside. The fear. The guilt. The hate.