#𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐏𝐂𝐃𝐑 — a portrayal of CDR. SHEPARD of the mass effect original trilogy. headcanon heavy. ( vanguard. background: earthborn, ruthless. renegade -> renegon alignment arc. )
[ please read rules page before following! ] ... mutuals-focused, multi-para & novella. narrative driven, dynamic & plotting-heavy. i operate by "follow first, interact first." if i follow you first, i will IM you within several months of becoming mutuals to start the conversation and to offer ideas — if you follow me first, please be the one to take the initiative! i do not interact in-character without initial conversation.
sporadic activity. currently very low activity.
based primarily in the original trilogy — with verses in apex legends, TRON: uprising, star wars (kotor, as well as verses spanning prequels to og trilogy), modern/crime setting, and more!
CODEX:// ¹. carrd ². mobile info/nav [outdated!] ³. interest tracker ⁴. promo ⁵. sideblog ⁶. pinterest ⁷. tom hagen & multimuse.
as written by jude, aka sonny ... she/he/it, seasian + usa, 25+.
apologies for being dead!! Working on my hc post slowly + marathon s2 has started + quite frankly I am still recovering from the all night Shavuot study (my body is not built for this shit anymore!! I crashed for 29 hrs like three days after when I had a day off work lmao).. At the very least, one of my night classes finally ends tomorrow!! On the other hand, I have 8 straight days of work starting today + my super insanely paced intersession course has begun 🤞😔
I'll try to hit my DMs during lunches and breaks at work but! If you don't hear from me for a week or two, y'all know what happened lmao
a little m.e2 era sneak peek from the sexuality/romance headcanon thingy (not proofread but im past that point at 1:30am) bcuz i feel like it. guod night 😴
Things you'll be able to learn from the headcanon I'm working on: what point of the trilogy you can have the freakiest sex with Shepard, what point in the trilogy to have the most fucked up sex, what point you can get the most Upsetting/miserable sex, and other such important titbits of information
5k words in and not even halfway finished yet, at this point it might be this following sunday that i actually drop this headcanon but 🫣 i'm fr very excited to eventually post it, this legitimately is becoming something i'm proud of!!!! and might spawn other long headcanon posts because i'm touching upon subjects that i realised might be good to dissect in their own posts too!!
also unrelated blog maintenance stuff: i have trimmed a few inactives from my following, or mutuals that i wasn't rly feeling any established ooc and/or ic dynamic with. if you're still here, it means i probably got u in the back of my mind 👍 (and ik most of the newer/more recent folks are the ones i owe dms back to bcuz i was in my Terrible Health eraaaa and still mildly am! but once this hc post is done. i am seeing my Shepard Revival Era™️ and my mutuals will be suffering me once again!)
as always, i typically soft block at most — unless yr rules ask me to do otherwise, or unless i actually feel uncomfortable with interacting again... but that doesn't apply since i haven't hard blocked anyone in my moots recently. so if you still see the follow button and want to try again in the future, you are welcome to!
I said on Monday that I'd be productive but then I got home, crashed and slept for 29 hours, stayed up for a few hours last night... And then crashed for another 12 hours and just woke up Now. So those were my days off
Things you'll be able to learn from the headcanon I'm working on: what point of the trilogy you can have the freakiest sex with Shepard, what point in the trilogy to have the most fucked up sex, what point you can get the most Upsetting/miserable sex, and other such important titbits of information
one of my personal headcanons is that shepard was nonverbal/was not talking until around 4-5 years old. he understood people just fine (but this was obviously put into question often since he refused to speak even when pressed extensively, and also is opposed to following instructions/listening to anyone to this day). no one knows when exactly his first word was — but tbf, no one in his early life was coordinated enough with the other ppl around him, or steadily present enough, to compare with others and figure it out.
even when/if he made clear to someone that he could speak, he was incredibly monosyllabic in his responses and otherwise largely silent in conversation. he spent the majority of his life in verbal shutdown/muteness until 10-11 when he was more involved with the Tenth Street Reds, and could be considered by some as Still selectively mute — though I am reluctant to use this wording because it is somewhat a matter of choice/a feeling of deep personal isolation rather than a freeze response or anxiety taking the wheel (even if one could argue that that falls under the definition!).
