Her fingers were slipping. The momentum of a million tons of steel ripping itself to pieces tore at her, pulling her legs out behind her in the weightless vacuum, she felt herself drawn toward the hungry void and fought, desperately, hopelessly against it . She struggled to hold on. Someone was calling for her, very far away. Yellow light exploded around her, slicing through the Normandy effortlessly, turning steel to steam just a few feet away. She was blind, deaf, immobile, every ounce of strength in her body focused on just holding to that edge of metal. There was no thought. Her mind gibbered insanely, screaming at her without words, making it impossible to do anything except hold on, fingers aching, burning. Slipping. Slipping.
She was gone.
Things hit her. She bounced off the tip of a shattered wing and felt bones snap. Something crashed into her helmet from behind, raking down her back in a wide sweep, leaving her half paralyzed, staring blankly in every direction. As the Normandy broke itself into smaller and smaller pieces she looked around frantically. There was nothing, nothing but Gerun, the silver and violet gas giant planet below her that seemed so awesomely huge now, filling her vision with its light. The streaks of fire in the upper atmosphere told her that at least some of the crew got off safely. She wondered if Kaidan was there, safe and secure, worrying about her. She began to cry, gasping wetly inside her helmet and thinking for a moment that was why.
There was no air. Her hands shot back to the hoses that connected her to emergency oxygen. The rush of air over her gloves sent her immediately back into panic. She screamed, crying harder, kicking pointlessly, animalistically. All semblance of reason was gone, replaced by rudimentary terror, animal instinct.
Her lungs started to hurt, and she tried desperately to breathe. There was no air, it was rushing out pointlessly against her hands as she struggled, feeling jagged agony spreading along her left side. Her muscles refused to accept this; they strained in her chest, tendons drawing tight, enormous pressure beginning to build in her around her burning lungs. Needles pierced her, medigel, stims of every color and variety. The universe swelled around her, sudden clarity sharpening her vision, making her blood sing, making the pain so much worse. Below her, pieces of the Normandy began to descend, burning up as they entered the higher atmosphere, breaking apart. Everything was clear, sublime, beautiful. Her tendons began to tear, the muscles exploding as her lungs refused to give up their bid for oxygen. She could feel herself start to bleed inside as her tissues tore themselves apart. Her voice broke with a wet gurgle and a tiny sob, and all was suddenly quiet in the vacuum of space. More medigel. More stims. Anything, anything to save her.
Nothing could save her. Her panic slowed, the blind insanity ebbing as her brain became sluggish. Colors started to blur, became meaningless. She could hear a sharp snapping in her head, like sparks from a fire. Her brain was dying, she realized. She was dying.
"This can't be real." She thought. The planet glowed under her, a ball of radiance in an otherwise featureless world. Her hands abandoned their blind grasping at tubes, went to her throat instead, scratching at the fabric as though she could force something into her lungs to relieve the unbelievable pain. She searched the light before her, tears still running down her face, scalding hot.
There was nothing here. She was alone. There was no one watching over her, no greater plan to her life that explained why she was alive. There was no point to what she had suffered in life, there was no point to anything, all the hours she had spent torturing herself over her decisions had been nothing but a waste of the precious little amount of time she had been given. She was not special. No sublime being appeared from the light to take her hand, to ease the burden. Just as no one had ever cared that she lived, no one cared that she was dead.
No one except Anderson, and Kaidan. Oh, Kaidan. She had pushed him away so diligently, kept him at arm's length, and interrupted him every time he tried to say it. They were complicating things enough already. They did not need to drop the L-word into the middle of it. There would be time for that after, time for softness, time for love. Or so she had thought.
If she could have lived, she would not have lived for the huge, empty, pointless galaxy. She would have lived for him.
With that thought, she died.
The dream had come, and when she woke from it she found she could not move. Deaths phantom fingers probed her skin, gripped her heart until it faltered in her chest, each beat a wet hiccough that made her convulse. Her chest ached, burned, felt like it was exploding all over again. She was crying, saline bitter and salty on her tongue. She had known it was coming, that some day she would fall asleep and it would be there, waiting. As real as it had been the day it happened.
Nothing, not even the knowledge that it would happen, could have prepared her for it.
Eventually she managed to push herself to her feet and stood, staring around her sleeping quarters and wondering if there was any point. When she had been brought back from the dead, everything had happened so quickly. She had not been happy, had not felt the gratitude Cerberus had immediately and loudly believed she owed them. Even as she sat in the shuttle with Miranda and Jacob for the first time, the Lazarus station fading to a spot of reflective white behind them she had wanted nothing more than to slip back into that black oblivion. Where no one wanted anything, where everything was quiet, where her conscience was not constantly at odds with the necessity of every situation.
