Trouble Sleeping
Unable to sleep, Thane found himself sitting in the middle of the floor meditating—or at least attempting to. It didn't appear to be working for him, a rare occurrence, but not completely unheard of. The soft, everpresent hum of the ship's mass effect core somehow both soothed and agitated him. Perhaps it agitated him because it soothed him. He wasn't quite certain. It did also act as a noise dampener, which, for an assassin, was only beneficial when one was trying not to be heard and not when one must listen. It wasn't that he didn't trust Commander Shepard or her intentions in hunting the collectors, it only took him but a few moments to verify her claims of entire human colonies going missing, but she was, after all, in the company of a terrorist group with known anti-alien sentiments—one which also appeared to have no compunction against performing gruesome experiments on living beings. Or dead ones, for that matter, if indeed the rumors were true and Cerberus had brought Shepard back from Kalahira's distant shores.
The woman had come to speak with him after recruiting him, while he settled into the room so aptly titled 'Life Support'. The irony that it should house a dying man seemed lost on her, or, perhaps she merely wasn't as comfortable acknowledging death as she was causing it, though she did ask him about his illness and made him the offer of access to the ship's medic. At least he wasn't expected to spend his time in the Crew Quarters with the Cerberus personnel. After meeting Shepard's yeoman, Kelly Chambers, he didn't doubt that not all of the Cerberus agents aboard the ship were as vile as the reputation of being associated with Cerberus afforded them, but he did doubt the majority of them would be as comfortable in his presence as was Ms. Chambers. An interesting, enthusiastic woman, indeed.
There were several other non-humans aboard the Normandy, but he'd yet to have the opportunity to speak to them, outside of the brief few words spoken to the turian and salarian who accompanied Shepard to Dantius Towers. He learned a young krogan—grown in a tank as a part of an experiment to create the perfect krogan—took up residence in the Port Cargo one deck below. He'd been told an asari Justicar was also recruited from Illium for the collector mission, or, as he'd heard others refer to it: the suicide mission—an apt name. He wondered what the Justicar might think of him and his profession, wondered if her oath to Shepard would truly prevent her from deciding him deserving of a swift end as per her Code. He might welcome her judgement, it'd be a fitting death, but he, too, had promised to aid Shepard on her mission to defeat the collectors.
"Thane?" A soft, feminine voice filled Life Support, the sound carrying with it the faintest hints of synthetic frequencies.
Ah, the ship's AI.
He didn't bother to open his eyes since she had no face for him to gaze upon while speaking. "Yes, EDI?"
"My databases suggest drell need a minimum of four hours of sleep for optimal functioning." There was a slight pause in which it seemed as if she were considering her next words. "Shepard is likewise still awake, though she often ignores the standard recommendation of a minimum of five hours for humans. Her cybernetics help to offset the damage done to her physiology due to minor sleep deprivation, however. Should I inform Shepard that you are still awake and will not have met the minimum sleep requirements for your species, as such making you unfit for duty when we arrive on Haestrom?"
"Ah. No. Thank you, EDI, but that will not be necessary. My training has taught me how to accommodate erratic sleeping patterns and, as you say, remain capable of optimal functioning." Thane opened his eyes, glancing at the green glow of his unlocked door—the locking mechanism was so insignificant, he didn't see the point in bothering. "Though, I am curious as to why the commander is still awake."
"I do not believe she would wish for me to discuss her personal affairs, but she is in the mess hall, if you'd like to ask her yourself," EDI said.
"She's not in her cabin?" Thane's brow ridge twitched, curiosity tugging at the corners of his battle sleep.
"No, she is making herself some tea: chamomile. It is reported to aid in sleep. Perhaps she would be willing to share. Shall I ask?" EDI sounded almost pleased by the prospect.
"I see. No, thank you, EDI." He pushed himself to his feet. "I believe I will go see for myself."
"As you wish," said EDI. "Logging you out."
Thane left Life Support, stopping in the hall just outside the door and cocked his head to the side, listening to the soft sounds of metal clanging against metal drifting back to him from the mess hall. Tucking his hands behind his back, he moved towards the noise, rounding the elevator and stopped. Shepard stood behind the counter, turning on a burner beneath a kettle. Red hair tucked up in a haphazard ponytail, she wore only a tank top and form-fitting black pants which cutoff just below the knee. The fading scars he'd seen previously over her face and forearms extended over the rest of her exposed flesh, evidence of Cerberus' machinations to resurrect her. She sighed, leaning back against the serving island and tilted her head back, staring up at the ceiling. She didn't appear to be aware of his presence, so he brought his fist to his mouth and gently coughed.
