The sensations of blood in his mouth, the ringing in his ears, they are new to him. He shakes his head. His muscles know what to do, even if he’s never made them do this before.
The Widow in his arms is heavy, but his aim is true. A well-placed shot shatters the enemy’s shields, sends the man reeling into a crate, doubled over in pain.
He smiles, ignoring the bruise already forming on his jaw. He’s going to win this. Going to save the goddamn galaxy. Going to be something.
But the ship jerks under him and he staggers, losing his footing, stumbling to the ground. The enemy’s on him, that smug fucking face, eyes narrowed in rage, omni-blade crackling toward him. He hits back. It feels good to smash his fist against the other man’s face. It feels good to feel.
Breath burning in his lungs. Legs aching from the running, the dodging. He’s got to win this, dammit. What else is there?
Another lurch of the ship –
He doesn’t know what happens. A blow, crashing to the ground, rolling, dizzy, flailing, grappling for anything that could save him, anything at all –
He dangles over the buildings below, legs wheeling free in the roaring wind, his arms shaking with the effort of holding on. He narrows his focus, manages to turn his head.
“What makes you so much better?” he spits, tasting blood again.
Shepard hangs there beside him, stares at him with those tired eyes, those red scars cutting through his cheeks, his nose bleeding. He opens his mouth. He closes it again.
He tears his gaze away from Shepard, anger swallowing him whole. He doesn’t know what to do.
Shepard’s people – the quarian, the biotic – run to pull their golden boy up. They form a perfect chain, a swift and synchronized effort lifting him to safety. They’d follow him into the dark, unflinching. He doesn’t understand it.
Shepard slowly gets to his feet and stares down at him, wearing an expression he doesn’t know how to read.
He bares his teeth. He’d read so much these last few months, trying to figure out what he’d missed. History. Children’s stories. Mathematics. War tactics. A slew of information, all of it churning in his head, trying to spell out what it was to be human.
He’s not sure he ever figured it out, and the thought leaves him cold. He almost thinks it might be sadness, but there’s no way to tell. He’s never known the feeling.
Impossibly, Shepard holds out his hand. “Take it!” Shepard shouts. And for a moment, he thinks about it; maybe there’s something else, maybe there’s a different way.
The wind’s roar is hollow in his ears, an empty scream. At last, he’s realized, he isn’t Shepard. He isn’t anybody.
And as he falls, he wonders what it is to be afraid.
