Hello @theuselesspotoo, this is my @masseffectholidaycheer gift for you!
Some music for and inspired by your Astrid Shepard! (I especially fell in love with this picture of her.)
I hope you like it!
(you mentioned that you could use a laugh and I’m afraid this is no funny music at all, but I hope it makes you smile anyway?)
Hi @theuselesspotoo! I’m your Holiday Harbinger! I know I am delinquent in my delivery of this harvesting (I am a bad Reaper and for that I am sorry), but I hope that you enjoy! I had quite a bit of fun with this. I’ve never had the opportunity to write any Javik before. Thank you @masseffectholidaycheer for organizing!
The Normandy unsettles Javik. It is not simply the friction of this unrecognizable time, or even the folly of allowing an artificial intelligence aboard. No, the ship itself thrums with the energy of those that have come before. It floods him with their memories, no matter how often he washes his hands. Their camaraderie. Their sacrifice. Their pain.
It is all too familiar, and yet, nothing is.
He confines himself to a room that surges with a cacophony of unyielding war drums, surging pride, and trumpets of sour rage. He does not know the krogan who sang this sordid tune, but it is a variation on the only song Javik has ever known.
Maybe that is why he rarely questions how easy it is to adjust to this cycle. The primitives have evolved and brought with them unfamiliar and unintelligible customs, but his purpose remains the same. He is the Avatar of Vengeance: the anger of a dead race that refused to be silenced. As long as he is fighting, he is home.
The human Commander seems to understand this purpose, and so Javik stays aboard. The rest of the crew give him a wide berth. All but the asari, that is.
At first, he thinks he might grow to like her. She is dedicated to the cause and a powerful biotic. She understands much about his cycle, and she tries to make him feel comfortable.
But she asks many questions, and his answers always seem to disappoint her. She talks about his civilization, as if he has ever known anything but war. She asks about his culture, as if he has ever had a chance to appreciate it. She calls him heartless, as if his heart could have been shaped any other way. It is almost as if she wants him to be someone other than he is, even if only for a moment.
It shows how little she understands.
There is no winning this war. Not for the Protheans. There is only the trumpeting rage, the final overture of a trillion ghosts demanding their tribute be paid in blood.
To pause, even for a moment, means their extinction.
*
Thessia.
Liara hoped she woud never live to see another planet burn. Earth was enough. Palaven was two too many. But Thessia—
She promised them they would be safe. She encouraged asari commandos to rescue human colonies, to help Shepard and the war effort. She spread her resources, her intelligence, too thin.
She left Thessia vulnerable. She let Thessia burn.
It is all too much to process. The loss. The guilt. She deserves to be chastised, but the Normandy’s crew offers her only pity. And before she knows it, she is standing before the one person she knows will not offer her sympathy. The one crew member who will not shy away from reprimanding her naivete. Javik will not mince words. He never has.
She enters his room brimming with barely leashed biotic energy. She has never wanted to pick a fight before, but here she is, directing her rage toward a man she knows to be incapable of empathy. She is mere seconds from throwing the first punch when he speaks. It totally disarms her.
“Despair is the enemy’s greatest weapon. Do not let them wield it, Liara T’Soni.”
The biotic subfield that surrounds her subsides. He touches her shoulder, and for the briefest, most impossible of moments, she sees beyond the Avatar of Vengeance to Prothean underneath. Not the rage and ruthlessness, not the fury of a dying people, but the pain. The loss.
She has asked hundreds of questions about his time and his culture, but she has never bothered to wonder about him. How many planets has Javik watched burn? How many friends has he buried?
Her feet take her away before she processes what she is doing. Javik. Shepard. Garrus. They all carried on as their planets burned. They kept up the fight despite the odds. And so would she.
*
Something changes after Thessia.
The crew has warmed to him. They stop by his quarters and offer him food. They invite him to drinks. It is strange, but not unwelcome.
And the asar—Liara, he remembers—stops by more frequently. But the tenor of her questions has changed. No longer does she ask him to recall a Golden Age that he never experienced. Instead, she asks how Prothean armies waged strategic retreats. How they evacuated occupied planets. Whether they ever found a way to reverse indoctrination.
They talk for hours, and still, her thirst for information is never sated. He teases that she too is exemplary of her cycle. An Avatar of Curiosity if ever he had met one.
But he knows few others will put his information to better use. The answers to her questions save millions of lives. He admires her drive. He envies her empathy. Both, he eventually realizes, are invaluable skills in winning this war.
Despite himself, he begins to look forward to her visits. Indeed, when her information brokering keeps her away, he even ventures to visit her. He learns that she enjoys warm soup, and that she sometimes needs to be told to take breaks, to rest, even though there is more to do.
