"On your six!" A voice screamed, piercing and shrill. It rattled Shepard's brain, drowning out the heavy echoes of her own breath. Her pulse hammered in her skull, body stiff and rigid. Instinctively, she twisted downward toward cover, scraping her shoulder against the edge of the metal protrusion aboard the Collector platform. Something felt off, as if terribly wrong. Green eyes darted to her shoulder. A long gash was visible in the ablative material and the heavy weave of the bio-suit underneath, ripping into her fragile skin. She'd been slow in avoiding the attack. A mixture of blood and medi-gel coated the scrape, wet and uncomfortable. It trickled underneath the material of her suit, oozing a thick concoction of slime, like a slug, against her hot skin. There was no room for error. Immediately, her suit VI had dispensed the required quantity to seal the tear and the wound.
A loud crash jostled Shepard's cover. Her eyes squeezed tight.
"One," she whispered. "Two..."
"Three." She forced her body upward, gun readied against her shoulder. She did not expect the gruesome sight of the Scion aiming its weapon toward her, steady humming indicating it was charging for another shot. The prospect stunned her momentarily, but she managed a quick burst from her assault rifle and rolled, frantically trying to push her weight forward to the next protrusion for cover.
Her body sought purchase on the smooth, inclined plane of the teetering platform, scrabbling for any hold. Disoriented, Shepard felt her body slip. Suddenly, any presence of contact was removed; she was falling, her fingers scrabbling for the ground. Darkness encompassed her. Fingers were burrowing underneath the collar of her bio-suit, tearing at the material. Cold, clammy, bloodied fingers. Screams and howls rent the air, filling her mind with countless horrors that her subconscious worked up in an instant. Her eyes snapped open to empty sockets, a toothless maw, a mass of fleshy, pulpy meat twisting in a dark cavern, like a tongue. Screams and cries begged her for salvation, pulling on her hair, her limbs, her clothing, dragging her down into the darkness.
Wet and hot, she could feel their fingers smearing blood and rotten, decaying flesh against her face and neck, their digits pushing their way up into her nose and mouth, suffocating her. They cried, they pleaded, swollen tongues writhing in their mouths like damp worms. They begged not to be dissolved, to be killed; victims of the Collector's cruel Reaper factory. Shepard stifled a scream, gagging on the feel of fingers forcing their way down her throat.
Any and all military training had fled from Shepard's mind; her only instinct was to claw and tear at the hands, to kick viciously at the upturned, disintegrating faces. The heel of her boot connected with the temple of a crying victim; it squelched as if she had stepped on an overripe melon as her boot pushed through its skull. She ripped the fingers and hands from her face, shivers coursing down her spine. Shepard's eyes opened wide, a frantic shake forcing her to squirm and tear at her assailants. Where her boots had split a victim's skull, maggots poured from the wound, writhing across her body.
"H-Help!" She choked feebly. "Help!" Her own voice sounded weak and far away, no more than a whisper. She tried to run, to flee. Nothing worked. Her limbs were stiff, frozen and sluggish. She didn't know where she was anymore. Her legs seemed to move in slow motion, hands grabbing at her boots, her shins. Wherever her foot connected with the ground, it felt soft and malleable; the bodies of thousands of maggots writhing among the corpses of rejected victims. It was the piles of victims whose genetic material had been too inferior for the Reaper's construction.
More fingers, hard and sharp, scratched across her back. No, not fingers, but the pains and stings of bullets tearing into her flesh. Some ability had kicked in once more, enabling her to run. The scene seemed to have changed. She was sprinting now. The Collectors were chasing her. Ahead was the Normandy.
'Almost there.' Shepard ran harder, her arms pumping at her side. Another shot. It tore into her calf muscle, tripping her to the hard ground underneath her feet. The Collectors were catching up fast, pushing with the desperation of a thousand hounds flayed by their master's whip. They were gaining on her. She scrambled for purchase, forcing her body upward to rise to her feet. Something was ahead; she caught sight of it from above; a falling piece of the Collector structure, plummeting toward the platforms before the Normandy.
Shepard jumped.
A burning sensation pushed into her mind. "Human. You've changed nothing." Fire flared into her mind as the voice spoke. She bit her lip, as if meaning to override one pain with another. "Your species has the attention of those infinitely your greater." The Commander became aware of another scream. It bubbled its way to the forefront, extinguishing the lingering screams of the victims that had grabbed at her. It was her own, shrill and pained, so full of anguish it sounded monstrous and inhuman.
"That which you know as Reapers is your salvation through destruction," it spoke. "You have failed. We will find another way." The hull came closer and closer. She could see the open airlock, her fingers reaching. 'Almost there! Almost!' She grabbed at the side of the ship, felt the slap of the metal against her palm. Then nothing.
She slipped, Joker's screams ripping through the air. "Commander! NO!"
"Releasing control." The words echoed through her mind. It grew dark.