Her emerald gaze snapped to him, something just as deadly and dangerous as himself flashing through her eyes for but a second. She blinked, a slow smile crossing her face. "Thane, hey. Trouble sleeping?"
"Indeed." Dipping his head in agreement, he tucked his hand back behind him once more.
"Want some tea? It's chamomile, suppose to help you sleep." She pointed to a small box sitting on the counter next to her.
He took slow steps closer, gauging her reaction to his approach. She didn't seem bothered by his proximity, despite knowing what he did for a living, he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. After all, she also killed for a living, it was just for a more socially acceptable profession. He was no threat to her, either way, of course. He'd sworn his arm to her, but most he'd met outside of other assassins didn't seem to understand the weight of such a contract. Indeed, most feared an assassin, avoided them at all costs, as if an assassin might just randomly decide to kill them—without provocation or contract. It was irrational.
He picked up the box, turning it over in his hand to read the label before placing it back on the counter. "You do not sound convinced of its usefulness."
She let out a soft chuckle, the sound drawing his attention back to her fully. "It use to help. When I was a kid, and the biggest thing keeping me up at night was test anxiety." She shrugged. "I still drink it when I'm having trouble sleeping anyway. The ritual of it is comforting, even if it still leaves me wide awake."
The answer took him by surprise, bringing a smile to his face. "Indeed. I suppose much greater concerns trouble your mind now."
The kettle began to let out a whistle, the sound starting soft but swiftly growing in pitch. She pushed off the counter, removing it from the heat source before it became uncomfortably loud and turned off the burner. Opening a cabinet, she pulled down a cup and turned to him, holding it up and raising an eyebrow in question. He smiled again and dipped his head. She returned his smile and turned away from him, gathering together two cups, two saucers, and the box of tea. He watched her as she opened the box, retrieving two, small bags and placed one in each cup before pouring the hot water over the satchels of fragrant tea.
She moved the cups over to the island counter, setting them on saucers, and turned back to the cabinet, pulling down a small canister. "Do you like your tea sweetened? I don't normally, but for chamomile … it's how my mother use to make it …."
"Then I will, as well," he said.
She glanced up, meeting his gaze, her eyes holding a gentleness he found oddly startling. Smiling, she looked down at a drawer, opening it and retrieving spoons. "You don't have to sweeten yours just because I intend to sweeten mine. Taste it first, then decide. It needs a couple of minutes to steep, though." Moving back to the counter, she picked up her cup, balancing the canister and the spoons in her other hand. "Sit with me?" she asked, nodding her head towards the tables.
"As you wish." Thane picked up the tea meant for him, wrapping his palm around the warm surface of the cup, and moved to the tables with her. He waited for her to take a seat before sitting across from her.
Using a spoon, she dipped the tea bag in and out of the water, offering him the other to do the same. "So, what's keeping you up?"
"I …" He took the spoon from her, staring into his tea as he fished the satchel out of the pale, yellow liquid. "I'm afraid I'm not certain."
She hummed, drawing his attention back to her. "Me neither." Smirking when she glanced up, she shrugged. "That's not entirely true, but I won't burden you with the woes of my existential crisis."
"It would be no burden," he said, though he wasn't entirely certain what prompted him to do so. He supposed it was merely the polite thing to say, especially to a woman responsible for leading him into battle. It'd be interesting, following her. So many years had passed since he last took orders, and never on a battlefield such as the ones she'd likely introduce him to. It occurred to him, some part of him looked forward to the new experience.
She smiled, raising the satchel from her cup and squeezing it against the spoon with her fingers before setting it on the saucer. "You really want to know?"
"Indeed." He realized he did, in fact, want to know. Mimicking her actions, he removed the bag of tea leaves from his cup and squeezed the excess liquid out against the spoon.
"Hmm." She picked up the canister, of what he assumed to be the sugar humans used for sweetness, and upended it over her cup, watching the stream of fine, white granules pour through a spout built into the top. "I'm sure you've heard by now that I died when the old Normandy was attacked, and Cerberus brought me back?" She raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze once more as she started to stir her tea.
