A/N: This chapter marks, I believe, the beginning of the major deviations from Mass Effect 3. I hope that opinions on it are generally positive, but please let me know if I've said something that is so irreconcilable that I should consider addressing it in later chapters. I haven't written too far ahead yet, so it's not like I can't plug a gaping plot hole. I've never played ME3, though I've watched a few parts on Youtube, and I haven't played any DLCs, though I'm tempted to watch a Let's Play of Citadel, based on its good reviews.
The traffic charts for this story are encouraging, and suggest that people who read Chapter 1 are also reading on. However, aside from those 1 dimensional traffic reports, I have no clue how this story is being perceived. Is the pacing good? The characters? The exposition? Shorter scenes? Longer scenes? Anyway, let me know if you feel like it. I love criticism, and I'm in this for self-improvement.
Also, I won't do these author notes every chapter. In fact, now that I've said my piece on the DLC and ME3, and invited you to give feedback where you think I need it, I don't think I'll really need to make any more at all. Enjoy!
Vadim Rolston's Omni-tool chirped at him as he strode down the hall toward the Crew Quarters: Miranda was giving him a dozen different jobs to do around the ship, from custodial duties to navigation assistance to engineering work. He didn't mind in the slightest. HE WAS ALIVE!
Three days ago, Rolston's only real ambition was to see his family safely back to Earth before he inevitably died. When Miranda finally pulled the strings to make that happen, Rolston was ready to die fulfilled in Omega-4 Space. He would pilot the Kodiak dutifully into his own demise for Commander Shepard.
Now the mission was finished, and all that was left was to go home. And by God, Rolston vowed he would do everything in his power to help the other crewmen ready the Normandy for that final trip – even if he was just a simple shuttle pilot.
Rolston glanced into the kitchen area as he passed by. It was completely empty; no Gardner, and nobody filling the dining chairs. Although Chakwas could be seen in the Med Bay, tending to the multiple wounded Cerberus crewmen, the floor was completely silent.
Like many Cerberus crewmen, Rolston had once been Alliance, and he was used to life on a frigate-class ship like the Normandy. His Alliance days were filled with busy, bustling hallways choked full of people and ordnance, with crewmen and marines alike travelling from place to place. Upon the numerous ships he'd served on, he remembered his greatest challenge being the simple task of finding an empty chair!
The Normandy was dead, however. At its prime, it sported a skeleton crew of less than thirty people – not counting the aliens who contributed with some of the ship's functions. This was due in part to the nature of Shepard's mission, which required loyalty and dedication more than mere numbers, and in part to EDI, who could carry out most of the Normandy's functions automatically and halved the personnel requirements of the ship. Now, however, half of those crewmen were dead, struck down when the Collectors entered the ship. Rolston could still see the bloodstains on the walls and floor. Navigators, technicians, and security members had been slaughtered while Rolston, the shuttle pilot, had been away. He doubted he could pick up the slack of these professionals, with his limited skill set, but he would absolutely do his best to try. He would earn his survival.
Rolston entered the Crew Quarters, pulling off his damp shirt – still wet from the repulsive, formaldehyde-smelling residue of the Collector pod – as he did so. He was only partially surprised to see Sarah Patel already in the room, herself stripped down only to a pair of black underwear.
Despite the amount of space on the Normandy, it was based off of Alliance ship designs, and for that reason remarkably little space was allocated to crew sleeping quarters. There were only enough beds in the Quarters to sleep half the crew at a time (or at least there were, thought Rolston sadly), so very few people made it onto Alliance vessels while still retaining modesty over their bodies. That the Normandy had separate toilets for its two sexes was a remarkable display of antiquity – as was the Alliance-bred habit of calling crew members of both sexes crewmen. As it was, Rolston barely cast a glance toward his best friend in her state of undress. She only acknowledged her nudity by saying, "I was afraid you were gonna be Donnelly."
Rolston laughed, and it felt good. Donnelly's almost juvenile fascination with his female crewmates' bodies was the exception to the rule. Fortunately, his voyeuristic streak was harmless enough to be more mocked than maligned.
