Hello hello. Here is a little drabble to get back into the spirit of writing and try to flesh out a neutral (as neutral as one can make a changeable character) Sara Ryder.
I took the liberty of changing some slight ME information. I know that Shepard wasn’t exactly the glorified hero who was paraded around after ME1 as I may have made it seem, but I took some inspiration off of this link: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/AWz8nYAQy6IFtR7xEd-Hw6X8eRN5oocbjI9rVtbwEmKRjFTm2spO2sU/
It works within the timeline as well, since ME1 ends in 2183 CE and the launch of Andromeda Initiative isn’t until 2185 CE.
Either way, enjoy!
The first-time oxygen struggled to find its way into the lungs of the eldest twin, Sara Ryder, was the night the entirety of her world came crashing down around her. Her mother, her beautiful, doting, outgoing, and ingenious mother, was sick. AEND, an acronym that hardly made sense to her still maturing brain, bounced around repeatedly in an attempt to recall some knowledge of what the disease was.
In the moment, she could not. Her focus was waning and all she could think of was the grim expression that stayed hidden behind the masks her parents wore. Their smiles may have been there, soft and reassuring in the best way one can when delivering such news, but their eyes held all their fears. Sara could not, for the life of her, recall what AEND stood for. Instead, she felt the searing pain in her throat, the tortuous squeeze around her heart, and the stinging behind her eyes as she stared blankly ahead.
“I understand.” The words tumbled out from too stiff lips in a whispered tone, choked out into the deafening silence. A moment later, that silence shattered; a wail of pure terror and pain piercing the air.
It had never hurt to breathe before.
The next notable time Sara could recall struggling to maintain her automatic rhythm of intaking air was when she and Scott were glued to the place they stood. Their arms bent in the proudest salute they could express. Their backs were as straight as either of them could manage. Their smiles, the pride they felt in their fellow human for the honor being bestowed upon the savior, were just barely masked by their composed disposition; being the children of Alec Ryder had taught them some emotional control at least.
Today they were amongst the crowd of Alliance soldiers, civilians, passer-byers, and the like who had gathered to see the Shepard-Commander return a war-hero. Seeing the impossible-to-compare-or-compete-with hero in the flesh had taken the breath of Sara away. In the moment, with the sun shining down on the stone-faced hero, Sara knew that she, too, wanted to blaze a path into the earth she treaded on reminiscent of Shepard’s but one still very much her own.
It was only the crack in Scott’s composed face, the twitch of his lips, that let her breathe the sigh she had been holding back. They would blaze a path together, surely.
As she boarded the Ark Hyperion, Sara realized that the burning in her chest, the tightening in her throat, washed away as she stared out at the world she was leaving behind. The feeling was not from nerves, like she had hoped, but had been constantly present in her life for the past few months she now realized. It was only with the knowledge that she was leaving everything behind that she came to terms with why she had felt like she was constantly under water lately.
Ellen Ryder had passed away. The family was broken; a mother gone. Alec Ryder had become distant, secluded and too worried about his work to love his children. A father detached and built a wall to protect his mending heart. Anxiety and depression lurked in the wisps of her shadow. They followed her and were always present. They had formed in such a way that it became a layer of the things that made her, her. Another chip in her Milky Way armor, she supposed. Another chip in her armor she was leaving behind.
Things were different now, however. She, Scott, and their father were leaving the tragedy-ridden life six-hundred years behind them. When they woke up in Andromeda they would still feel the lingering touches of the lives they left behind, but they would have nowhere to go but forward. Perhaps they could smile again together again.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh air in, Sara absentmindedly rubbed her chest before she pivoted on her heels and walked with pride guiding her stride. She would speak with her family before they were set in stasis.
Scott wasn’t waking up with her. Scott wasn’t going to explore their new home together with her. Scott wasn’t going on the first expedition to Habitat 7 with her. Scott wasn’t waking up.
The medical professionals assured her he would survive, and she nodded. There was nothing else she could do. Suiting up felt like a chore and her fogged filled mind raced back to the life they had just escaped; did they even escape it or had tragedy followed them here as well? Surely Andromeda would offer hope, not sorrow.