He dipped his head, picking up his cup and breathing in the floral scent before blowing across the steaming surface. He took a sip, cautious of the heat before setting the cup back down, rolling the tea over his tongue before swallowing and reaching for the sugar. He wasn't especially fond of sweet things, but neither was he opposed to them, and he wanted the glimpse into her reality he felt the shared ritual might bring.
She took a deep breath. "Sometimes … I'm not sure if I'm really alive. I don't remember being dead, don't remember an afterlife of any kind. So … maybe this is the afterlife. And if it is, what does it say about the kind of person I am that my eternity will be spent fighting wars? Killing and watching people die?" Propping her elbows on either side of her saucer, she raised her cup, holding it just in front of her mouth as she continued to speak, "Otherwise, I am alive, there is no Heaven or Hell, and I've only been brought back so I can die again, sacrificing myself for a galaxy that refuses to hear the warnings I've given them about what's to come."
Thane blinked, lifting his cup to his mouth again to buy himself a moment to process her words. He wasn't sure what he expected, but she surprised him yet again. Something so little—so few—were able to manage. The sugar worked to bring out the more subtle flavors within the tea, he savored the taste on his tongue and carefully returned his cup to the saucer. "I have read some of the works by human philosophers. There is much to be said about proving one's own existence, and the existence of God, but I'm afraid I've never read anything about proving whether or not one is truly alive or in the afterlife. I wonder what would convince you of the reality of your circumstances if flesh and bone and blood are not enough."
She sighed. "It might be, if I had any reason to believe I wouldn't perceive my body just the same in Heaven or Hell."
He chuckled, she made a fair point. "What of your friends? The turian, Garrus, he was with you on the old Normandy … do you perceive him to be worthy of an afterlife filled with such torments?"
She seemed to consider that for a moment, giving him a slow shake of her head. "No … but if you asked him, I'm almost positive he'd say he does."
"If you are indeed still dead, what of me?" He tilted his head a little, watching her with curiosity as a flood of different emotions washed over her face.
"Oh, no. I didn't mean … I'm not saying I think you'd deserve …." Her cheeks reddened.
He chuckled. "I only meant I have no doubts of being alive. I went into Dantius Towers prepared to embrace death, ready to cross the sea. I know I have not, a ship filled with a motley crew of aliens is not what awaits me."
She arched an eyebrow. "How can you be sure?"
"She—" He lowered his gaze, staring into his tea, seeing Irikah's face in the still surface. Swallowing, he bit back the memories before they could overtake him and tried again. "Whether to welcome me into her arms, or punish me for my sins, either way, there is only one person I can ever expect to see once I cross the sea."
Silence stretched between them, and he could feel the weight of her gaze on him for a long moment. His chest ached, the loss of Irikah felt so acutely despite his battle sleep, the one thing which could penetrate his barrier so completely.
"The drell believe in a goddess who will carry them from this life to the next, right?" Shepard's voice broke the silence, soft and filled with an understanding he didn't wish to examine.
He looked up, brow ridges raising. "Kalahira, yes. I confess, I did not expect you to be familiar with drell religion."
She smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "Up until about two or three hours after you came aboard, I wasn't." Letting out a soft huff of laughter, no doubt at his expense, triggered by the look of shock on his face, she added, "I've never met a drell before." She twitched her head to the side, cheeks starting to redden once more. "I was curious."
"Indeed?" He propped his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together in front of him. "And what did you learn?"
"Not nearly as much as I'd have liked." She turned sideways on the bench, resting her back against the wall. "Most of what I found revolved around the relationship between the drell and the hanar. Something about some sort of traditional agreement between you species as repayment for their rescuing you from your homeworld … the Compact?"
"Yes, those families holding to the Compact swear themselves into servitude. It is an honor; just as the hanar did for us what we could not do for ourselves, we do for the hanar that which they cannot." Thane waved a hand. "I myself was given to the hanar at the age of six. My training, skills, all that I am was given to me through the Compact."
"Six?" Her brows pulled in, creating waves along her forehead. "Jesus."
"This troubles you?" He'd anticipated as much, it always seemed to disturb others of different species when they learned of the age at which the Compact took in drell children for training in the various tasks they would spend their lives performing in service to the hanar. Some even compared it to slavery, insulting and narrow-minded.
"You were just a child … did you even have a choice?" She asked, her words threatening to trigger memories of Irikah once more. Then, she held up a hand, palm out. "No, wait. I'm sorry. I don't mean to question your culture, it's just taking me a minute to wrap my head around it, is all."