imo Mark M.eer just needed time to fall into such an extensive main role, and it's so lovely to hear his work and his approach to the voice work develop and grow throughout the trilogy. but the early voice acting kind of ended up hugely incorporated into the character I ended up building bcuz it worked so well for my shep!! And I really do feel the organic growth in his voice acting somehow subconsciously pushed me to the accidental character development I ended up delving into. Yishai was meant to be renegade from beginning to end but, alas 🫡
He says what he means, comes off as rly rude or fucked up, and still tends to throw you monosyllabic replies and let you figure the rest out (... or also does so because he prefers to just listen to you and has nothing to say, but he Is paying attention and absorbing!). Being a leader and also struggling to be a compassionate and effective one — and not a fucked up one like some of his COs/leaders/authoritative figures were in his past — is thus a Very long learning journey that takes death and resurrection and years of suicide missions to polish. His ass is Trying so hard. None of this comes naturally to him at all. That's not considering the fact that he has never learnt to open up (the amount of normal-adjacent relationships he's had is........ Almost zero..... And almost none of them helped him exercise any actual standard Social skills), and in fact has also been historically taught that showing vulnerability Will be met with being taken advantage of and terrifically hurt.
He spent such an incredible amount of time alone and isolated, spent years completely silent. He would have spent decades more doing the exact same if he had been transitioned into being a SPECTRE as well. A crazy powerful but also silent and isolated role that would have left him with more freedom but just another sort of leash (to the council and not the alliance this time), and tbh would have left little room for personal and emotional growth. (Cue me pointing to the sign/past headcanons I've written emphasising that shep repeatedly chas3s some Idea of freedom even tho it is not really freedom he is looking for. But in fact. A sense of belonging! A community or place or person or some source of love that will tell him that his existence holds Value!!!) All this silence and self-isolation, and then he all of a sudden gained a voice and a responsibility to speak up for an entire erased civilisation!! Fucking!! insane!!!
How im celebrating yet another year of excellence/existing...... Idk how it came up but one day our entire shop staff were gambling to guess how old Mr B.east is before looking it up on the work iPad. which led to me repeatedly telling my boss that all it will take for me to also become mr b.east (rich and insane) is to turn his age.
[ new msg received @ private terminal — @iconaclysm. ]
THE MASS RELAY GLIMMERS FAR AHEAD, its light piercing through the windows of the sr-2. even amidst the constant humming, chirping, and beeping of machinery, the gravitas that envelopes the ship and the absence of chatter is the closest in recent months that the normandy's come to dead silence — one could almost hear the churning of the relay's massive rings as joker steers them closer. the crew that aren't preoccupied with navigation or data or urgent maintenance seem to all find themselves occasionally magnetised towards the viewports, hoping to be afforded enough peace to have a good long glance out their nearest frontward window. shepard can't blame them. after all, this might be their last chance to look at the relay that would take them home. then, once they're through and on the other side of the sol relay, it might be their final look at earth.
several times, he hears the hiss of the lounge doors sliding open, then a pause before they slide shut again. each time, no one's entered. maybe, intimidated by the sight of their commander grim and stony-faced by the windows, they've resigned themselves to find a viewport elsewhere.
shepard's eyes are cast downwards, his mouth twisting in mild frustration as he works at the wrapper in his hands. he's used to doing all sorts of sensitive work in these gloves and armour, but he's never quite gotten the hang of the packaging that revan throttles their handmade snack bars in. he's not sure how old this one is, but he found it earlier when he was rummaging through the last of his scarce belongings — clearing out his quarters, as a final personal preparation for the assault on london. the battlegrounds for the climax of this war, their final fight. (humanity's? the galaxy's? his?) whether it ended in the extinction of all life as they knew it, or whether they prevailed... whether or not shepard would have any part in that victory, he has little say in.
either way, this would be a landing after which the sr-2 might find itself in new hands, and it was best to leave things tidy for the next.