Standing at the window now, staring out across that same great empty void washed with the blood red light of the Widow nebula she still was not sure if... if she really wanted to be alive. Everything had been so much simpler when she was dead.
She did not try to think about what had happened between the moment she died and when she opened her eyes in the Lazarus medical bay, plunged back into violence and insanity the moment she opened her eyes. It gave her headaches unlike anything she had ever experienced before when she tried, like drills piercing her brain from twelve different directions. Thinking about it made her thoughts blur into each other, the world dissolve into a mass of shrieking noise and indestinct static. She knew that if she thought about it to much she would go crazy and nothing would bring her back from it.
But what she did remember, was awareness. That she had not gone out as she left her body, that there had been something there, waiting for her. She had died an atheist and found the afterlife. Then she had come back. There was no answer to this, no self-help book or twelve step program for dealing with the aftermath of death, of really knowing there was something more to the universe than this.
Or maybe the whole thing was really a lie, an illusion cooked up by her traumatized brain to help her cope with the fact that humans were not supposed to come back from that kind of death. When she had tried to pray she had discovered that she still did not believe in God. The awful feeling of being alone as she lost her grip on life was vivid to her in a way that her memories of life after death were not. God remained silent, unobtainable, all the truths he had once represented to her were nothing but tasteless ash in the back of her throat.
She was pacing, she realized suddenly and stopped in the middle of the floor staring down at her feet in horror, as though they had betrayed her. She never paced. Never. The nervous, indecisive energy that caused it had never had any place in a life that demanded quick and effecient action. But here she was, wearing a path between the narrow confines of her living area as she chewed her lip. It made her angry.
She sat down on her bed, rubbing at her aching eyes, resolved not to let herself give into this self-inflicted psychological torture. It wouldn`t help anything, she rationalized as she always had. Maybe she had not reached a full acceptance of her death, maybe it still made her shake and tremble to think of being alone out there again. A space ship commander who was afraid of space. Lord, it was like one of Rupert`s bad jokes. So a turian, an asari and Commander Shepard walk into a bar...
She was tired again, and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. No wonder. She had only gone to bed three and a half hours ago, collapsing onto the mattress after a dinner that was delicious, by the accounts of everyone else assembled and Rupert`s own boasting, but had tasted like nothing to her. Now her stomach was a dead weight, sitting hard and empty in her core. Sleep was impossible.
Shepard pulled on yesterday`s clothes, not caring if they stank, which they did. If sleep was impossible maybe some caffeine would at least clear the heavy fog from her mind and make it easier to think. Not that she really wanted to think, but at least it was something to do.
"Miranda?" She was surprised to see the slender figure seated at the table in the mess hall, especially since her office was just a few steps away. She was nursing a cup of coffee, the only person present at the moment. With the Normandy docked, everyone was enjoying the freedom having little to no assigned responsibilities. Half the time, the ship was nearly empty, everyone out partying or exploring the many sights and sounds of the Citadel. It was the hub of most of the galaxy after all, there would be plenty of time to spend on the Normandy later.
"Shepard." The other woman sounded genuinely glad to see her, looking up from the datapad she had been studying. Shepard gave the coffee pot a questioning look and she nodded. "I just made it."
Gratefully, Shepard poured a cup and brought it over to the table. She did not bother with sugar or milk, just blew lightly on the steaming liquid before taking a sip. "I don't often see you hanging around the ship. Something wrong?"
"No, no, not at all." Miranda replied, setting down her pad. A glance at its contents revealed that it was not the Reaper schematics or star charts that seemed to dominate all of their lives these days. From the differing lengths of the lines and choppy spacing it looked like data packets. Or poetry. "Sometimes I find I get bored with looking at the same office all the time. Not that the mess hall is a big change or anything, but..." She trailed off.
"I understand the feeling." Shepard replied, sipping at her coffee again. The heat of the beverage made her tongue sting but she did not care. It was something to do with her mouth other than talk. She had never really felt comfortable with the other woman, even though she trusted her enough to turn her back in combat and not worry about getting shot. Fighting beside someone was easier for her than making small talk, where her tongue always seemed heavy, her words sliding together awkwardly. She could talk down a terrorist, intimidate a krogan, drive an asari into and out of a murderous rage with a few trips of her tongue. That was like fighting, pointed, purposeful. It was nothing like this.
"Shepard... are you feeling alright?" Miranda's voice was soft, slightly hesitant and concerned. Shepard looked up, cocking one dark brow over her burning eyes. In the low lighting of the ships 'night' cycle her cybernetics worked harder, sharpening lines and adding depth to the blank conformity of shadows. It made them glow brighter, the lenses reflecting more light until the centre of her eyes glowed like those of some hellish cat. Miranda pretended they did not make her uncomfortable, even though she had personally designed them and seen them implanted inside globes of cloned collagen and elastic fibre. Shepard was not fooled, she looked away and put her hand on her forehead, shielding her eyes self conciously.