As the man, Liam, spoke to her as they descended, one thought echoed loudly in the frightening space of her mind: breathe. All she had to do was breathe and she would make it back to the Hyperion with everyone, and new information, in tow.
Pain. Burning hot pain. The familiar sting of tears. The sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. No way to breathe. My helmet, she absently thought as she clawed at her throat for betraying her. It had always, even in the worst of times, allowed her some relief. It allowed her some chance at life. But now? She felt as if she a fire had started in her chest and was spreading madly.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
And then there was her father. What he said was lost to her, but the look on his face was unmistakable. There was nothing good would come from this. Somewhere, some bitter part of her mind cackled in a delirious state. So, tragedy did follow her here as well.
As his helmet took the place of hers, she gasped in as much of the gas she had been lacking. Lungs filled, depleted, filled, depleted. Over and over she greedily sucked down what her body needed most. Soon, though, a new pain took hold of her and black dots started to form in her vision. Tears spilled and her chest felt as if it was going to collapse just like her body had seconds ago.
But how will he breathe?
The N7 helmet in her hand slipped between her fingers and clattered onto the floor of his—no, they were hers now—quarters. Her father, the man who steeled his heart after the loss of his wife and pushed his children away, had spared her from an untimely death. The thought alone surfaced so many emotions that all she could do was choke out a sob, clenching and unclenching her fist to try and steady herself.
Sliding back onto the too large bed, Sara rolled over to stare at his enclosed case of memorabilia. Was her life even worth saving? He had been the pathfinder who was needed to lead thousands of people and he left it all to her. He had been an N7 officer. He had been the one who created SAM. He had accomplished so much that his death seemed so pitiable.
She may not have suffocated out there, but surely it was a better death than suffocating under the weight shoved onto her shoulders in exchange for life. It was better than suffocating from the guilt, she knew, for sure.
Unfocused eyes were trained below her towards the research room of the Tempest. Her crew was fluttering about, joking and working all at once and she was perched in the meeting room overhead. People, in relatively good dispositions, were here for her. They were under her command, following her to save the Andromeda Galaxy. A twenty-two-year-old, a six-hundred-year-old woman if some wanted to be technical, was the leading these people to, quite possibly, their deaths.
Was this really the best the Nexus could do for these people? Was she really all they had to throw at the wall and see if anything stuck? She had to be, she supposed. There was no rescue team, no big Plan B. She was the last hope to make sure thousands upon thousands of people and aliens did not perish. She was what she had always hoped to be, a Shepard of her own breeding; trial by fire wasn’t exactly how she envisioned this moment, though, and currently, she hadn’t earned the title of a hero.
With a shaky breath, her fingers squeeze around the bar as her eyes fell shut
Breathe.
You are capable of doing this.
Breathe.
Your father did not die so you can falter.
Breathe.
When she opened her eyes, they caught sight of the alien man who had made the armory his home. His eyes spoke of his concern, but his features twisted into a smile at the sight of her. The breath she had taken stayed trapped in her throat and the all too familiar burn came rushing back to her. With darkened cheeks, she gave him a curt nod and slipped away to head down the set of steps furthest from him. As she took them two at a time, slipped past the questioning crew members, and disappeared down the ladder to her quarters, one loud thought thundered and shook her to her core: breathe.
Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he forgets it's a whole galaxy they're fighting for, and not just Earth or Palaven or Thessia.
It's Shepard that reminds him -- and not with words. Eager hands reach up and grip at her own; fingers coil about her wrist, or tug at her palm.
And she reminds him that they're fighting for more than a country or planet or star system -- they're fighting for everyone.
It's there in her hand, as she greets each eager hand, each desperate grasp with her own silent squeeze.
We're fighting for you, it says in silence. We won't forget.
She was the galaxy. She was the stars. She was the sun and the moon. Her breath was fire; her skin like ice. When he was with her he felt the infinite breath of time and space; and when they were apart he felt the deep silence stretching on.
She was beautiful to him -- and she always would be.
