Relationship(s): Female Shepard/Liara T'Soni
Summary: Shepard is alive, and struggles with the fact that the galaxy has moved on without her.
The cabin was quiet, dark. The gloom pierced only by the terminal sitting atop the dresser, and by the omni-tool of the room’s sole occupant.
The dark was no inconvenience. There was nothing to see. The walls were grey and nondescript, the bedding slate blue, the window nonexistent.
It could have been an interior cabin on any human ship. Civilian, commercial, military, they all had the same feel. Temporary. This was a place where people paused between stops, away from the real places, their real lives. There wasn’t even a closet, just a handful of drawers.
It didn’t matter. Shepard knew she was on no ship. Missing was the slight motion of inertial dampening, the faint background hum of engines. The gentle flow of air from overhead vents provided the only sound in the room. She was fully aware of where she was. A place she’d agreed to be, even if her decision had been made under mild duress.
This was a station. Minuteman Station. A station built and staffed by a terrorist organization. An organization that had dedicated itself to her resurrection and well-being.
An organization that had stolen her life.
The words blinked in the center of her omni-tool. The only information the device could be coaxed to reveal. The only characters on the screen, other than the date and time.
She ignored everything but the year. 2185.
Shepard shook her arm, deactivating her ‘tool. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to check again.
A moment later she reactivated it with a wave of her fingers.
No change. *No connection*. 2185.
Again, she shook her arm.
Moments later the ‘tool sprang back to life yet again.
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting. How long since they returned from Freedom’s Progress. Since she’d made promises to Tali, to Joker, to Miranda. No idea how long it had been since she’d seen Liara.
The omni-tool blinked out.
She stared at her arm, where the ‘tool had been. At her hand beyond. Pale, clean, soft. Fingers stretching wide.
Enough. She clenched her fist, squeezing it tight. She could feel the blunt edges of her closely trimmed nails digging into her palm. The flesh gave easily. Too easily. No resistance at all.
She couldn’t stand any more. She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes, remembering how she got here.
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