with one last yank, shepard succeeds at last in splitting the packaging right down the seam. partial success: crumbs flew out as it ripped open, scattering on the floor and some rocketing into the grooves between his armour. so much for leaving things tidy... still, he has to eat. (doesn't have to. he swallowed down a meal of nutrition-dense slop in the mess earlier; a soldier, more than that a biotic, is of no use to their unit if they're prone to starving themselves in times of turmoil. shepard's well-practised at stomaching rations in any form or condition for the sake of functionality and combat performance. he's not at all hungry, but he can't finds he can't shake the craving for something — familiar. something comforting.)
shepard grunts, flings his arm out to shake off the stray crumbs, and then picks at a couple of smaller chunks that have split off the otherwise intact bar inside. the smell of mejhoul dates, cocoa powder, and almond butter wafts out from his unwrapped mess, and it sweetens the air above his palm. he brings it closer to his face, wondering if he's imagining the hint of earthiness beneath the current of sweetness.
as though on cue, quiet footfall approaches him from behind, putting an end to his pondering. he recognises revan's before he hears them, though he probably wouldn't have heard them at all if not for the crackling beneath their last step. there's a brief pause. maybe they're eyeing the mess he's left on the floor, following the haphazard trail of crumbs strewn from the base of the viewport all the way to the nearby couch.
not in a terrible hurry to chat, then. that's fine — neither is he. there are too many topics of conversation left unturned and far, far too many ends left still loose. thinking about them would open a box he's unprepared to sort through. (memories. questions. feelings. the curious thing resembling hope that had been roused in him at hackett's message to their fleets; the sudden drop that had followed it as hackett had called to him after, and as optimism gave way to uncertainty with hackett's and anderson's briefing. the operation's far from perfect. the thought left him with a vast unease, one that can't be allowed to travel far beyond the comms room when their allies are pinning this so much of this battle on hope. so it falls on anderson, hackett, and shepard to shoulder the burden of the details and the utter desperation of this fight. to carve the path through, to weather the sheer hopelessness that threatens to rush back in and swallow them whole and, despite it all, to command with certainty and with resoluteness. [certainty and resoluteness that hackett and anderson think, for some reason, they share in shepard. that, and the immovability and unstoppable forward force that they and the galaxy have suddenly come to expect from him. when the hell did it come to that — the galaxy pinning their hopes on someone like him?] he tries not to think about it now.
(much like he doesn't think of the strange unease left in his stomach by the way that hackett had held his eyes for several moments too long before making a swift exit. this isn't exactly the sort of moment shepard would choose to be reminded that he and jane have a father. that they have a father... after decades of wondering and searching and hoping, perhaps, that a massacre on their hands and the smearing of jane's reputation might be enough to draw out parents that might have otherwise forgotten them; that the universe, sometimes, feels like a cruel joke played on him and jane. [what the hell was a father supposed to mean after all this time?]
(and if shepard thinks about that for a moment too long, then he's left wondering what other mockeries the universe might have left in store for them.)
he extends the bar silently towards revan instead, gripping tight enough for them to snap a piece off if they'd like. he takes a bite after, swirling chunks of the bar on his tongue and lets them sit for a minute longer than he would. sweet. had revan always made them so sweet? or maybe things like this, like a carefully-handled life, could sweeten with age. (right now, his feels bitter-sweet.)
he turns to the viewport, watching the relay edge closer. the mass of eezo swirls at its centre like a fiery blue star. they have some minutes before they enter its range — before they're slung back home towards sol and towards earth.
"i saw a picture of it on the extranet a while ago," he says, abruptly: an offhanded remark more than a real conversation starter. two ships and a remodelling and three crews later, and he's still not sure he's mastered this whole art of conversation. "earth. just a pale blue dot. that's what they called the photograph. some famous pic taken from a probe almost two hundred years ago, before all of this" — he gestures vaguely, with his free arm, around them — "made it a little obsolete."
he wouldn't bother with the details, ordinarily. revan would likely know better. this is the sort of thing that would be on their space nerd radar.