"You know what this all means, don't you?" Patel asked, yanking on her regulation Cerberus shirt. "We're going to be big damn heroes when we land on Earth! We're probably going to get medals. I think I'll get a nice holo-vid deal. What do you think?"
"I think it won't matter what we did. If we tell anyone who we're with, we'll spend the rest of our lives in a cell, as terrorists."
Patel's smile faded a little, but didn't disappear. "You've always been a cheery person." She said sarcastically.
Rolston grinned at her. "I'm not complaining. Medals don't suit me, anyway. All I want is a couple months' shore leave to see my family and take in that San Francisco air! Fame and fortune would just get in the way of that." Rolston took his clothes and Patel's clothes and dumped them into a laundry chute. The ship had machines that would wash them, dry them, fold them, and then replace them, neatly folded, in the drawer. Rolston pulled on his new uniform. "I miss Cassandra. I haven't seen either of them in months!"
Patel put her arm around Rolston's shoulder. "We'll be out of here soon." She reassured him. "Like you said, trust Shepard. The Collectors are all dead, now! Rumour has it that Joker even blew up a Collector dreadnaught upon entry! There's nothing in this whole system that can stop us now!"
Fully dressed and pressed, the two strode back out into the hallway, and their respective duties. They saw Miranda at the elevator, going up. The Executive Officer, herself completely cleaned and composed, nodded distractedly at them as she entered the lift. They went in with her. While she was going up to see Shepard, however, they got out at the CIC.
Patel immediately went to the galaxy map, and interfaced with a small menu in the corner of it. Without any hesitation, she was barking information at crewman Hadley, who was running the navigational computer nearby. Hadley and crewman Matthews sat next to one another, as always. They were talking animatedly as Hadley typed in the information that Patel was dictating. Rolston took in the scene for a minute. It all looked so normal. He had only been on the Normandy crew for three months – the ship had been commissioned specifically for Commander Shepard's reincarnation – but it seemed like there was no other place in the universe where he belonged more.
Kelly Chambers was nowhere to be seen. She would be in Port Observation, which she had appropriated as her office. All told, there were fewer than six people on the whole floor, a remarkably low number. Nonetheless, the mood was jovial and excited. They had made it through the most trying mission of their lives, and in doing so they had likely saved mankind. Rolston could feel triumph. He could feel relief. Mostly, however, he could feel camaraderie – the kind that you usually only saw in foot soldiers or aircraft wingmen. He could hear people bragging. More importantly, though, he could hear them planning. He could hear them relating their goals, once they got back into their home systems..He smiled as he took it in, knowing that everything would be alright. Thanks to Shepard, the crew of the Normandy now had a tomorrow.
Shepard stared at the Omni-tool containing the Collector base data, which sat at his desk. He felt an odd compulsion to open it right now and read it, despite himself. Shepard had always had a degree of curiosity about him – he often asked questions, and second-guessed motivations of his superiors, to the Illusive Man's undoubtable chagrin. However, he had never felt a pull quite like this before: this was temptation at a palpable level. It was as if something in his mind was telling him that the Collector data could solve all of his problems, and answer all of his questions, something he knew to be impossible.
The Collector data, to Shepard's current understanding, were simply blueprints. Had this information been acquired anywhere else, he probably wouldn't have even bothered to look at it. He was no tech expert or engineer, and he doubted anything he read would be even halfway intelligible for him. Regardless, he felt an undeniable urge to examine this data himself – to consume it himself. He had felt this urge ever since he'd entered his room, like an inexplicable itch in his brain, though he had kept it in check during his talks with Garrus and Miranda. Now, however, he knew that there was nothing more pressing he could be doing. His presence among the crewmen would be more of a distraction to them than anything. All of them were surely curious about what happened on the battlefield. Some of them would have requests, or favours to ask of him – he was sure that none of them had planned their lives past entry into Omega-4 space.
