"The Peace of Papillons"
The "wings of a butterfly" are about to bring great change.
All references, names, and places draw from "Mass Effect" I thru III. Much is fictitious and coincidences may exist where they come. Artwork is property of the author—SpecialDelivery.2 here on FFN, The_Writerz_Bloque on AO3, and more may be found on Deviant Art under Drava1089.
Rating: M for mature….violence, gore, graphic depictions/imagery, sexual situations, language, and adult themes.
Prologue
2182, Earth, December 21st, The First Day of Winter
The snow fell in silence. Gala waited outdoors, watching the snow mingle with its first drops of sleet. She waited alone outside in the cold air. What was she waiting for?….Her mother was dying, and Gala was outside enjoying a breath of air before being called into the Alliance-Navy affiliated hospital.
It was strange to be outside, breathing, while her mother was living out her last breaths indoors. Gala took a sharp breath inward. She turned her face to the sky, and both flakes and wet drops landed on her eyes beneath the visor.
"Gala, it's time," the doors behind her opened, and her father was waiting. Her father had crows' feet extending from the corners of his brown eyes, his hair along his brow peppered white and black, and he stood between the doors looking expectantly at her—his daughter, twenty-nine-years-old. He was not a soldier as she was.
A simple man, with civilian clothes.
His eyes took in the uniform and the badge on her shoulder with her ship's name across it in capitals….SSV Normandy….She was an officer aboard a starship of Turian-Human design, the first of its kind.
She turned towards him from the parking lot, and could see the reserved grimace in his eyes.
"You need to come in and say your Goodbye….Would do if you hadn't worn that to her deathbed, Gala."
She neither blinked nor replied with a retort….She'd heard it before.
She removed her cap, however.
"I'm on duty, Sir."
He frowned at her reply, "….I'm your damn father, cut the formal bullshit, Gala, and get inside."
She went in through the doors behind him.
"You know," he slowed his pace to fall into stride with her, "….she still hates that you entered the service."
Her head nodded.
"I want her to know I'm still proud of my decision to go my own way, Sir."
Her father closed his eyes at the Sir.
"You're always so stiff, Gala."
Gala kept her mouth closed.
"She'll be this way….They moved her," and he led Gala right, down a hallway towards her mother's hospice room….As they walked the wing together, Gala took note of everything—from the long counter of clerks and technicians where nurses came to and from other hallways and closing doors to the family members filing silently by on their ways to their own ailing loved ones' rooms.
Several nurses and orderlies looked up when Gala walked by, appreciating her in uniform….It made her walk a little taller.
Her father slowed his feet to a stop ahead of a doorway on their left, and Gala ceased her movement to stand somewhat behind his shoulder….Through a glass window with wires crisscrossed between the panes set into the wooden door, she could see flowers hinting out at them.
The door opened quietly, and made of wood and steel, it was heavy-looking. Her father stepped in first, blocking Gala's view of her mother. Pale light fell through a large set of windows filling half the room, falling over the bed….She could see the long, thin legs laid out under the white blankets and a throw, keeping her mother comfortable and warm underneath.
Gala entered the room….She held her cap between her ribs and her arm.
Her mother's eyes, green and orange, gazed up at Gala from within a fatigued face.
She stopped just a foot before the side of the bed….Her mother's eyes moved up and down her daughter's uniform, glancing long at the cap.
"Polished as usual….like the day you left."
Her mother took a deep, dry breath inward.
"You look good, Ma'am."
Her mother caught her breath and held onto it….Such a precious action….She closed her eyes and opened them.
"Gala….show some emotion, please?"
"Is it better to succumb to tears, Ma'am?…." Gala's expression was blank.
Her mother stared at her.
"Is it useful for me to cry, Ma'am."
Gala's father set his hands into the mattress opposite her, leaning his hip against the fall-bar.
"What would tears do for you, Ma'am."
Gala's posture was rigidly erect….Her father hunched his tall frame down to lay his hand upon her mother's arm and be closer to her.
"Gala, please."
Gala said no more, and moved not an inch.
Her mother appeared drained by the effort to listen.
"You always….put yourself….first….Gala Shepard."
Gala raised her chin and looked away from her mother's pained countenance.
"Just what you taught me, Ma'am."
Her mother turned her eyes and her face to the windows.
"I did well then….didn't I."
Gala watched the same snow and sleet fall outside the windows as her mother did.
"God-damn it, Gala," her father's voice was choked, "….your mother's dying!—Come over to her and be Human!"
Gala approached her mother's left side….On top of the blankets, rested on her abdomen, Gala's mother's hand turned over.
"Take it."
Obediently, Gala took hold of her mother's hand….It was cool….The nails were recently clipped, likely by her father….The fingers were once strong and youthful….now these were pale, gaunt, and spotted….An angry red sore ringed beneath her mother's wedding band above the third left knuckle from her index….Scant hairs had begun to grow, but much was missing due to the chemotherapy.
The chemotherapy had been terminated a week ago.
Gala spent a long while looking at that hand.
"I'm….proud of you."
Her brown eyes lifted from the hand to her mother's. "I am, too." Gala smiled then.
She felt the weak pressure of her mother's fingers against her middle and index.
"I'm glad….I'm also….sorry….Gala." Her mother searched Gala's expression, the smile having faded….Her daughter's face was unreadable now.
She should have been proud of the "girl" standing in uniform next to her deathbed….Trying to read Gala was tantamount to reading a rock for emotion—and this made the dying woman sadder.
"What….happened….to….you….Gala?"
"Ma'am?"
"Used….to….smile….Really….smile….Sunlight….on….your….hair."
"I don't understand, Ma'am."
Her father looked up at Gala—his face was growing red.
Gala's mother shook, but it was hard to tell if she was trying to shake her head alone.
"No…..Gala….You're….so….many…..years….because….me."
"Ma'am, I can't hear you."
The woman's eyes turned, somewhat faded, and latched onto the badge sewn onto Gala's shoulder.
Gala's hand was freed by her mother's.
"I can't understand you, Ma'am—"
"You're a damn spy!"
Her father bit his lip, startled by his dying wife's last surge—casting this bizarre accusation at their daughter….Her breath rattled uneasily from her chest.
He stared at his wife, slowly comprehending what was about to happen, "….I'm sorry, Hannah," he placed his hand upon her chest, "….Calm yourself—she's not….Damn it, Gala," he glared across at her, "….I'm sorry, Hannah," his worn face turned back to the woman on the bed, staring at Gala with eyes neither husband nor daughter recognized.
Hannah Shepard blinked and suddenly, exhausted by the outburst, dropped her bald skull onto the pillow, "….John?….Tired." She closed her eyes and breathed inward, holding onto the air she had dragged into her lungs.
Gala looked from her mother to her father's face.
"I love you, Hannah," his mouth spasmed with grief, "….Sleep then."
Hannah made no nod or reply. Gala and John Shepard waited, watching.
"Hannah….Hannah?…." John, though he had bid her to sleep, gently shook Hannah's shoulder, then picked up her hand, and held this close to his stomach.
Hannah was as quiet and ashen as the snowy sleet falling outside the windows.