"the probe took the photograph from the edge of the system, even further away from earth than the sol relay. it made me think, though... i've never seen earth like that before." he pauses. "guess i didn't come and go that much, though."
it's a sight he's only had the misfortune of seeing a few times in his life: earth hovering before him, deep blues and greens twinkling bright in the dark of space. the first time had been shortly after n-school had carted him and a shipload of other recruits on their first journey off-world. it wasn't as unique a trip as it would have been a century ago, but the other n-school recruits had still crowded the few small windows lining the rear of the ship, and they had gaped and 'ooh'ed in awe at the sight of their home planet vanishing behind them. shepard, content with his seat across the crew quarters and with his back to the sight, had found himself irked by their amazement — enough to twist in his seat and spare a glance over his shoulder. he remembers the momentary glimpse of earth he'd caught over their shoulders, a large marble gleaming in space. just a moment... the ship moved so quickly that, in the very next, earth had vanished and been swallowed up by a cascade of stars. the other n-school students had let out a sigh they seemed to have had been collectively holding, and most lingered in the window for another minute or two to capture their first and most tremendous farewell to earth.
all shepard remembers is hoping then that he'd never have to see it again.
but of course — as these things usually go — he hadn't been so lucky. he'd been shuttled back and forth from earth a couple times in the next decade by the time he'd last returned and set down in vancouver, in the heart of the alliance headquarters.
though he hadn't bothered to catch the view on their way to vancouver, with their AKEN-turned-cerberus researcher in hand and with jane sedated and barely stabilised in the medbay. he had been in the captain's quarters until shortly before the normandy breached the atmosphere. even when he made his way down to the CIC, it was revan that his eyes were drawn to first — their back that his gaze latched onto as he watched them exchanged a few final words with joker in the cockpit. once they were off the ship, shepard had crossed the CIC and stepped up into the spot they had stood, and then he'd followed the sight of them as they slipped into the sea of alliance uniforms and vanished from view. he'd lingered there and watched the crowd from inside the cockpit, until alliance personnel finally boarded to herd him off the ship and into the quarters where he would be confined for the next few months.
"... not that it matters that much." he shakes his head, huffing a sigh through his nostrils. of everything that's gone on in the past decade, earth's been the least of his concerns until these past months. it was the furthest thing from his mind, until the very moment the reapers had come to take it, and until anderson had dug his feet in the ground and insisted on staying and fighting for it. until jane's growing presence had again reminded him that once, though he'd been content to leave far behind him, earth had been home.
he's starting to feel jealous of that goddamned probe, now, too, wherever it is now. even after the discovery of the relays and after first contact had been swept under the rug, the alliance had decided to let their old probes drift uninterrupted, to continue to feel their ways throughout the galaxy as they were. it (and its sibling? he thinks there was the one other) never had to come home. he wonders how far the two of them have gotten and if, however far they've gotten, they've somehow survived the reaper onslaught.
"there's a lot of other things i didn't do much of. lot of things i didn't do the way that i should have, as much as i should have." he crumples the wrapper in one hand, balling up the bits left inside, and shoves it in one of the emptier pouches on his belt. "if i'm honest, sometimes i don't think i was really cut out for all of this. this whole — commander shepard thing. this saving the galaxy thing."
and yet here he is. he could thank saren, that motherfucker, for that. he probably should, before it's too late.
“ i daresay you were starting to get the hang of it there at the end. ”
— revan says, and shepard turns from the viewport, eyes pausing on pale and grey-tinged skin before lifting to meet revan's gaze. the two of them match now, he thinks to himself with a half-sighed breath of laughter, green and green. he's never thought about that before. too concerned, probably, with the orange-gold scars that first carved their way across his face, then later on across the whole of his body. a change of eye colour was the least of his worries.
"ha. you think?" he cracks a small smile despite his body's every protest. it's a twitch of the lip more than a smile, but revan's worked with less. "well, you helped."
more than they can ever know. or maybe revan knows very well the magnitude of their own presence, and they simply choose not to acknowledge it.
but now that he's looking closer, he thinks he spots dark circles beneath their eyes. they're tired, too. of course they are. third eyelids, implants, bizarre gene alterations and all the strength it could grant a person — that can only do so much to erase reminders of one's own humanity.