Shepard sat down at the desk, feeling stupid. He wouldn't understand the information he was going to read – if it could even be read at all. It probably needed to be decrypted into a form that was even understandable to humans. It would stump him, and probably make him feel pretty stupid, while also wasting his time. He sighed but, despite himself, slipped the Omni-tool on his wrist. It lit up.
At the very least, he would use his Omni-tool to begin trying to decrypt it into something that was understandable to humans. If EDI was correct, then that could be a long process with the limited computing power of the handheld tool. Shepard hit a holographic button on the tool, and a previously red panel turned green. Orange letters skirted across the top, instructing the user to OPEN EXTERNAL FILES.
"Commander," EDI called, her voice cautious, "your vitals have spiked one hundred percent."
It was true, Shepard noticed with some chagrin. His heart was beating extremely fast, despite the fact that he also seemed to be holding his breath. He forced himself to breathe normally; slow, even breaths that normalized his heart beat as well. He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead, and absently instructed EDI to lower room temperature. Then, allotting no additional time to ceremony, he hit the same button again, and he was in.
Two and a half years ago, Shepard had gotten his first taste of Reaper technology back on Virmire, when Sovereign's hologram decided to reveal itself to himself and his crew. The Reaper technology, like the Prothean technology that he had sampled on Eden Prime, was intensely visual and visceral, immediately penetrating his senses and assaulting him with raw visuals and sounds. The Collector base data was no different. Instants after Shepard hit the button that supposedly opened the files, he was immediately assaulted by unfiltered, nigh-incomprehensible visions and audio. Voices shrieked in his head, nearly deafening him despite bypassing his ears altogether, but this was merely a backdrop to the visions: two glowing orange eyes glaring at him, the unmistakeable eyes of the Reaper known as Harbinger. Six arthropodic legs twitched on the back of what on first glimpse looked like an insect, but upon second glance revealed itself to be an enormous warship. A Reaper, its belly-like hull facing Shepard, its clutching legs and swaying abdomen all clenching inwards, like a wasp about to sting. The insectile visual made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickle, offending the basest instincts of human revulsion. The whispered voices spoke in tones and languages that were entirely alien to Shepard's ears – belonging to no known galactic species, nor speaking any kind of recognizable language. The voices inexplicably irritated Shepard's ears, and he had the palpable sensation of some kind of squirming insect wriggling his way inside them. He brought his hands up to his ears, clawing, but of course nothing was there. The eyes continued staring, boring into him, and suddenly he recognized the challenge. This data was testing him!
He mentally focused on the eyes, staring right through them, not letting himself shy away from the mental confrontation being posed by this psychological intruder. Then he saw the eyes fading, melting away, and beyond them he could see a ship – the Collector ship – sitting in a sea of emptiness. Before his discerning eyes, the exterior began to peel away, layer after layer, as the ship revealed itself to him. In the background, the whispering voices slowed their murmurs, the words bending and twisting in Shepard's ears, until they came through in perfect, deep English tones: "You have earned humanity the greatest of achievements, Shepard: through the revelation of your worth, you have earned your species far better than mere extinction: you will achieve immortality through indoctrination, enduring where even those you call Protheans have failed."
Images flashed in the forefront of Shepard's mind: a swarm of Collectors, all brown skin and yellow eyes. Where the Collectors Shepard knew had triangular, Prothean heads, however, these specimens had round heads, and a nose, and a mouth. Human Collectors.
"The Husks have proven too primordial a solution to the human problem. We require more sophisticated subordination."
Shepard was in the Collector ship now, hurtling through massive hives and organic overgrowth, all of which went transparent as he focused on it, revealing the machinery underneath. Shepard was no tech, but he found the schematics strikingly simple to understand. In the background, the disembodied voices continued speaking.
"Humanity, stripped of its troubling individual liberty, will take the role of the late Collectors as our servants. It is the greatest achievement your doomed species can attain."
"Never!" Shepard shouted, "We kicked your asses at the Citadel, and we've just done so again! There's room for all of us in this galaxy, and it's in your best interest to use it and stay out of our way!"