"No." She said blankly. "I'm not."
She was not sure if there was anyone else on this ship she could have been that honest with. Even Garrus and Tali had certain demands they made, however unconciously, on her to be unshakeable. The firm place for them to catch their breath, as Doctor Chakwas had once described it. Seeing her falter would have put doubt in them, made everything they were trying to do harder. Shepard could not let that happen. She needed to be strong, to be the warrior everyone needed.
She had never been particularly close to Miranda, at least as so far as she was close to anyone on this ship. Jacob and her joked around, punched each other on the arm, gave each other knowing looks filled with humor when the other one slipped up or stumbled. It was a military friendship, the kind she had formed with almost everyone who was not special in her life. Safe, simple and comforting because of it. Samara had been kind, thoughtful, an interesting person to talk to but too different for her to form a real connection to. Grunt was the same, yet opposite, his violence and battle lust too much of a reminder of how she had been once. Jack was Jack, and always would be and Shepard accepted her for who she was. Even Legion, who she should have nothing in common with at all, had somehow always felt closer to her than Miranda. It was much the same with Mordin, who was far too smart to talk to for long periods of time. And Garrus and Tali were... family. And Thane was Thane. There were feelings she had for the three of them that were so much stronger than anything she felt for anybody else in the galaxy anymore.
But Miranda... well she respected Miranda. And the other woman respected her, and she had stayed loyal even when Shepard had turned her back on the Illusive Man. That was, in fact, more because she really believed using the Collector Base was morally abhorrent and less because of how she felt about Shepard. And that was the reason Shepard had let her stay when it was clear she was no longer friends with Cerberus. She could trust someone who put doing what was right beyond their personal alliegances. She always did what was right, after all. No matter how she felt about it.
And the simple truth of the matter was that if there was anyone alive that understood what Shepard was feeling at this exact moment it was Miranda. Because she was the one that had done this to her in the first place.
"I see. Is there... is there anything I can do?" She seemed hesitant, and Shepard understood why. This was out of character for her; she had never been the shoulder to cry on type. Everything was about the mission, about stopping the Reapers and saving humanity from every dark twisted evil they promised. There had never been room in Miranda for softness or long talks about how everyone was feeling. That was Chamber's job after all, though Shepard spent more time helping people get over their problems with more success than Kelly and her psychology degree.
"I don't think so." Shepard replied. "You should probably forget I said anything. I just..." She paused, feeling something bubbling up, through her throat, pushing away her every attempt to swallow it. Like vomit, but messier, more dangerous. "I died."
Silence dominated the air between them, heavy and stagnant. Shepard wished she had just kept her mouth shut, that she had never said anything. But she had started now, and there was no point in waiting for Miranda to come up with a counter point. None existed. She had started this, she might as well finish it.
"I died and I came back, and almost everyone I ever gave a shit about looked at me like they wished I hadn't. Everyone I ever loved wanted me to stay dead because I was dragging up all this emotional baggage that was making them so uncomfortable. Because I was working with Cerberus, and my eyes were orange and I'd CHANGED so much that they didn't recognize me anymore." Her voice was low, controlled, but hot and breathy with emotion. "And I keep asking myself, why? Why are they blaming me for this? I didn't WANT to get sucked out into space, I didn't want to suffocate to death, screaming silently in a frozen vacuum. I didn't want to come back."
"They blame you?" Miranda sounded shocked.
"Maybe not. That's what it feels like though. Maybe they blame Cerberus, maybe they blame god or fate or destiny or whatever other fabricated bullshit they're using to justify existence. But I can always see it, always hear it, like a voice in the back of my head. They all think I betrayed them. One way or another." She sighed, rubbing at the hump of twisted cartiledge in the centre ofher nose. "And I can't say I wouldn't feel the same way. I have changed, Miranda. I'm not the person I was before, I don't think I can ever be again. And it's not your fault, the Lazarus project didn't go wrong. You could never have succeeded. Because I DIED, and that's not something you just shrug off. Not really. Death remembers you, it follows you around. The deaths you cause, the deaths you see, the deaths you can't stop. And now, for me, the death I lived through. It's hard to be alive in that kind of company."
"Shepard." Miranda was at a loss for words, something she had never seen before and doubted she ever would again. Her dark blue eyes were unnaturally bright in the dim lighting. "I don't... I can't give you any answers. I don't know..." She stopped, incapable of speech. Shepard felt a numb surprise at the sudden explosion of emotion from the normally perfectly controlled woman.
