Can't Stop Now

   Murderer.

   Of course, she’s killed people before. Hundreds. And soldiers have died under her command. Dozens of them. This was... different, though. If you would ask her, she wouldn’t answer you how. There was no real way for her to describe it, and besides, words weren’t really her strong suit.

   She sits in the relative silence of the cargo hold. The whirring of the engines a constant she could neither ignore nor avoid, but she is otherwise undisturbed. Elizabeth brings her eyes up for a moment, but can’t bring herself to look at any of the Gunnery Chief’s few belongings that lie scattered on the table. Her head falls into her hands and she draws her fingers through her hair. Tears sting at her eyes, but she is far too well-trained in holding them at bay.

   She made a choice. Was it the right one? Yes, given the options she was given. Even so, Shepard couldn’t help but wish she’d been able to switch places with Ashley. Maybe if she hadn’t let Alenko near the bomb, maybe if she’d sent him with Ashley in the first place, maybe...

   There’s a clang, and Shepard’s head snaps up towards the sound. Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.

"Did you eat enough today?"

"Are you still hungry?"

"How much sleep did you get last night?"

"I'm worried about you."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Do you need me to spend the night?"

"My phone will be right by my pillow."

"Call me, please."

"Your smile is beautiful."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it for you."

"I've got your back."

"I appreciate what you do for me."

"Don't forget to buckle up."

"Put the phone away while you're driving."

"Call me when you get there."

   She notices it first in her arms. Then later, in her cabin, she sees it in her abdomen as she undresses, then her legs. She walks slowly to the bathroom, controlling her pace because she knows that she could tear the door off the wall if she’d let herself. Face to face with it now, staring blankly in the mirror, she feels as though she could cry. In fact, she just might.

    It’s not right. She shouldn’t be here. And yet, those are certainly her eyes blinking back at her; but can she really say it is her? Her mind is still her own, so far as she can tell, but her body...

    It’s new.

   Carefully she lifts a hand, running fingers that had previously been well worn and calloused over the fresh, satiny surface of her cheeks. There had been scars before. Looking down at her arms again, she felt a little strange mourning the compound fractures and life-threatening injuries she now bore no evidence of. Surely, it would not take her long to mar the seemingly perfect canvas Miranda had worked her technological magic on. Shepard was many things (or had been), but gentle had never been one of them. To herself least of all.

   There was a hollow feeling in her gut. Gone was the streak of white skin on her thigh from the fires of the Blitz. Missing, the tightened spot on her left forearm where she’d literally lost a chunk of her flesh in the line of duty. Perhaps the oddest, were the oldest. Neat pockmarks from a dog bite when she was 11, the gash on her skin from when she was 5, even the scar from hitting her chin on the coffee table in her parent’s living room had disappeared.

   It felt strangely as though her entire personal history had vanished. Replaced by the perfection of the ideal soldier and hero that Cerberus seemed to want her to be. She remembered all of them, every incident, every accident, even injury and wound, but some part of her couldn’t help but wonder: ... if there’s no evidence, did any of it really happen at all?

   Struggling to meet her own gaze, Elizabeth turned sharply away from the mirror and exited the bathroom. Her pulse had risen, her breathing heavy, and yet she felt strangely calm, rather like she was poised over a body of water, perfectly serene, and holding a bomb.

                        “  ————  why are you looking at me like that  ?  ”

    “Somehow your priorities surprised me, is all. But then again, no, they don’t.”