"Why do organics belie fear with arrogance? The truth of your subjugation is as obvious as it is inevitable." Shepard listened to the voices speak, and as he did so he thought he could see something, burrowed deep in the bowels of the unravelling Collector ship – it was dark, and shrouded, but it was growing clearer with every passing second, and as this Reaper – or whatever it was – spoke to him, Shepard realized that he was boring into the data, getting deeper and deeper, and the voice that was barraging him didn't like it. The voice was trying to distract him. He began to suspect that there was more to this data than just ship schematics. Buried within it, but coming clearer all the time, was something that could save all of organic life. As suddenly as he thought this, Shepard became sure of its truth. He would persist, and find the weapon that gave the Collectors – if not the Reapers – their power.
"Commander," EDI's voice broke through, and suddenly the entire image seemed to zoom back out. His mental avatar flew backward out of the ship, watching in futile agony as the vessel shrunk into the distance, and then the orange eyes were back and the hisses converged into one loud, ear-splitting, triumphant scream.
"No!" Shepard cried. He was close. He'd felt it! Another instant was all he'd needed, and he would've had the secrets of the data! He tried to remember what he'd seen: glowing eyes, and a Collector ship, and...
But, like an ill-remembered dream, the harder his mind tried to clasp this information the quicker it dissolved through the cracks, until Shepard had no more recollection of what it was that had excited him so much. All he could see were the eyes. All he could hear were the whispers. He cursed, and slammed his fist on the desk.
"You were screaming strings of phonemes, Commander." EDI said, as if in justification of her actions. "I am unsure if you were speaking nonsense, or an unknown language. The speed and rhythm of your words would suggest the latter, though I am familiar with all known languages in the galaxy."
"I was close!" Shepard cried. "One more second, EDI! One more second and we would've had the Reapers in the palms of our hands! You shouldn't have disturbed me!"
"My protocols dictate I only speak in turn, in areas where my information will be beneficial to the crewmen conversing, or..." EDI paused – a seemingly innocent action that could have been a technological hiccup, but felt more to Shepard like an organic pause for emphasis, "a crewman's life is in danger. Your vital signs were operating at two hundred sixty seven percent. Your body cannot sustain its systems at that level for such an amount of time."
Shepard realized that he was absolutely drenched in sweat. His face and body were both hot, and every crevice on his body was damp where perspiration had pooled. Despite this, however, the room was very cold.
"I remembered your preferences, Commander, and lowered the temperature in the room drastically to combat your rising body heat. Only as a last resort did I interrupt you."
Shepard took his shirt off, and used it to wipe his wet forehead and body before casting it aside. "You really thought I was in danger?" He wasn't convinced. He was still angry with the AI for interrupting him, when success had been right around the corner – even though he now couldn't recall what that success was, or why he felt that way. "Did you think I was gonna drop dead from high blood pressure after five minutes?"
"Your physiological state was a secondary concern. Your psychological state was primary. You seemed delusional, and you stated yourself that everybody needs to be at top working shape until we escape the relay."
Shepard grunted, not liking having his own words lobbed back at him. He stripped down and looked for replacement clothes. "Well," he muttered, "I guess I may as well go check on the crew, cool off a bit."
"The crew is currently asleep. Officer Lawson gave the order."
"What?" Shepard cursed again. "Damn it. I told them all that we needed to keep our momentum going, to reach the relay!" He was overreacting, he knew. He felt tense and stressed, and he wanted nothing more than to read the data again.
"And they did work, Commander." EDI paused again. If a blue, holographic orb could look pensive, then the AI pulled it off marvellously. "Your last comment, coupled with the remark you made earlier about your blood pressure... how long do you think you were studying the Collector data?"
"Five minutes, if that." Dressed again, Shepard crossed the room to the door, but not before strapping the Omni-tool to his arm. The Omni-tool wasn't going to leave his side until he knew what to do with it.
"Commander, you sat at that desk for four hours and three minutes before I woke you."