... and either it's a trick of the lounge lights, or there are streaks of grey in revan's hair that shepard doesn't remember being there before. beneath the soft orange light, the greys almost shine gold. the light does little, however, to mask their pallid face. it's not as colourless as the first shocking shift he remembers after the miserable sparing of wyrick. and maybe it's the sleeplessness, or the never-lessening exhaustion that weighs heavy in his every muscle, or maybe it's the anticipation of the fight ahead that fogs his judgement. but shepard doesn't think as he raises a half-closed hand, reaching towards bare skin, or trimmed and soft hair. his trajectory is uncertain and slow enough that he has enough time to think better of them. a second more, and the backs of his fingers might have brushed the side of revan's jaw.
he draws back, and something heavy rises in his throat. whatever it is, it pulses with his quickened heartbeat. he swallows it down, but it doesn't help the treacherous thump, thump-ing echoing in his skull and filling his ears.
"sorry," he says, voice oddly hoarse. (though he's not sure what it is he's most sorry for... for the almost-touch? for lacking the courage to follow through with it? for only almost 'getting the hang of this' when they are so very near to the end? ... that it's him standing here as commander and not someone like shepard [like jane] or, perhaps, even revan themself? either might have done a much better job. he, however — he could never have been the pillars they have become to him.
(the thought of that other world drags him deeper into the gutters of melancholy. if only he could be for the two of them just a fraction of what they have been for them. if only. for revan, if only.)
he scours revan's face for some sign of offence, but it's difficult to look for the signs when he has to take so much care not to get lost in their eyes. he never had a chance, as it turns out, and shepard finds himself held fast in their locked gazes... for a minute, or a few, or maybe just seconds. he thinks of the time they've spent together: several collective months realistically, at best, from the first time they met on the citadel and from the moment that he failed to chase revan away with sharp demands and bitter glares.
... and somehow, within revan's eyes, he sees a lifetime reflected.
maybe more. it's a ridiculous thought. even shepard's not entirely sure what it means, only that he feels it. but he's certain he could find out, if the galaxy and the reapers could lay down their weapons and wait for just a while longer.
(revan had never turned back that day, shepard had thought to himself hours after disembarking in vancouver, a moment that now feels like yet another lifetime away. not once. at least, not that shepard knew. he had only seen the rippling of their dress blues from behind as they'd retreated. it was good that they had been angry beyond belief at him then — watching them go was a sight more gripping and a feeling more gut-wrenching than the sight of earth vanishing in the rear window had ever been. he could have never let them go if it had been their eyes he had caught. not for the end of the world. not for the ever-growing swirling of eezo looming large before them.)
"... i should get up there," shepard says at last, breaking his eyes away and making the ascent to the cockpit. he stays there with joker as they enter the relay and as the sr-2 is swept nearly halfway across the galaxy.
earth hovers before them, its seas rippling a deep black-blue and the trail of destruction and scorching land the reapers left in their wake burning fiery red and gold. like dress blues and bright hair.
the image lingers even as the normandy sr-2 dives into the atmosphere towards london. shepard's feet touch marred ground and debris of the home planet. he takes a breath, taking the scent of charred metal and smoke deep into his lungs — and he thinks of revan, of their retreating back and the gleam of their hair beneath the lounge's lamplight.
gun readied in his hands, shepard charges forward. he carves through flesh and synthetics, leaving in his wake blood, gunfire, and a trail of biotic force. above and around him is a presence he knows well, pinging in the back of his head where synthetics and machinery weld into his flesh: geth lives, like stars sprinkled across a black sky, pieces of LEGION glimmering within them.
another familiarity arrives soon after, seeming almost to pass him by yet somehow still enveloping him: RSPN, at war with the reapers above, its presence every so often wavering as its attention splits between what remains of earth's planetary defences and attempting to worm its way back into the citadel systems. along with rasputin's presence, comes another signal. it unfurls quietly in the back of his mind, quiet and barely there but still the brightest among all of them: revan, somewhere out there on the battlefield. maybe nearby, behind him or in above in the skies. or perhaps somewhere up ahead, paving the way forward.
shepard plunges deeper into the battle and makes his way towards the citadel, chasing after them. after blues and reds and threads of grey-gold.