No. No...
"No!"
The need for air burned at Shepard's lungs, her body rocketing upward with explosive force. Desperate and scared, she sought for a gun, hands scrabbling at her hip and back, body twisting every which way. Wait, no, she was...
It was a dream. A ridiculous, nonsensical nightmare.
Shepard's movements stilled, her chest heaving with each successive pant and gasp. Her body ached as if she had run a marathon, heart pounding like a hammer. She was shivering, cold, her arms instinctively wrapping about her body, pale green eyes searching her surroundings for an answer; the medical bay.
'That's right, Garrus insisted I come down,' she mulled over the thought. Recollections began to return to her clearing mind, and for that she was glad. Though the nightmare was fading, the crazed visions left her feeling sick and weary. Shepard wondered if she would be able to close her eyes anytime soon without the disturbing thoughts harassing her mind. For now, she focused on recounting how she had ended up here, asleep on a bed among the more wounded of the crew. Her eyes spotted Hawthorne at the opposite end of the room, sedated no doubt. The lights were dimmed, the doctor nowhere to be found. Graveyard hours.
Yes, she remembered now. Dr. Chakwas had insisted she stay, though the Commander was still not quite sure why. "I don't quite like the manner in which your ribs have set," the doctor's voice floated through Shepard's mind as if on cue. "They're going to have to be re-set now while they're still freshly bonded. I'm sorry, Commander, but I'm afraid this will hurt a bit."
"I guess that's the reason," Shepard grumbled, prodding her side. It felt sore and tender to the touch. With a grimace, she realized the doctor had had to re-break the bones to fit them properly in place. A chill gripped her. It dawned on her that she was wearing only the underlayer of her armour, specifically, the torn bio-suit. All the ceramic, ablative plates had been removed, to increase her comfort while she remained asleep. Her boots were gone as well, bare toes greeting Shepard's inquisitive view. She felt childish as she wiggled her toes back and forth, observing the way her big toes always moved opposite to the remaining four.
There was a bandage on her right leg, binding the ankle tightly. Shepard brought her leg in, crossing it in front of her on the bed, surprised at the ease of movement she had without the restricting plates secured against her body. Only the spinal sections remained, for they clacked mechanically when she bent over to examine what lay underneath the pristine, elastic material immobilizing her joint. The skin underneath was black and swollen; fleshy, pulpy meat... damp worms.
The Commander's body froze stiff, her eyes painfully wide. 'No, no,' she struggled. 'Not that again.' Her fingers released the bandage, the material snapping back into place before she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, slipping to her feet. A sharp twinge rocketed through her right leg, her eyes screwing shut as she sucked air through her teeth in pain. A momentary discomfort; she had already suppressed it.
There was no further purpose in lingering here. More pressing matters where at hand, for example, getting the Normandy to port for repairs. 'Omega is closest, but not my first choice,' she deduced, running her fingers through her hair as she thought. Ilium would have made a much better alternative. There was no shortage of materials or competent workers in the trade port of Nos Astra. In Omega, those two resources were a grand opposition to getting anything done in a timely fashion. Her body lurched forward toward the door. Shepard sighed. She was not used to such weakness on her part, let alone the feeling of not being in control of her own body quite as much as she aspired to be.
Her bare feet slapped against the cold floor, fingers tapping against her thigh in a steady cadence. A marching beat, she recognized, making a fist to still it. The act gave her a feeling of discontent, bringing to the forefront memories of her N7 training. Shepard had to admit, bittersweet as it was, that she had come a long way since then. So much had happened, good and bad. Gloved fingers brushed against the haptic display, the door hissing open in reply.
The Normandy was still, the hum of the engine evident in the forefront. It was a soothing noise, given her long history of serving, and living aboard ships, following her parents through their assignments. However, it served the purpose of confirming that the ship was indeed moving; Miranda would have issued orders in her stead.
"You shouldn't be up."
Shepard started, her body pinning itself against the wall. "You mean to tell me that you've been sitting here this entire time?" she chided as soon as words came back to her. Garrus's eyes gave the impression that he was tired. Shepard found a bit of herself while looking into them, recognizing her own fatigue. One would have assumed that with the sleep she had woken from, her mind would be refreshed. Hardly the case, it seemed.
The turian glanced aside, his arms coming up to fold across his massive chest. "I heard... screams," he replied at length. Why did he seem so forlorn? "I came to see if everything is alright."
"And it is," Shepard grumbled, shaking the hair out of her eyes. A few insidious thoughts wormed their way into her mind; was the officer was lying to her. "Besides, if you came to check on me, why is it that you're sitting at the mess table?" He only huffed and pulled himself up, closing the distance between them quickly. Shepard found herself uncomfortably pinned up against the wall.