Shepard stopped in his tracks, one step before tripping the sensor that would have opened his door. "What? That's impossible."
"Officer Lawson sent three messages up to you, each informing you about the rapidly deteriorating quality of crew productivity and asking for your decision on how to approach it. She eventually elected to allow all crew members four hours' sleep. This was an hour ago. Legion is operating Engineering in Tali'Zorah's absence, and I am handling all other functions. Obviously, this means that the ship is currently at minimum function."
Shepard sat down again at the desk, dumbfounded. Minimum function. That simply meant that the ship was sitting still, with EDI monitoring the sensors for incoming debris. How could Miranda give that order? Shepard thought. She, of all people! How far could productivity fall for her to stop the entire ship in Omega-4 space? "Anything else to report?" He asked eventually.
"Nothing of importance. Some of the crew experienced bad flashbacks. Yeoman Chambers attributed the spells to post-traumatic stress. That was when Miranda suggested they all turn in for the night. I suggest you get some sleep as well, Commander."
Shepard nodded, realizing how exhausted he was. His skin was still damp from the sheen of sweat that had covered it, and he felt his eyelids droop. His muscles ached, he was hungry, thirsty, and almost two days' sleep-deprived. He turned to his bed, regarding the inviting blankets, and ignoring the layer of debris that lay upon them. He let himself collapse onto the bed, and closed his eyes.
Orange eyes stared back at him from the darkness. Whispers squirmed in his brain, turning his blood cold. He thought he could hear a scratching sound, and opened his eyes to look around the room. The viewport above his bed, which showcased the stars above, had been destroyed. It was covered and sealed by blast doors. All was dark and empty, but now his eyes were open, and the whispers weren't going away. He got to his feet, not knowing what haunted him, but intuitively feeling like he knew how to make it go away. "Hold all transmissions, EDI." He ordered. Then he crossed to his desk again, sat down, and opened the Omni-tool for one more attempt at the data.
Garrus had left Shepard's room, and went straight to the crew deck, where his own forward batteries were located. The deck was noticeably absent of the usual Cerberus loafers – Garrus noted with chagrin that some of them were probably dead now, and the others were all gone, picking up the slack. Even Mess Sergeant Gardner was gone, presumably exercising his secondary custodial duties to their full extent. There was a lot of crap to be cleaned up around the Normandy. Like every other deck, the signs of destruction were painfully clear here. There was blood on the floors and walls, as well as scorch marks and bullet holes all over. Garrus saw one noticeably horrid splatter of blood on the wall near the elevator, where he guessed that one crewman had been hideously impaled, probably by a Praetorian. He had no idea who it could have been, and didn't care to dwell on the thought.
Garrus wondered what he could do to pass the time. His area of expertise, the Thanix cannons, had been mercifully undamaged during the attack. They had required a minimal level of recalibrating from the last battle, but now they were completely combat ready. This gave him two options to pass the time: sit around, and wait for them to eventually uncalibrate themselves as they were apt to do from time to time, or make himself busy elsewhere on the ship. He knew they needed all the manpower they could get. Unfortunately, the most meaningful work for him to do seemed to be in Engineering... and the idea of seeing Tali made his heart jump in his throat. Shepard's right, he thought to himself, not before we get out of here.
He was attracted to her. It was an embarrassing thought for him to have to admit to himself, after all this time, but now it was laid bare. Shepard had seen to that when he had admitted that he wasn't interested in her. Garrus didn't know when he'd started seeing her this way. It certainly wasn't when he first met her in the back alleys of the Citadel, when she had just been some stupid kid on her Pilgrimage who got into a rough spot with mercenaries. Back in C-Sec, he cleaned dead quarian pilgrims out of the gutters regularly, all of them trying to acquire gifts for the Flotilla through similarly illegal means. He'd spent almost that entire mission being brusquely indifferent to her, unable to see why Shepard kept her around.