During one lengthy visit, she asks about his family. His service history. She wonders whether he ever held a command. Whether his crew was anything like the Normandy. Whether he considered them friends. He talks about them with affection, but he realizes he can no longer remember their faces. Their smiles. The realization haunts him as they prepare for to return to the Commander’s home planet.
The ghosts of his past drive his purpose. But what happens when that purpose is extinguished? What happens if they manage to do what the Protheans never could: to put an end to the Reapers? What then? Who would he be? How could he be?
He knows the memory shard could tell him of a time before the Reapers. A time when he may have been shaped differently than he was. But there is so much pain in those memories. So much he would have to revisit.
We have a saying, the Commander tells him. Let old ghosts rest.
It is chillingly simple, but the wisdom rings true. His ghosts have demanded much of him over the last fifty-thousand years. They have driven his purpose, carried him forth into countless battles. But if it came to pass that this purpose was fulfilled-- perhaps they deserved to rest.
Perhaps he deserves to no longer be haunted by them.
*
“Dr. T’Soni.”
The wrap at her door startles Liara from her work. The war may be over, but the relief effort has only begun.
Earth has stabilized in the weeks since Shepard activated the crucible. With the relays back up, Liara has been able to coordinate shipments of dextro rations and emergency supplies to the armies that were stranded. Thessia and Palaven have started to rebuild.
It will take many years, but it is a start.
“Javik.” She smiles as he enters, not bothering to wonder at the tinge of relief she feels. He has made himself invaluable in the aftermath of the Reaper War. The supply runs are critical, but fraught with raiders. Thankfully, few are able to withstand the fury of a Prothean on a mission to see a galaxy reborn. Still, he is not invulnerable.
His gaze fixes on her and she cannot help but note the concern in his voice when he adds, “You have not slept.”
“There is always more to do. Thessia needs massive mineral shipments. Palaven is nearly out of medical supplies. Armies across the galaxy need to refuel. There is a lot counting on me being awake.”
“Stubborn asari. You are less than useless to the galaxy if you do not take care of yourself.”
“Says the Prothean who has jumped on every shuttle off of the Citadel since the moment he got medical clearance.”
He tilts his head in response, as if to note the bitterness behind her words that she did not intend. “I have missed you too, Liara,” he teases.
Heat rises to her cheeks. She glances away, pretending to busy herself with more work, in the hopes that he does not catch her flush.
“I have been thinking about my next mission,” he continues.
She takes a breath and glances at the screen to the far right. Another mission? She though perhaps he would stay a little longer this time. Hoped it, even. All the same-- “Well, I have a fuel caravan leaving tomorrow at sixteen hundred hours, and another leaving at twenty-three hundred hours. But they are already well guarded and—”
“Yes,” Javik stops her. “That is why I have been thinking.” His gaze shifts to the floor, and he shuffles quietly, the very picture of uncertainty. “The Reapers are gone. The raiders have largely been squashed. The supply caravans no longer need my biotic protection.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “And, if I am honest, I want to know who I am when I am not fighting. I want my legacy to be more than anger and death. I want—"
He looks up from under heavy lids and something flutters in Liara’s chest.
“I want to stay here for a while. With you. If you will allow it.”
The fluttering has become savage. “With me?” She hesitates, hoping her voice does not betray her nerves.
*
He knows he is rambling. What he does not know, is why he has not stopped. Surely Liara would have answered by now if she understood what he was trying to say. “I mean, I know that you wanted to write that book. A Journey with Protheans. And I think there is a story to be told. The Golden Age of Protheans. How we helped this Cycle to victory, and—”
“Yes.” She says, after far too long.
His head lifts ever so slightly.
“Yes?” He lulls over the word as if it were a strange new discovery. And perhaps it is. There is so much promise in that simple sound. A chance at a different life, a different purpose. A chance at-- “Yes... to... the book?”
She laughs, and the sound is sweeter than any he can remember. “Yes, you may stay. Yes, to the book. Yes, to all of it.”
“Yes.” He says, this time barely a whisper. Dazed, he takes a seat at her side. Yes to all of it.
And before he has a chance to ask whether she understood the full import of his question, she embraces him. With it comes the flood of her biological imprint: a lilting, evocative melody, unlike any song Javik has ever heard. It is soft, it is fervent, and above all, it is right. Through it, he sees himself through her eyes: a gentler version of himself, one that is free to emerge from the burdens of his ghosts now that he has satisfied their tribute. Full of potential and light and hope. It floods him with a warmth he does not expect, and for the briefest of moments, he believes in the promise behind her yes.
“If you’re staying,” she asks, “will you handle things for me? You are right. I do need to sleep.”
“Yes.” He answers. “Yes, to the monitors. Yes, to you needing to sleep.”