"I know. I don't want any... I just want to know that someone understands. That I'm not like this because I want to be." She looked down at her coffee, realizing it was cold. "I'm sorry I put you on the spot. You probably have your own stress, your own problems without listening to my existential drama."
"It's okay." Miranda said, softly. She sounded relieved that she would not have to come up with some sort of comfort for her struggling commander. She also sounded sad, regretting that she could not, because maybe she really wanted to. Maybe they were closer than Shepard had thought. Maybe they had just become closer now, from her sharing that. There were too many maybe's in this conversation, so Shepard stood up and took her cup to the sink, pouring the wasted beverage down the drain.
"I'm going to go try to sleep again." She said. "Thanks, Miranda."
"Anytime, Shepard." She reached for her datapad, paused and looked up again. "And I really mean that. Any time."
A look passed between them, another long moment of silence. Shepard felt better, somehow, something that she could not describe given several hours to try. But she felt better.
"Thanks." She said again, before heading back to her quarters. She did not sleep, once she got there, choosing instead to cycle through the boundless stellar diagrams on her console, trying not to look at the picture glowing faintly by her right elbow. She did not sleep, but she did not pace either.
At first it was easy to work, to lose herself in her plans for the Reaper invasion, running different strategies and scenarios through her head. They were powerful, but they were also arrogant. The Reapers believed that they, organic mistakes, were stupid and weak. There was strength in letting them believe that, in building her strategies around it. For a little while at least, they were arrogant but hyper advanced, nearly immortal, and would soon learn that there was more going on, that they were not stumbling blind and bumping into walls. She would deal with that later.
Eventually, even the salvation of the galaxy could not keep her distracted. She picked up Kaidan`s picture, staring down into his beautiful dark eyes. Her eyes traced the contours of his face, along the thick darkness of his hairline where her hands had once drifted, lazy and soft with pleasure. She touched the glass, her finger running along the line of his lips that she had kissed so often but never enough. What she would have given to hold him again, to feel him close, to breathe his scent. She still loved him, she did, even with what she felt with Thane, even though she longed so desperately to leave him behind.
She had lived for him. She had gone through the Omega 4 relay, risked everything, because when she landed on Horizon knowing he was there and thinking that the Collectors had him she had not been sure if she could take it. The Collectors had threatened billions upon billions of lives and she had fought for them, held them in her head, let them focus her mind and hone her aim. But when she was alone, the night before they made their insane jump into hell, she knew she was really doing this for him. So he would be safe, at least from whatever dark intentions the Collectors had for their race. And such dark intentions they had proved to be. She had stood over the hole where the human Reaper, the sick abomination of unlimited death, had fallen and destroyed that station despite its value because it was right. She had not been sure it was right at the time, until she thought about Kaidan. He had kept her on the right path. Even now, as the reality of what they were facing sunk deeper every day she did not regret what she had done. If she had not destroyed that place, she would have destroyed herself.
But still, she had not replied to his message. Sent the day after they arrived back at the Citadel, the Normandy leaning in space, barren wires still snapping sparks in the air as it sidled into a repair dock.
Shepard, heard about what happened. Anderson isn`t talking much, but it`s obvious we need to talk. Can we please talk?
Signed with his name and nothing more. It made her angry to look at it, to have no idea what was going on inside his head, what he was thinking, or even what he wanted to talk about. His message after Horizon had been a jumble of emotions rendered in orange pixels, impossible to decipher. He wanted to move on. He did not know who they were anymore. He wanted to see her.
And she wanted to see him, desperately. But she remained silent, offering no response, hating herself for her cowardice and the sick spiteful satisfaction she got from being as uncommunicative, as unreadable as him. Why should she be the only one who suffered, who clutched her hands together and felt nauseous when she thought about what she had lost, knowing it was still out there somewhere, twisted and warped by time but still so precious, so beautiful and bleak. She had been afraid, more afraid then she could ever remember being, that she would run into him some day before she got around to answering him and that would be how it ended, with both of them hurt and confused, with nothing that she wanted to say being said. She put the picture down and pulled up a message on her console, addressed it to him.
Kaidan, I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I'm still not sure what's really going on. I don't know what to say. But we do need to talk. Come see me on the Normandy.
A time, a temporary security pass that would get him through the airlock and let him use the elevator, functions that were cut off for anyone not approved by the XO. She signed it with her name and nothing more, and sent it before she could pussy out and put it off for the rest of the week. She wanted to sail away, back to the stars where business made everything clear and neat and rudimentary. But that would not be fair, would not be right.
She always did the right thing. She had to talk to Kaidan, had to set the record straight, put both of them at ease. Neither of them could move on until she did. And she would not be able to give Thane anything until she had this talk, not even a no. Sighing, she went to bed, tossing herself down on the soft covers, closing her eyes.
Once again, she did not sleep.