#p. 008

@holiestwars

The statement was irrational, at best, at least to the turian who had stared down a sentient machine of death and lived long enough to still count himself among the living. Thus, a look of shock crossed his expression and he couldn’t help the small, startled noise he made in response. “Shepard,” he started, voice even and firm as he looked to her, “you could tell me the sky had turned purple and I would believe you at this point, after all we’ve been through!” He forced a laugh, though even through the harmonizing purr of his sub-vocals it sounded harsh and sharp. Shaking his head the turian attempted to soften his expression ( though it was very difficult given his face is mostly sharp angles and scaly features ) while his eyes regarded her in a gentler light. “You can tell me anything Shepard, and I’d believe you, so,” he stepped closer, head tilting slightly to the side, “tell me what you saw so I know how big of a gun to go get ready.” It was a joke, but in retrospect they both knew that he would do anything to protect his friends if needed.

@turixn​

         On Mindoir, the skies were always purple-- a deep, rosy heliotrope that painted the horizon in perpetual sunset. At night, in the dark, it almost looked green. God, she wished that had been what she'd seen. To close her eyes and see purple red and hear the familiar hum of insects that had populated her childhood. Shepard had always thought that was what heaven would be like. A farmhouse surrounded by winking lightning bugs, her baby sister shrieking with laughter as their father chased her around the living room, everything exactly how she remembered it. The lace tablecloth her mother crocheted, her father's worn chair in the living room, their heights drawn in pencil on the larder door. No choirs of angels or blinding lights; just home.