His attraction hadn't even been when he and Shepard had bailed her and Kal'Reegar off Haestrom, though that was the first point where he had truly noticed what a capable woman she had grown into. By then, she was leading her own team of quarians in the field, doing vital research for the Migrant Fleet. The timid, but talented girl had morphed into a capable, driven woman, and she had earned Garrus' respect, but not his desire.
He supposed it was probably when they had invaded the derelict Reaper. Shepard had chosen Tali and Garrus to go along with him. Nothing like a den of unspeakably psychological horrors to bring people closer together, Garrus now thought to himself. The Reaper had been an absolute nightmare of Husks and Scions, with the added atmospheric bonus of getting to witness the late research teams' video logs, getting to personally watch as their minds were twisted and warped into madness, their individual selves melded into one another, until all that was left was a melted, shapeless mass of consciousness that was easily indoctrinated into the horrifying Husks.
It had been all Garrus could do to stifle his terror during the mission; back on Feros, he had seen humans warped and perverted into the monstrous Thorian creepers. That, combined with their subsequent rescue of the Thorian's asari thrall, Shiala, had given Garrus a taste of the true horrors of indoctrination. The Husks served as a stark reminder of those monsters, and the fact that their corruption wasn't just a one-off force of nature; the Reapers wanted to make it a reality. Tali, however, had kept her head during the entire derelict Reaper mission. She had used her tools to great effect, draining the shields off the Husks and keeping them off of Garrus with her distracting drone, Chakita vas Paus, enough for him to swallow his mounting panic and finish them off with his rifle. Even when she was completely surrounded, with Husks and Abominations swarming and attacking her with their brutal claws, she held her ground with her drone and her shotgun long enough for Garrus to save her, or for Shepard to pull out one of his miracles. He still remembered the moment when they stood together in the airlock, with a horde of Husks on the Reaper's hangar deck behind them, clamouring and yowling. They were both drenched in the Husks' strange white blood, breathing heavily, battered and wounded, and leaning against the airlock walls for support, but they were triumphant. They had made it. Yeah, that was the mission when had become attracted to Tali.
Sudden screams in the med bay brought him back to the present. There were multiple screams, all at once, cacophonic clarion calls of terror. Garrus sprinted into the bright, sterile-coloured bay, and was faced with three crewmen, all sitting upright and thrashing. Crewman Patel, the only female in the bay, was shrieking at a deafening pitch, clawing the IVs that snaked into her body off herself. Crewman Hawthorne, the always-smiling, wise-cracking man who could normally be found at the Crew Quarters dining table, now had his hands up at his face and was letting out a shout at full volume, to the point where his voice sounded like it was cracking. Most surprising, however, was the third Cerberus member occupying the room. Jacob, who had the most grievous injury of the trio and was supposed to be in a medically-induced coma, was sobbing and thrashing at the air. In sitting up, he had reopened his wound, which hadn't gotten a chance to heal completely from the Medi-gel, and a red patch was currently spreading across the sheet which covered his stomach. All around him, IV bags and medical equipment quivered as his biotic energy ebbed in his panic.
Garrus grabbed Jacob, stopping his movements before the human could do more damage to the room and himself. The soldier was well-muscled, even for his species, and Garrus had a tough time restraining the man. "Jacob! Jacob, it's me! It's Garrus! I need you to calm down!"
Jacob's screams subsided, as did those of the patients beside him. Patel was breathing deeply, her eyes wide. Her torso was exposed, saved for a strip of modesty fabric bound across her chest, and Garrus saw that her chest wound was trickling blood.
"Jesus," Jacob muttered. "I just had the worst dream!" He brought a hand up to his sweaty forehead, trying to steady his breathing.
"You think yours was bad?" Hawthorne cracked, obviously trying to disguise how terrified he really was. "I haven't been that frightened in years! I thought nothing could top that Collector attacking me yesterday!" He cracked a wan, unsure smile. "Did I mention I killed it?"
"I wasn't even sleeping," Patel added. "At least, I didn't think I was. One second everything was normal, and the next – those eyes!" Garrus saw her try hard to keep her composure as she relived the night terror.
"Wait, you saw the eyes, too?" Hawthorne asked.