Her mood was equal parts regret and discomfort. For one, the intimate nature of the situation, despite her closeness to Vakarian as a friend, was something she was not accustomed to with anyone. She remembered quite clearly Alenko's affection, her own attempts to escape it and the discomfort that arose whenever she spoke to him after his confession. 'Until Virmire,' the thought flashed through her midn. Shepard found herself rubbing at her eyes with one hand, her guilt gnawing at her insides. It was a profound hurt; another choice that ate at her.
Not that the situation was any less comfortable for the turian. Not due to the friendly concern on his part, but rather the nature of the Commander's state of dress – rather, undress – served as a bit of a situational shock to the turian. Ragged flesh showed through the tears in the suit, bringing attention to the worry now in the forefront of his mind. Human injuries had a fatalistic air to them, especially in comparison to that of a turian. It was all pink, ragged flesh bordered by purplish bruises where the ablative had not been enough to stop the force of projectiles. It was a concept that required getting used to, especially given how Shepard stood before him, the very picture of a pasta strainer.
"How long was I out?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Asleep?" Shepard clarified.
"No more than four hours. Dr. Chakwas was efficient, it seems." Shepard took the news with a nod of her head. 'Stubborn,' Garrus found himself thinking once more. Nothing was ever acceptable for the Commander. Something more was always in need of completion; just one more assignment, one more mission, one more intervention. How many more 'one mores' did she need to blindly undergo? Was it selfish for Garrus to wish that for once she would take more care of herself? Was it so wrong for him to harbour such strong emotions of distaste when she blatantly tossed her well-being aside? Garrus felt mildly brutish; this was all done to protect innocents. Yet for once, he wanted to see her safe; alive, with the same fire in her eyes that he had encountered in Dr. Michel's office so long ago.
That fire was slowly extinguished in the aftermath of the Battle of the Citadel. The turian had watched it seep away, slowly at first, so much so that he had never noticed its presence diminish. Perhaps it was her sense of guilt weighing heavily on her shoulders. Akuze and Virmire popped into his mind immediately.
"Unacceptable," he had heard her screaming that night. To hear her pound her fists against the bulkhead of the ship, ragged breaths, muffled anguish, hushed so that none would hear her self-loathing. The loss of Alenko had been a deep wound. Garrus was unsure if he would have been able to make the same decision had he been in her position. Something within him seconded that thought.
Shepard was saying something, he realized.
" – Miranda has us on course for Omega? I would also like an integrity report on the Thannix cannons." Duties, Garrus confirmed with a sigh. Looks like he hadn't missed much while spacing out.
"Right away." He caught the quirk in Shepard's eyebrow given his anything but standard response. Her own arms rose up to fold across one another in mimicry of his own posture, though the added hint was clear in her movements. What was wrong with him, he imagined her thinking.
"Something you need to talk about, Garrus?"
"I was wondering if you had a moment, Shepard." The brow had quirked again, and she made a movement with her hand as if to highlight her body, pointing out it was hardly the best time. He was about to retract his comment when she motioned for him to go on and continue.
She had to admit; the prospect of such an impromptu talk piqued her curiousity. At the same time, she loathed the idea that he might be able to see through her 'tough guy' act. The nightmare, its crazed jumble of emotions and events, both true and untrue, unrealistic, disturbed her more than any other idea. Not even the notion of going into a suicide mission, going to her death, was more terrifying than what she had seen. It was not that the images were disturbing to such an insurmountable degree. Rather, it was the risk they held of returning at any given time, worse than before. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw some scene flicker across the canvas of her closed eyelids.
"Shepard," Garrus spoke softly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. "I'm worried about you." She nearly choked in reply, already formulating some staunched comment to brush him off. The turian continued before she had a chance to voice even a syllable. "You've been through a lot; Akuze, Virmire, Saren and Sovereign, the Collector attack. Now there's this. What I mean to say is –" Garrus sighed, his head tilting aside with the calculated movements of a predator. "Well, perhaps you should take it easy. Take a breather from the high-risk missions."
"The ship does require repairs," Shepard blurted quickly, clearly missing the entire point of his comments. All that had registered in her mind was a recollection of turian preparations for 'high-risk operations'. "We, ah, ended up holding a tiebreaker in her quarters. I had reach, but she had flexibility. More than one way to work off stress, I guess." She'd turned a bright red. Really, bright red was a bit of an understatement; rather, she looked like she had inherited the facial features of a pickled beet. No doubt, she looked very similar at this very moment. She could feel the heat radiating from her burning cheeks.
"B-But," she stammered, her fingers coming up to rest against Garrus's hand gingerly. "Thank you, Garrus. I couldn't have done any of this without you." And she smiled; a smile that shocked Vakarian more than anything else she could have said. He was stuck in a daze, blinking like a fool on too little sleep. "We'll talk later, Garrus."
Shepard limped away, berating herself for her idiocy in low mumbles. There was no way she could have noticed the way the turian froze, the ghostly feel of her touch still lingering on the back of his hand.