Prompt: Shepard is under too much stress, they want to go home. She just doesnt know where home is -- hoiist
Why do we fight?
She'd known defeat -- hell, she knew it intimately. It tasted like oxygen getting sucked out of your lungs; it sounded like the hissing of a O2 line crying into the cold vacuum of space. It was watching the Normandy go up in flames, or every ship in the Alliance fleet break into a thousand pieces.
It was watching Earth through the Normandy's observation deck, shrinking into the distance -- a ball of red flame. It was knowing you had to leave her behind, just so you could save her.
Defeat was bitter, but it was something you felt so you knew how to win.
Earth hurt -- it hurt like hell, but she knew she could push it down, and tuck it away. Keep it roaring in some dark place; a fire that could not be extinguished. Rage was one hell of a anesthetic, as Zaeed always said. And it was. It kept her going -- for so long.
But there was only so much a person could take: Earth, Palaven, Tuchanka, Thessia.
She had stood among the refugees and the disparate; she had held the hand of friends as they died; she had listened into the night the desperate whispers of her comrades, her friends, her family, as they worried and wept over the fallen. A million hands sought her own, begging for her help-- and when she had reached for them, they had pulled her down.
A million hands reaching from the dark.
"We have no where to go," they had murmured. "Help us, Shepard."
"I'll try," she said.
Their hearts were without harbour. They needed something to live and fight and die for -- something that wasn't a ship, or space. They needed cool skies overhead, and dry earth underfoot. They needed the sweetness of a breeze, and the soft whisper of a stormy afternoon. They needed promise and freedom -- they needed a home.
Earth. Palaven. Tuchanka. Thessia.
Burning beacons in the sky, and still they would try.
Imagine your OTP getting stuck in an elevator together.-- imagineyourotp
i.
The elevators were slow, there was no doubt about that. They were slow enough that Shepard would often lean against the wall, and shut her eyes, and look at the stars flashing in the dark. Retinal damage, Chakwas had said -- but she didn't care, because it was just too damn pretty.
The galaxy followed her.
Garrus would often lean against the wall beside her and shut his eyes, and they'd listen to the soft wheeze of the elevator and whirring of the machinery. Shepard would always whisper into the dark, "can you see the stars, Vakarian?"
And he would always murmur back, "not yet, Shepard. Not yet."
ii.
It feels like they've done it all. And they have. They're old soldiers at that point. One takes a missile to the face, the other gets spaced. Both have more corrective cybernetics in their skulls than they ought to -- but they're still not perfect. He can't hear very well, and sometimes his mandible would stick. She would shut her eyes and see flashing lights -- stars, she called them. Irreversible retinal damage, Lawson would bemoan.
They were tired. Tired of the galaxy closing in. They didn't have a lot of opportunity for fun -- and so they would ride the elevators wherever they went, going up and down.
Looking at the stars behind their eyes.
Joker called them senile.
They were fine with that.
iii.
The elevator jammed one day -- neither minded.
"A half hour," someone droned over the intercom.
"That's fine," Shepard had said.
She'd whispered in his ear. Her breath had cast itself over the scars of his face. Her lips were like fire. "Close your eyes, Garrus."
Imagine your OTP going to an upscale coffee shop and ending up arguing/having a heated discussion about the superiority of coffee vs. tea, only to forget about it completely after they realize that the coffee shop also sells pastries. -- imagineyourotp
i.
Shepard was a coffee guy, simple as that. He liked it black, dark and roasted and coasting down his throat like thick smoke. The stronger, the better. If it burned his stomach when it touched down, perfect.
"It'll give you ulcers," Kaidan would often say. Shepard wouldn't say a thing; his lips would twitch and he'd take a long and drawn out sip.
ii.
Kaidan preferred tea. It was something that Shepard never let lie. Kaidan would catch him staring at his mug, brows furrowing as he would take his long and drawn out Shepard sip from his mug of strong, dark coffee.
"Why?" Shepard would ask. Kaidan wouldn't say a thing, he'd simply smirk over the rim of his mug, blow a single breath across the curling steam and then take a sip.
Shepard never looked away. Kaidan wouldn't let him.
iii.
