#epitomine

 from  @epitomine​ :  ❝ the air hurts. i have to stop.  ❞

It’s  been  mere  days.  Three  to  be  exact,  but  who's  counting  (  ?  )   besides  the  woman  who  carved  a  man  from  clay,  stitched  his  sinew  into  place,  and  vowed  a  creator’s  protection  upon  his  very  soul  in  the  final  and  disturbing  abrupt  hours  of  his  new  wake.  

Half  a  heartbeat  is  all  it  takes  for  her  to  be  at  his  side,  face  wrought  with  scrutiny.  Over  his  condition  or  her  own  design  flaws,  she  won’t  say  for  sure  but  there  is  concern  muddling  in  where  professionalism  lacks.    

A  palm  presses  against  an  armored  shoulder  —  she’ll  support  if  she  must,  mouth  forming  into  a  worried  line.      

“      Don’t  strain  yourself,  Shepard.      ”          You’ve  barely  been  alive  for  less  than  a  week.  You’ve  been  dead  a  lot  longer.    The  sentiment  slips  through  her,  stuttering  on  a  muted  tongue  as  she  waits.    “    . . .  Here,  we  can  rest  for  a  moment.  I’ll  tell  Jacob  to  scout  ahead.   ”      A  careful  look  gestures  to  cement  stairs  before  an  attempt  to  lead.    She  should  have  had  more  time  with  him  —  to  fine  tune,  to  look  over  any  mistakes  or  mishaps  that  could  have  occured.  At  least  another  month  of  healing  had  been  ordered:  she  documented  it  well  enough.    Irritation  floods  through  her  veins.  Not  at  him.  Perhaps  at  a  cold  corpse  known  as  Wilson  ,  but  she  should  have  planned  for  panic  towards  the  end.    

               The mood shifted, stirring aphotic ambience when Shepard quipped—the austere predicament increasing in its severity. Liara is not one to press on the situation, reveling in her own annoyance at the lack of acknowledgement—willpower of others; she’d never admit this. Her thumb and forth-finger resting between her eyes. “I will not ask again, if you are adamant about this.” But Liara wants to know, out of interest and desperation of their cause. John hurled an asteroid into the Alpha Relay—the Reapers, months, years from their Galaxy. It is the dread that threatens to overwhelm her, but Liara insists on pushing back.

               All this destruction, would be justifiable—only to give them a little more time. Liara takes into consideration what must be done, what she has done; it’s futile now, to deny the truth. If John does not wish to speak on the matter further, Liara only has one query—despite its answer, she will make her choices. “Then what is our next step, Commander?”

               Her voice drained from all sense of wonder, replaced by an assertive diligence. She knows Shepard must return to earth for his crimes against life--the Alliance, the Council, blinded by diplomacy and politics to acknowledge the greater threat of existence. But with her own freedoms assured, the Asari would make the countermoves against their assailants--even with what little she currently has. 

INCOMING TRANSMISSION FROM: @epitomine

MESSAGE: “ i retire for what? five minutes and everything goes to shit? “

" C'MON Shepard , you should know by now that we can't relax for more than a day -- pretty sure your presence draws out every merc in a 20 mile radius. " He hears a bullet whip overhead , and lowers himself further behind cover.

mun questions

4. What old character would you love to bring back?

EVELYNE and damn it I will one day.

13. Is there one trope you can’t stand?

@epitomine

It had started out as a playful hug, one Garrus initiated after poking fun at his Commander for his shitty dance moves the last time they were at the Citadel, which seemed like a lifetime ago now. He'd slung one arm over his shoulder, pulling him in rough with a laugh, the human's feet just barley leaving the floor from their difference in height. Though even after Shepard's feet met the ground again, Garrus' arm stayed in its place.

@epitomine

Garrus had learned a great many things about Shepard from all the time the two had spent fighting side by side, some of it well known, and some less so. His reputation, his methods, his victories and defeats, all well known. His favorite gun, the soft spot for his friends, the good that hide beneath the surface, all less known. And then there were the things Shepard thought no one knew, like when he was hiding a fucking injury.

Garrus, much to his dismay, hadn't noticed at first. He wasn't sure when the Commander had gotten hurt, it wasn't enough to change the vitals tagged in his visor much more than normal. Garrus wasn't even sure he was bleeding, but he knew that look on the Commanders face, realized it the moment he took his helmet off after they had returned to the Normandy after their mission.

He watched his friend, studying his movements to make sure of his suspicions. He looked to their other teammate to see if they had seen it as well, but they were already gone, leaving just him and Shepard in the hanger bay. Garrus' mandibles clacked in irritation as he removed his own helmet, watching Shepard try to go about removing his armor without giving anything away.

MY WORST REGARDS. The Contraxian pauses at his choice of words, denying herself the initial pursuit. Her hand itches to do something about their less-than ideal situation, but she hesitates out of the small amount of respect she's garnered for the Commander. There is no sense why this criminal should remain alive, not when she's recognized the other man’s face the minute they touched down on Omega.

A former better, a favored guest of the ring runners; all the Cerberus operative wishes to do is walk down a path matted with sink holes to a revenge she never deemed possible -- not until joining the Normandy.

The pistol starts to weigh heavy. Echo searches the Commander for a mistake in his implication, but it stands to reason that Shepard offering his worst regards is just that: a promise that she may right a few wrongs while someone turns a blind eye. The former fighter exhales, shoulders dropping with unspoken appreciation. She wants to thank him, yet she cannot find the will for flowery terms. Instead she nods, reloading her weapon.. "I owe you, Shepard."