(just maybe, when this is all over, he might get the hang of this enough to reach for them without fumbling.)
sweet, sticky, they have a earthy, honey like flavor. figs were cleopatra's favorite fruit. she ordered that the snake she intended to end her life with, be brought to her hidden in a basket of figs. an ancient fruit that has always fascinated painters, poets and storytellers. yours too is a love that should belong to books and paintings.
your love is steady, the people you love know how deep your feelings are because you always remind them how much you love and desire them, and that you will always be there. maybe not with words, expressing your feelings might not be easy for you. it's your actions and attentions that let them know, because they feel seen and heard.
figs are lucious, sensual fruits. you're a passionate lover, you crave warmth and touch. you do not fall in love easily, maybe you used to when you were younger but you have now learned better. because you learned that when you love you give it all, you sacrifice a lot and you cannot do that carelessly. like the female fig wasp that, when entering an unripe fig to pollinate its flowers, loses her antennae and wings.
you're a quiet devoted lover. yours is an unwavering deeply rooted love. your love is intense, almost overwhelming like figs are, swollen with hundreds of seeds. there's something quite disturbing when looking at its flesh. but that's what it gives it that crunchy, popping feeling, the same of a love that does not know boredom. but beware. you might be a lot to handle, and some times it might be hard for you to remember that not everyone loves as fiercely as you do. let your intensity be a gift, not a burden.
tagged by: @laesarus thank you >:) perfect dash game for Him >:))
tagging: @deathchasing, @afteriimage, @henosiis (pick a goober)! anyone else is free to steal!!
unfortunately for yishai i built him up not as an original character but rly as cdr shepard, so he has Strong parallels always to the story of m.ass effect. which means it can be mind boggling to try to figure out how to give him a commander shepard-adjacent narrative without overtaking that story or drawing from it Too much. but i like the new direction so far!! especially since i started working more non-canon legion interactions into my own personal canon (that does involve some consider degree of interaction/integration with the geth network in me2)!
maybe he still meets zaeed earlier in his bereavement leave (though not rly bereavement bcuz he and commander shepard aren't Like That in alliance eyes [even if you pick a romance option, that's not technically Allowed within the alliance and despite being a hater. he still adheres to protocol]). but alas once again we are exploring the aspect of him that attaches himself to an individual and makes himself Their Problem. his ability to become attached beyond any level of Normal healthy attachment <3
shepard is not necessarily scared of love or averse to it. moreso terrified of the process of actively being In love -- knowing that the way he loves is terrible and intense and unlikely to ever be matched/returned in kind. (he doesn't need it to be returned, because he is very at peace with the fact that most ppl he loves never Are capable of matching the intensity of that passion. He knows he's a freak irt emotional regulation aka having none.) It's the idea of them being turned off by it or afraid of it, i think, the same way ppl find reasons in his reputation post-torfan/in the destructive and violent scale of his biotics/in his general personality. it has been quietly impressed into his mind that his simply Existing is somehow a mistake/an error in moral logic; for something like that to love (and also to be loved by something whose existence is Wrong) is, to him, probably not something anyone Yearns for
Waking up is a slow and painful process, even now, hours after Nihlus woke up the first time - which he barely remembers. What he does remember is the pain and confusion and the fluorescent lights that shine down on him now as well, just as mercilessly as before. The pungent odor of disinfectant hangs in the air, mingling with the distinct note of medicine and plastic chairs. He's in a hospital or med-bay - which would explain the quiet beeping of machines somewhere behind his head. The room is bright, even without the lights, due to a large window to his right. He wishes it was open to let in some fresh, non-hospital air, but getting up to open it seems out of the question with the state his body is in. The view outside is familiar but it still takes him a moment to recognize the Citadel structures.
Nihlus doesn't wake to agitation despite the obvious gap in time and memory since being shot and waking up here. Has it been hours? Days? He's alive and he can feel all his limbs - that's a good start. With those basics sorted, he needs to focus on the most urgent matter at hand: Saren shot him. Does the Council know? Did whoever rescued him face Saren too? Saren, a traitor. The truth of it trickles into his mind only slowly, hitting him harder than expected - not that he ever expected something like it, and maybe that's why it's such a shock. For all of Saren's cunning and aggressive tactics, he did not see this coming. With all that's going on now and all the betrayals Nihlus has witnessed over the years, he never expected his mentor to shoot him in cold blood and betray the Council and their people.
And for what?