When they realized the shop sold pastries, Shepard was enthused. It might have had to do with the proclamation of being the world's greatest brownies, or the fact that it was the world's greatest brownie.
It probably had more to do with the chocolate on Kaidan's lips after he took a bite, and how Shepard was always the one to kiss it away.
Imagine your OTP falling in love all over again after losing their memories of each other. -- imagineyourotp
one.
The galaxy is watching. Why wouldn't they? Comm buoys pop back up, holovids are few and far between, and everyone wants to know: what happened to Commander Shepard?
Bag of meat stuck with a few hundred tubes -- or at least, that's what people start hearing in those first few months, and that's only what people start hearing when they eventually dig her out of the rubble and find her 'tags.
"Commander Shepard has been recovered." Admiral Hackett receives her dogtags, the charred breastplate of her armour. The crowd is silent and respectful. The stoicism on the man's face hides the pride, the tears, but it doesn't hide the sudden flare of admiration in his eyes.
The Normandy is eventually seen limping back into the world, and everyone is watching, waiting. The comm buoys almost crash. The galaxy is watching.
Garrus Vakarian is whole, but after the endless interviews it's clear; the accident with the Normandy left him with a few things scattered. He can't quite remember her, or how he felt, or how he should feel when they tell him she's not awake yet. He stares and blinks and asks 'was I involved with this human?'
Joker is there. He puts his face into his hands and cries on the camera. No one knows that it has everything to do with his hope that while he may have lost everything in the war, maybe the person who was ready to give everything may not have. His hand rests on Garrus' shoulder. The galaxy weeps.
When Shepard is wheeled out of the hospital, she blinks into the sky and wonders why the world looks like hell. Hackett is there to greet her, and Vega and Joker. They salute her, and she stares at them and says, "I don't know you."
Hackett nods, "I know, Commander. But we know you."
Life goes on. Vakarian and Shepard do not. Eventually the Commander can walk and run and reload a gun just like before. She watches vids of her exploits and hears tales of her adventures. She learns of her life and death and rebirth. She sits back and wipes her brow and says quite simply, "I'm sorry, but I don't remember. And to be honest, sir, I don't think I want to."
And afterwards, Hackett sits and stares at her files.
two.
Garrus remembers, but not really. He remembers being thrown into a console and waking up and wondering why the hell he was on a human vessel and not off calibrating the guns of a Dreadnought.
"Bonked your head good, Vakarian," a medic had said.
They try to recover his memories, or at least see what he does remember. Flashes come back to him here or there. Sometimes of gunfire in dark places -- never anywhere nice, really --, and sometimes of difficult choices made with unwavering resolve. And sometimes, in the dark of night, of a silkiness slipping through his fingers, and of something soft, but endearingly lovely.
Of soft and sweet smells lifting from her skin.
And of a voice murmuring against his throat.
Those dreams always have him waking up, coughing and sputtering and staring down at himself and wondering why something so soft would make him feel this way.
three.
It happens in a funny way, and the galaxy isn't there to watch. No camdroids are hovering out of sight, no reporters sitting in the shadows. The only cam to record it is a security cam, in ill repair and sputtering out a good deal of noise over the footage.
They walk towards one another, eyes down. They pass with a breath, and then he stops and lifts his eyes to follow her. He smells something -- something soft and sweet that lifts from her skin.
And then he remembers the looming dark, and the softest words, come back alive.
"Shepard."
have him second guess himself -- especially when it comes to Shepard
insert words like uh, and hey, before, or after the word Shepard or Commander or both.
write funny one liners that are dry or sarcastic
thoughts on writing Shepard;;
never refer to Shepard by his or her first name.
have Shepard be exceedingly charming. some people prefer exceedingly arrogant, or the strong, silent type. one thing is certain; make Shepard sure of his or herself, and be able to deliver a fine damn speech.
be vague in describing Shepard, this allows readers to project their own Shepard's onto the character you are writing and makes them want to read more.
thoughts on writing Garrus;;
insert excessive self assured and witty banter
no shepard without vakarian; no life without breath