"Almost like the Collectors' eyes," Jacob offered. "Six of them, and bright orange!"
Something churned in Garrus' gut, at the eerie idea that all three of these people had shared a dream. At the initial sight of these three, in the throes of their nightmares, Garrus had assumed they were possessed. After that brief spell of superstition, he decided that they were all suffering nightmares, brought on by PTSD. It was a common human mental condition, he knew. He had seen it enough in the human C-Sec officers. In fact, humans' troubling tendencies to relive past traumas were flaws that almost had almost disqualified the species as a whole from joining C-Sec. Garrus was no doctor, but he thought this was somehow different.
In the brief silence given him by his three shocked companions, Garrus realized that he heard sobbing coming from the back room of the med bay, the AI core and Dr. Chakwas' temporary office while the bay was packed to capacity.
"Chakwas is in trouble!" Patel cried, moving to get out of bed.
"Stay there!" Garrus commanded the woman, striding past her toward the office. "You've done enough damage to your injury! You too, Jacob!" This last he called back to the biotic who, he correctly assumed, was also getting out of bed. The young man complied with a grumble.
The AI core door opened for Garrus, and he saw Chakwas curled in the fetal position on the floor near her office chair, sobbing gently.
"Doctor," Garrus said gently. The woman looked up. Tears streaked down her face, her hair was a mess, and her clothes were in disarray. She smiled up at him. "I'm sorry, Garrus, this is so embarrassing. A woman of my years and prowess, laid low by a bad dream!"
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Doctor," Garrus told her, holding out one of his taloned hands. She took it, and he pulled her up to her feet. "I don't know what this is," he muttered to her, in a low enough voice that the others couldn't hear through the open door. "The others all had the same nightmare. You must have heard their screams. Orange eyes, and whispers." From the way Chakwas reacted when he said it, Garrus knew that her dream was the same. He sighed. "I don't know humans very well, Doctor. Are these spells normal after a mission like this one? Nobody on the original crew had this problem after the Citadel attack."
"It's... hard to say. Before now, I would have said that I wasn't susceptible to such episodes." She sniffed. "But I guess anything's possible when you spend a night in a Collector pod, don't you think?" Her large, colourful human eyes widened, mirroring Garrus' own. "Do you think...?"
"It's a side effect of the Collector pod?" Garrus finished. "No, that's not it. Jacob suffered the attack as well. He was never in a pod."
"It was a good theory," Chakwas sighed. Garrus understood her frustration. It was comforting to dismiss this as an after-effect of the Collectors' stasis. Having such a significant event's cause remain unknown was disconcerting, especially when another attack could come at any time.
"I'll tell Shepard about this. It seems like something he'd be interested in. EDI," this last was to the ever-present AI, "where is Commander Shepard?"
"Shepard is still in his quarters. He is not to be disturbed."
Garrus was tempted to tell the AI that this was important, but he knew that he would feel pretty stupid if this all turned out to be nothing. Shepard deserved his rest, perhaps more than anyone else on the ship. He would take this to the next best thing: Miranda. "Where's Lawson?"
"She is on the Combat Information Deck."
Garrus nodded, and then said to Chakwas, "I'd better go speak to her."
"I'll run diagnostics on the patients; make sure all of their levels are still good." As Garrus departed, he heard her mutter, "Hell, maybe I should do myself, as well."
A/N: One final, not-very-important thing that should get addressed anyway - for some reason, I've written a lot of this story (including numerous chapters' worth of material ahead of this one) while under the impression that the Crew Deck was above the CIC and below Shepard's Cabin. While I think I've succeeded in going back and fixing every nonsensical elevator scene where characters in the CIC "share" an elevator, e.g. where one goes to Crew Deck and one goes to Shepard's (actually opposite directions, turns out), there might be some things that I've missed. This also means I need to fix a lot of "vent" scenes I've written. Ah, well.
Also, I can't be the only one who thinks the formatting in this Document Manager is frustrating. Does anybody here have any good formatting tips?