That said, it's surprising that he's still alive, considering Saren is the one who tried to dispose of him. Arterius is nothing if not brutally efficient - Nihlus knows this better than most - so the fact that he's lying here to contemplate the matter must mean that someone interjected. The most likely candidates are the Alliance soldiers sent by Captain Anderson. Commander Shepard, the promising young human; is it he Nihlus owes his life to? Did he face Saren? Did they complete their mission on Eden Prime after Nihlus was taken out?
To his relief he doesn't have to sit in his curiosity for long, for only a few moments later - perhaps lured by the change in beeping on the machines - the glass door to his room opens and a human nurse comes in, joined by none other than the commander. "Shepard," Nihlus says by way of greeting, acknowledging the nurse only with a nod, which she doesn't return. She checks his vitals on a display next to his bed and types a few things, not a trace of hurry in her actions. Nihlus doesn't fault her for it. Better to be slow and thorough than fast and sloppy, and as a human she might need a few extra moments to check if everything's alright with her turian patient. Judging by the dull pain in his abdomen and chest, chances are it's not, but the nurse says nothing other than informing him that a doctor will be coming by in a while for further tests.
"I faced an enemy I was not expecting," Nihlus says as soon as he's alone with Shepard. He did not see much before he was taken out, but he waits to offer what little he discovered, just in case it is unnecessary. Shepard being alive and, by the looks of it, unharmed, is a good sign. It means at least part of Saren's plan didn't come to fruition. "I suppose I owe my life to you. Did you find out what happened on Eden Prime?"
TURIANS ARE MADE OF SOME PRETTY TOUGH STUFF. Shepard had heard this as far back as basic, over a decade ago — when the prospect of travelling beyond Earth and to new worlds was hardly a tangible dream for the most of the fresh recruits. He had confirmed this information in his later military education, too, when he had made the cut ( despite all the odds ) and had found that prospect looming nearer and nearer ... that, however, meant that he was subject to the Alliance's mandatory overview of non-human life in the greater galaxy and to extensive studies of humanity's first less-than-friendly interactions with an alien life form. But, though he'd seen the extent of the turian Hierarchy's might and grit outlined thoroughly in textbooks and vid, Shepard has had few chances to see that hardiness in action. Most of his Alliance assignments kept him within human-oriented spheres, even after Torfan. ( Especially after the mess the galaxy claimed Shepard [ Jane, more than him — and the Alliance had let them believe it ] had made of it. )
But today might be his lucky day. Word has been making its way through limited circles that, despite all odds, Nihlus Kryik is conscious. A little too late to come to the Alliance's aid in either of the Council hearings Shepard's had to endure, but nonetheless alive.
Whether Nihlus is actually lucid enough to offer anything of use to Shepard is anyone's guess. But of all the strands of clues he's following, Nihlus' is the one that's most intimately woven into the complex mess of a man that is Saren Arterius. A man that Shepard is itching for some real insight on ... not to mention that whatever Nihlus has to say on the matter is far more capable of motivating the Council towards truly meaningful action than any evidence that Shepard could ever unearth.
The unexpected news delays his and the Normandy's imminent departure by several hours. Shepard, still in full armour, is rerouted with aggressive haste and sent along to the facility by a message from Udina. There, he endures shuffling through several layers of rigorous security and demands to surrender his weapons. As unappealing as he finds the idea, Shepard bites the bullet — a metaphorical one, given that his arms are being tossed into a flimsy tub for storage at security — and goes along with the process begrudgingly. ( He is technically off-duty as an Alliance soldier at the moment, after all. As for all his new SPECTRE privilege, he's not sure when that actually begins to kick in. The person who would have been giving him that crash course is in one of these hospital beds, probably still reeling from that close call with death. ) Eventually, Shepard comes out the other side of all the scanners and is promptly dumped onto a nurse who, thankfully, appears to have as little interest in him as he has in anything other than seeing Nihlus. She leads him into an elevator, several floors up, then through a short few hallways before she deposits him into one of few chairs in a deserted corridor. She strides off without a word, and Shepard watches her vanish around the corner.
Then he waits.
Shepard rarely takes well to being forced to linger unnecessarily. But for whatever reason, the energy that usually drives him to pace and to wander in search of something to tinker with is held off by an odd anticipation: some bizarre apprehension at the thought of encountering Nihlus once again, but with the SPECTRE this time confined to a hospital bed. ( There's no place so disarming or disabling to a soldier — except, maybe, for his grave. Shepard had seen many soldiers reduced to nothing more than shambles, laid out in a medic's cot with all their fight bled out from them. He wonders, with a kind of morbid curiosity, if that power could cripple even someone like Nihlus. ) So, for now, Shepard remains planted in his seat.
