A/N: Spoiler warning - I'm about 2.5 hours into ME3 (i.e. just got back on the Normandy after the Citadel and did the obligatory "let's hear everyone's life story!" rounds), so some events up to that point will be reflected in this. As with the other piece, this is part of my "live-ficcing" of ME3 and where it's taking us with Shepley. Big thanks to those who've left reviews and those who've read!
How do you quantify a species?
A man smiling; a woman laughing; a child playing.
One.
Many.
Few.
All.
Words. Just words.
I have seen the birthplace of my forefathers brought to tattered ruin.
But when I close my eyes, I stalk a phantom forest and chase the shadow of a single child's laughter.
I have borne witness to the death of millions.
And when I sit here in my cabin, my thoughts are with one broken but alive, and one very much beloved.
Numbers are funny that way.
For years after, people would speak to me of Mindoir in hushed reverence, consoling me for my loss. But, it wasn't Mindoir I lost that day. Even "family" had too many fingers to pluck at the heartstrings. No, it wasn't "family" I lost either.
It was them:
Mama. Eleni, who lived only having seen the skies of Mindoir. Thick, wiry hair that was pulled into a simple knot each morning, working its way loose by day's end. She was hearth and comfort. Even now, I'll catch a scent of freshly baked bread, and I am back in her kitchen barely tall enough to see past her hunched back and flour-caked arms. Her hands made strong from kneading, with thick fingers that could wipe a brow or tend a scrape with infinite tenderness. She was our home, our soul, our teacher.
Father. Just Father. Tall and stern, broad and severe. Weather-worn face marked with lines and crags from a life spent tending fields. Deep blue eyes that said more than he ever voiced aloud. He loomed before us as God of the Homestead, and we lived to honor him. I hope I still do.
Brothers. Mark, tall and smiling; Alan, quiet and small. Older by only a few years, but those that mattered most when young. I spent my life chasing them, wearing their clothes and reading their books. But they always included me, by Mama's word and Father's rule. We're gonna go swimmin', Johnny-Come-Lately. Keep up, if you can! They never let me get too far behind.
Sister. Ella, our runt, my shadow. As I followed my brothers, so she followed me. With bright eyes and fat, unsteady legs, she stumbled after us as soon as she was able. Our little doll, our novelty. We all slowed down for her, her Awn, Muck, and Lan. You can't say one loss is felt more deeply than the others, but Ella…I don't think of her often. Time can blunt the sting, but…
She was so small.
I would have liked to know her.
One.
Many.
Few.
All.
Words. Just words.
They were more than "Mindoir," and more than "family." They were my all. How do you quantify that loss?
I don't know how many died when the Batarians came, but the names and faces on memorial walls are too staggering.
Numbers are funny that way.
At the end of the day, all you can do is count the imprints on your heart. And over time, as the losses pile, you wonder if there's any room left for more – until something smacks you so hard in the chest you're not sure you can ever breathe again. And you know then that pain, like space, is infinite. As I told Liara, people around me tend to have short life expectancies.
It's easy to look at those hot heads like Vega and think, don't carry so much anger around! Let it go! But, you don't know what their insides look like. If his are as scarred and sponged as mine…
One.
Many.
Few.
All.
A unit lost vs. data that would have saved thousands.
So, I will bear Vega's anger: I owe it to his few.
Because, the one holds power over the many.
Because, the few make decisions that affect the all.
Because, as a soldier, my trade is death.
I have seen lights as they were snuffed and heard resignation over comm. lines. I've been celebrated as a hero for asking things that no man should ever have to ask of another.
And even today, just this afternoon, I killed someone who may have helped rebuild me or who may have helped me destroy the Collectors. Today, I killed someone's Mark or someone's Alan. I killed someone's son or someone's daughter.
That Cerberus hybrid lying down in the AI Core may have once been someone's Ella, just repurposed to almost kill…
Ash.
God.
Ashley.
I don't know what I…
When I told Liara that I had a lot to live and fight for, Chief Williams would have rolled her eyes and told me to go write it in a greeting card. Lieutenant Commander Williams just looked at me. The same dark eyes, as expressive as always, but more guarded. Older. Maybe harder.
One. Many. Few. All.
She knows what it means now.
We're each others' one.
But, it's a different woman who occupies my lover's body.
And I would like to know her.
That's why I need the time.
How do you quantify the galaxy?
A raised eyebrow; a sharp retort; weighted pauses; silly things in the moment that are more, so much more, when they're gone.
The friend who died to save her.
How do you quantify the galaxy?
One person, lying unconscious in a Citadel hospital bed.
It makes all the difference.