He hummed, wondering if there'd be a time when she no longer surprised him. "Indeed. To answer your question, anyone can refuse to serve, but few do, it would have been for my parents to decide whether or not I was to be a part of the Compact. No, I wasn't precisely given a choice, but neither did I want for one. It truly was an honor, I was proud to serve the hanar however they required of me. Later, as an adult, I did … request to be excused from the Compact so that I might pursue … other avenues in life."
"Do you regret leaving?" she asked, tracing the rim of her cup with a fingertip before picking it up. "I mean, whatever other avenues you explored, you went back to being an assassin."
"I found my particular skill set doesn't translate well into other professions." He gave her a wry smile. "The only jobs I could find were menial labor, I'm afraid my pride wasn't able to withstand the harsh treatments of those who viewed themselves superior to me but whom I knew I could kill in an instant. I had difficulty holding on to jobs, struggled to support … the pay was inadequate. Eventually, I turned to freelancing. I admit, it felt good to put my skills to use once more, to take contracts which challenged me and fed my ego. Though I now wish my ego mattered a little less, I do not regret leaving the Compact. The experiences the freedom allowed me … I wouldn't trade them for anything."
"No guilt? No regrets about your profession at all?" She raised an eyebrow, and he searched her gaze, finding only curiosity.
"No—not about being an assassin in particular." He turned his hand over, gesturing as he talked, watching the way her gaze tracked his movements despite never leaving his face. "Drell minds work very differently from humans. We accept that our body is nothing more than a vessel and is not always under our control."
"What do you mean?" She took a drink from her tea and then moved the cup to cradle against her chest as she watched him.
"My body is a tool, my reflexes honed to kill by the hanar." He waved a hand at nothing in particular. "When I accept a contract, it is not I—not my soul—who makes the kill, but a tool wielded by those who hired me."
She pursed her lips a little, narrowing her eyes. "But … it's not your body that accepted the contract, or decides which contracts to accept." Bringing the cup back to her lips, she sipped at her tea.
"I—No, I suppose it isn't. But neither is it my soul who has sentenced these targets to death." Feeling oddly shaken by the concepts being discussed … his lack of culpability in the deaths of those he was hired to kill being challenged, he took a drink of his tea, turning her words over in his mind. "It is one benefit afforded me as a freelancer: I choose my own contracts, and I choose those whose deaths will leave the galaxy a brighter place." He took another drink of his tea, finding it already quite a bit cooler than when they first sat down. "What else did you learn about the drell in your research?"
A wide grin crossed her mouth. "Uh, let's see. You live to be about eighty-five galactic standard years. Levo omnivorous, so no special dietary needs I should be concerned about. You produce venom, which confused me initially." She let out a light laugh, taking a sip of her tea. "To a human, something is considered venomous when it delivers a toxin through a bite or a sting—injecting it into the victim, and poisonous when it produces a toxin along its body. Basically, the old saying goes, 'If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it's venomous.'"
Thane chuckled. "Indeed, but drell are both. Our saliva, particularly the females of our species, carry a higher concentration of the toxin in our saliva. Our evolutionary records suggest we once stored venom in pits within our jaws, capable of being released into prey—or attacking predators—through a bite." He tilted his head to the side in concession. "Now our venom is little more than an irritant to most species, capable of producing mild hallucinations … or causing rashes with prolonged exposure. When we joined the galactic community, salarian scientists were swift in studying the toxin and finding compounds to combat its effects." He smiled, opening his hand. "Asari, however, were quick to harvest our venom, finding profit in most species' tendency to ingest intoxicants for pleasure."
Shepard wrinkled her nose. "Harvest it how exactly?"
"Ah. It's not as disturbing as you might imagine." He took a drink from his cup, hiding his smile over the look on her face. "They use a specially designed, highly absorbent material which soaks up the venom when rubbed over a drell's scales. The toxin is then processed to extract any impurities before being sold to bars and other establishments. Drell are, of course, compensated for their contribution."
"Fascinating. Have you ever sold your venom?" she asked with a teasing grin.
Letting out a soft, short laugh, he shook his head. "I have not. Perhaps another benefit to being an assassin: I don't want for credits."
"So, not even when you were doing other jobs?" She cocked an eyebrow, mischievous grin growing.
"No," he said, shaking his head again, "it never crossed my mind, though perhaps I might have once, had it."
She jerked her head towards her shoulder. "I suppose there are worse ways to make credits."