Finally, close to an hour later, the nurse returns. She gestures curtly for him to follow her into a nearby room.
From the hallway, Shepard could almost forget that he's inside a medical facility ... here in the room, all the scents and auditory signals of hospital amplify tenfold. He sniffs in distaste as the nurse shuffles through routine checkups. The sounds of hospitals, the tinny humming in his ears that starts up whenever he winds up in proximity of bulky hospital machinery and that sterile smell, so overpoweringly chemical that it borders almost on purulent. ( The scent, like alcohol flushing a wound, swells him with countless vivid memories. Of his earliest years and of every so often being prodded by nurses in one facility or another, though it was little more than a courtesy check to make sure he was alive and halfway functioning; of scraping together enough stolen or scavenged supplies to cobble together things adjacent to disinfectant and plasters, for the slightest chance he'd make it to another day on the streets without risking death from infection; of stuffing bandages deep into his own wounds, weeks into combat when the supplies of Medi-gel had long run out. Shepard hardly considers himself squeamish, but hospitals have never been his idea of a pleasant time. )
He cranes his neck, not too subtly aiming over the nurse's shoulder for a good glance at the datapad. The nurse, unfazed and unamused, promptly repositions herself to block his view. Shepard grunts in acknowledgement of defeat, though it's with a tinge of mild annoyance. There's hardly any point to secrecy when he'll find out anyway, from Nihlus himself — or else from digging around later, once he's done here.
The nurse at last excuses herself from the room, and Shepard steps forward. "Nihlus," he offers, a belated response to the SPECTRE's greeting a few minutes before. And, to Nihlus' next words: "Saren."
With re-introductions out of the way, he takes the time now to glance Nihlus up and down. The SPECTRE is certainly less than impressive outside of armour. But who wouldn't be? Other than that, Nihlus seems sharp enough. There is still a dignity to him, a sense of impregnability, that overtakes the crushing power that near-death should hold over any man. But there's not so much as a slight slurring in Nihlus' words. Not a hint of confusion or unwavering.
Shepard presses his lips thin as he battles the instinct to furrow his brow. It would too easily betray the sudden and strange frustration that engulfs him at the sight of this man — the SPECTRE who might have been his mentor, if only things had gone just a little differently.
Shepard moves to answer Nihlus' question. Then he pauses, mouth twisting in momentary contemplation. After a few beats of silence: "Enough to piece together what Saren's after. But first, I'd like to hear what happened with the two of you. However much you remember of it, anyway. Though you seem pretty sound of mind from what I'm seeing, especially for a guy who almost made the trip here in a body bag."
It's better to hear Nihlus' side of the story first, without bogging his memory down with the complicated details they know thus far of Saren's larger scheme. It gives Shepard time, too, to figure out exactly how to patch all of this — this talk of beacons, of galaxy-ending visions, of Reapers — into a narrative that sounds even somewhat believable.
(drabble blurb + discord yapping about my thoughts on geth and yishai) hey im suffering from an evil entrapped ulnar nerve that is making writing extremely difficult so this is a mildly aged drabble from a few weeks ago. but. due to lack of legion content, i am proceeding to add an incredibly indulgent amount of shepard/legion core interactions to my own canon (can be ignored if we someday find a legion and become mains with)
shepard is v direct and right to it when figuring out if someone is down to have casual sex with him (though less so on the Normandy bcuz crew rships complicated)... very low chances of ever having some sort of lead-up or verbal foreplay if you meet him at the club or bar or something... at best you get close up and personal and have a more physical kind of talk on a crowded dance floor... However he does not disappoint in other areas of foreplay. No lube? No problem
95% of the time I am rly not concerned with shipping (I like it but don't crave it Most of the time)...... Ngl tho right now is the 5% of the time I'm kinda Craving it
95% of the time I am rly not concerned with shipping (I like it but don't crave it Most of the time)...... Ngl tho right now is the 5% of the time I'm kinda Craving it
