Beta-read by Midnight Lion;

Chapter 3: Husks

Firm hands pressed at the small of her back, propelling her forwards as she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Her hair drooped in damp, sweaty tendrils, flopping loose from the remains of her bun. Emma tried to glance back over her left shoulder, but the insistent hands shoved her forwards again. "I'm right behind you... move! Move!" Sucking in another ragged gasp of air, she dug her toes into the pavement, heartbeat pounding in her ears with every step. Oxygen deprivation left her sight fuzzy, limiting her awareness to the large crates she darted among. While the biotic suit allowed her to better utilize what energy she had, it was simply incapable of addressing the root cause of her physical distress.

Bloody Anaerobic Threshold. Shooting pains in her legs hinted that her stamina was nearing its end, lactic acid building up in her muscles and slowing her movements little by little. They had been running, hiding, and fleeing for what seemed an eternity. Dee... Phillips... a tendril of worry wormed about her mind as she considered her fellow medics, stuffed in a basement while she and Fletch played bait.

Catching herself up against a large crate, her lungs heaved, greedy for even the smoky, impure air that gave the atmosphere a thick, sticky feel. Maybe it's just me... sweat, salty and stale, dribbled down her cheeks, sidling into the creases of her eyes, the corners of her lips and even gathering in unpleasant hollows beneath her suit.

"Did we lose..." There was no one to answer her, and she sensed the emptiness before her eyes confirmed it. Suddenly realizing she was alone, a weight crushed her, forcing her downwards to the platform. Her uniform hissed against the rough crate, and she was only vaguely aware that randomly stacked crates shielded her entirely from view. Palms on her knees, she settled her forehead down, trying to arrange her thoughts, as if curling up into a tiny ball would make the effort somehow less. Time skewed, minutes strung together breathlessly between moments of horror. Spikes. Bodies. Emma shook her head, taking one more ragged breath before slowly climbing to her feet. Unnatural, mechanized bodies, but there's no humanity left… just the… husk….

Emma listened, trying to still her own small noises of breathing and the quiet rasping of her gear against the crate. In the distance, now-familiar whirring and digital chirping of the mechanical warriors, Fletch called them Geth?, were clearly audible. Clutching her rifle, empty of clips and useless except as a blunt instrument, she slunk slowly back along the crate, dry lips flattened. She crouched there, next to the corner for a moment, afraid of finding nothing or worse, something.

Her extra senses remained tightly under control, contained within a tiny radius around her slight frame. The emotional discharge, horror, fear and pain, from the still-living bodies they'd witnessed the Geth impaling... No. Wrenching her mind away from the blurry memories, she counted her increasing, frightened breaths. As the breaths slowed, she counted heartbeats. When those slowed, she counted each tap of a fingertip on the barrel of her rifle. Time lost meaning, as she crouched there, counting.

You'll be no less alone, for knowing. An inner connection sluggishly lit as she relaxed the mental tensions restraining her senses, allowing her awareness to slowly expand outwards. The space around her seemed empty, devoid of emotion, and she extended her senses slowly, mentally picking her way carefully back along her route, cautious as if she were walking barefoot among shattered glass. Encountering someone in the emotional throes of a dying agony could not physically harm her, but experiencing those emotions drew her too near the edge of mental imbalance.

There... a faint aura stirred at the edges of her awareness, approaching slowly, cautiously. She could neither identify someone by emotions, nor read the mind or thoughts of the person approaching, and wondered, for the umpteenth time that day, why she even bothered to hide these empathic abilities from the world at large. They were bloody useless.

Peering slowly around the corner, she slowly examined her surroundings, eyes travelling methodically from the portion of platform within her limited view to the narrow pathway among the crates. The slight arc of a tow-headed figure rose briefly from behind a small crate, revealing the top of a head, then eyes that were not unfamiliar. Relief washed over her, and she slowly waved the butt of her rifle to catch his attention.

Fletch darted across the opening, grabbing her elbow and dragging her deeper within the stacks of crates, his face serious but his aura lightening with a momentary relief that overwhelmed anything else she could sense. The moment they paused, Emma wrenched her arm from his grasp, unsure whether to hold him tightly or shake him. Never one for public displays, she still couldn't resist a compromise, one open hand smacking his nearest shoulder. It was a petty gesture, half-angry, half-relieved. Unused to allowing emotions to best her, she backpedaled slightly, eying him carefully, unable to miss the new bruise beneath a cheekbone, his long ponytail as scraggly and scruffy as her own.

"Bloody Hell! You scare me like that again and you'll… you'll want those Geth to find you..." Forcing a grin that didn't quite overcome the weariness weighing down his gaze, he just patted her shoulder and collapsed against the crate, eyes briefly closing as his head tipped back. She dropped down beside him, their shoulders not quite touching. Habit was hard to break, and casual contact was difficult.

"Nice to be missed." The discouragement in his voice tugged her own spirits down, and she prodded him with an elbow.

"Out with it." Blue eyes met her darker ones.

"The platform is swarming with those…" his voice trailed off, but she could fill in the blank easily herself, unable to restrain the shudder of revulsion that surged from her shoulders to the tips of her toes.

Her stomach took that inopportune moment to protest, loudly, and she swore, letting loose a muttered string of expletives that would have made Dee proud. Fletch cracked an eye at her, watching her haul a bag into her lap and dig through it halfheartedly, the beginning tremors of biotic over-exertion making her fingers clumsy. Healer, heal thyself.

A protein bar waved under her nose, and though she rolled her eyes at Fletch's smug expression, Emma snatched it from him anyway, thankful.

"How did you ever manage to wash out of the Navy?" The question emerged between bites, something she'd been puzzling over in between running for her life and burning her fingers on an overheating weapon. The man could fire a weapon, keep his cool, and stay alive. So bloody competent!

"How'd you stay undocumented?" He countered, gesturing to the empty wrapper and tossing her another bar. Taking the hint, she fell silent, startled at his intuitiveness and embarrassed over the unintended offense. While impossible to hide her biotics from her team; the topic was a quick way to assure her retreat from a conversation. Precious little an L1 can do anyways, she grimaced, staring bitterly at half-consumed bar in her hand, besides eat. She could almost sense the nutrients from the protein bar easing into her bloodstream, replenishing the blood sugar balance her biotics had tapped.

Their respite was short-lived. A light scrabbling sound caught her ears and she jumped up into a crouch, poking at Fletch.

"Time to move…." Extending a hand purposefully, she met his eyes, somewhat abashed. His grip fastened on hers, accepting the unspoken apology as she helped draw him to his feet. Moments later, all that remained was the cooling metal of the platform and a wrapper twitching in the smoky breeze.

Note: Thanks for reading! I'm posting this early because it's done and I have a 2,000 word paper to write this next week. :)