"Indeed." He dipped his head, taking another drink of his tea, finding the cup nearly empty.
Shepard stifled a yawn against the back of her free hand.
"Ah, perhaps the chamomile is helping after all." He started to stand. "I've taken up enough of your time, I'll let you get some sleep."
"No!" The word rushed out of her so fast, so … desperate, it almost startled him as she lunged upright. She composed herself, clearing her throat, a blush rising up her neck. "I mean, you don't have to go. Not for me. I'm enjoying talking with you, but if you're ready to sleep …."
"Sometimes … I'm not sure if I'm really alive."
Her words from earlier floated through his mind once more, giving weight to the terror he saw flash through her eyes. Admittedly, he enjoyed their conversation as well, and if his presence brought her some measure of comfort …. He sat back down, dipping his head to her. "As you wish, so long as I'm not keeping you awake."
"You're not." She grimaced, turning her gaze to the cup she held gripped tightly between her hands, knuckles turning white. "It's worse when I'm alone," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "In bed at night, when the ship's quiet and I'm alone with my thoughts … it's so much worse." She swallowed and blinked, and he wasn't entirely certain without her looking at him, but he thought he might've seen the glint of tears to her eyes.
"Perhaps …" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, reluctant to say anything which might offend her. "... forgive me for saying so, but perhaps you should speak with Ms. Chambers. She is trained to handle these things, surely she has some piece of wisdom to offer you."
Shepard snorted, the sound derisive and filled with frustration. "Why?" she asked, looking up at him again, and indeed, there was a wetness to her eyes. "So she can tell the Illusive Man everything I say the second I leave her alone again?" She shook her head. "Kelly has a good heart, but she's naïve. She really thinks Cerberus is just misunderstood, believes the Illusive Man only has humanity's best interests at heart. She seems exceptionally skilled at deluding herself."
Something inside of Thane relaxed, like a tangled mass of knots being unwound. "I take it you do not share the idea of Cerberus being a beneficial organization?"
She pulled her head back, eyes widening before blinking several times. "Hell no. I know exactly what Cerberus is, what kind of person the Illusive Man is. I'm not a part of Cerberus. The only reason I'm still with them is because both the Alliance and the Council swear there isn't anything they can do about the colonists abductions because they're happening out in the Terminus. Cerberus is the only one willing and able to actually stop this thing … so I'm stuck with them until it's done."
"I confess, I am relieved to hear you say so." He drained the cold tea in his cup. "Shall we reheat the kettle?"
She smiled and nodded, pushing herself up to her feet. He stood, walking with her back over to the kitchen area where she placed the kettle back on the burner and turned the heat on. She turned, putting her back to the counter before pushing her palms against the surface and jumped, pulling herself onto the island to sit with her legs hanging over the edge. He chuckled, finding the behavior highly amusing in its level of inappropriateness and unprofessionalism. She gave him a lopsided grin, and he knew he was seeing the woman behind the mask of command. He wondered how many other people she allowed to see her truth, and it troubled him that some part of him wished to be the only one.
He brushed the thought aside, tucking his hands behind his back. "What will you do once your mission is complete, assuming we survive this 'suicide mission' as I've heard it called?"
She sucked in a deep breath, chest expanding to capacity, and held it. After a moment, she let it out, slow and steady as she spoke, "Go back to the Alliance, if they'll have me. Try again to convince the Council and the rest of the galaxy to prepare for the reaper invasion."
"Ah, yes. The reapers. Tell me about them, I've only heard rumors from mixed sources over the last couple of years." Most of those rumors revolved around Shepard and the ship that attacked the Citadel in 2183, a ship which the Council insisted was a geth construct, but others claimed it to be an actual reaper.
She watched him in silence for a long time, long enough for the kettle to start to let out a low whistle. He turned, removing the kettle from the heat, keeping her in his peripherals as he turned off the burner. After a moment, she slid down from the counter and opened her omni-tool; a few seconds later, his own omni-tool vibrated against his wrist.
She moved closer to him, and he took a step back, giving her room as she picked up the kettle. Turning back to the counter, she picked up the box of tea and started walking back to table. "I'd rather talk about something less depressing, if you don't mind. At least for tonight."
He opened his omni-tool, glancing briefly at the packet of information she'd forwarded to him. It appeared to be a lengthy report on the reapers, undoubtedly every scrap of information and evidence she could find. "If you'd like," he said, following her back to the table. He'd read the report in depth at a later time.