Happy harvesting, @bluesnyder! Iâve been working on this fic for you all month, and Iâm happy that itâs finally in a state Iâm happy to share for @masseffectholidaycheer! I hope you like it!
Shepard had been afraidâterrified, evenâas she gasped at her rapidly diminishing oxygen supply, never sure which would be the last breath until âŠ
Once the shuddering, strangling panic had subsided, death wasnât so bad really. Dark. Warm. Indifferent. Shepard couldâve stayed there forever. And sheâd expected to.
Or maybe that wasnât really death. After all, how could anyone have expectations when they were dead? Maybe she just didnât remember being dead because there was nothing to remember. Maybe the darkness, the warmth, the indifference had been the comaâher resurrection. Lazarus Project, as Cerberus called it. But no matter how many biblical allusions they used, nothing could soften the harsh, jagged light that came with waking up.
From the cold, hard slab of Lazarus Stationâcould they not at least have found something, anything, to make her comfortable? even just a blanket to swaddle her back to life?âto the âskylightâ of stars and vacuum that taunted her every time she tried to close her eyes for a moment of rest, her new âlifeâ felt like she was walking on eggshells. Not that she had to step lightly or avoid confrontation, but that no matter how tender and careful her steps, destruction was inevitable. Shards of broken relationships and two years of time lost cut into her like glass, and no medi-gel packet, no tourniquet, no pressure in the galaxy could stop that bleeding.
Youâd think Shepard would be angry, resentful even. But she wasnât. She was too empty for angerâfor any emotion, really. Or was it too full? Gasping for something, drowning on nothing. Fitting, for the living dead. A walking contradiction.
Not that she had much luxury to reconcile those contradictions. From the moment she woke, sheâd been reaching for a gunâarming herself, shielding herself, following a voice that only gave orders. That voice didnât ask if she was all right. It didnât care if she felt disoriented, going from death into battle instead of the other way around.
She hadnât been awakeâaliveâmore than a few hours, and she was already being debriefed on what was wantedâdemanded, orderedâfrom her. And of course she would do it. What else was she going to do? Go back to bed?
