The shuttle ride was a long, silent one. After the pandemonium that had greeted us in Jerusalem, all we could do was watch in terror while the Reapers and their drones tore each other to pieces. Whichever one still wanted us dead tried to fire off a few shots to knock us out of the sky, but it had its hands full with its rogue ally. Seeing two enormous death machines duking it out in the desert would have been incredible under any other circumstances, but at that point all I could think about was how fucking ridiculous it all was.

First: Why had the Reapers let us into the city, attacked us, fucking spoken to us, and then turned on each other? The ambush made sense, although I hardly saw a reason for it; they’d let their guard down, allowed us into the city, and then thrown everything they had at us. But why stop mid-fight to tell us we were doomed, and then turn on each other?

Was everything I’d heard in my dream real? It would sure as hell explain it, even if it was the most unimaginable thing in the fucking universe. The Reapers—or at least the one that had spoken to me—were looking for an alternative to galactic genocide. Some other way to stop the naturally occurring end of the galaxy because harvesting organics hadn’t worked thus far. And by the looks of things, that wasn’t a course of action all the Reapers had agreed on.

Were they really willing to risk civil war within their infrastructure to save us? Or at the very least, to avoid this fabled natural end of the universe. It made sense; the Reapers, for all their pandering and arrogance, were too intelligent to follow one flawed course of action for all eternity. Naturally there would be some that realized harvesting organics wasn’t working and they needed to try another alternative.

And yet the other half of my mind couldn’t get over it. It’s like when you found out your high school sweetheart cheated on you and it completely destroyed any chance of a relationship. Well, now imagine that he or she just came back to you years later and claimed they wanted to try to make things right, but part of them would still be cheating. It’s a fucked up analogy, I know, and one that not many people are going to follow, so it’s suitably ambiguous because in that confused moment you’ll know how I felt.

Troy and Adison were equally shut down. Grunt was his usual self, chatting idly with Garrus about turians being worthless in desert conditions. Garrus merely listened absently, not even offering any snide comebacks. The absurdity of what we’d just witnessed along with the tremendous casualties we’d taken didn’t leave much to be said. Forty-eight soldiers went into Jeruslaem. We were the only ones that came out.

I didn’t ask Grunt what in the holy hell had brought him from Tuchanka to Earth, but even if I had, I don’t imagine he would have given me much of an answer. He likely didn’t even really know. He was a soldier at his core; reasons didn’t matter. He’d fight when and where they told him to fight.

The shuttle was evidently another along the lines of the one Shepard had aboard the Normandy; a stealth engine that, although lacking a Reaper IFF, seemed to fly relatively safely under their radar considering all the actual frigates and transport vessels attempting to leave earth. At that point, the majority of the Alliance Fleet had been decimated, so the Reapers weren’t expecting any kind of resistance. If they had, I’m sure finding a cloaked shuttle would have been simple. Instead they were shooting down civilian vessels and desperate marines trying to escape hell.

It messes with you, knowing that people are dying while you’re in relative safety. After all, Troy, Adison and I were essentially just common soldiers without our knowledge of the war. We were of no more use than any other marine out there fighting for their lives amidst the horrors of monsters. The only reason we’d survived so long was because we were surrounded by a team of badasses most of the time, and the rest could be attributed to sheer luck or the idiocy of the Reapers.

I wondered what Shepard was doing. It struck me then that I didn’t even know her first name. All logic pointed to Jane, the default character name, but I’d seen enough in this reality to know that any assumption I made was subject to being blatantly wrong. And while thinking about the topic, I realized I didn’t know anyone’s first names aside from those that had been clearly established like Hackett or Anderson. I’d neglectfully gone about calling Daniels by her surname without even stopping to think about how odd that might be. I’d hate it if everyone just started calling me Womble.

Still, the idea that Shepard was out there facing a shitload of unknowns was the greater concern on my mind. Even though I had no doubt that she could handle herself, everything we’d witnessed so far—specifically within the last hour or so—screamed that this was a much more dangerous war than I’d previously seen. And that was saying something, considering how fucking brutal the war was made out to be and how many people lost their lives in it.

For that reason, I think, there wasn’t much to be said on the shuttle ride. We flew through space for what seemed like hours without uttering so much as a word. The pilot came to check on us periodically, applying new medi-gel and making sure we had just enough medical attention so we didn’t bleed out on the shuttle floor. Troy and Adison were just as banged up as I was, and Garrus looked like he’d gotten the worst end of the deal. Blue blood stained the shining silver of his armor in just about every place imaginable, accompanied by more than a few gunshots and explosive residue. If I wasn’t mistaken, I even saw fragments of metal lodged into his armor near the collar. Talk about a near-miss.

I couldn’t even imagine how broken I looked, although going by Troy’s and Adison’s appearances I could make a fair guess. Their armor looked as though it had been stepped on by a Reaper and then set on fire for good measure. The chest pieces and gauntlets had caved in on themselves, likely due to being hit by all manner of debris during any of the numerous explosions we’d witnessed. The helmets were dented and the visors cracked, though we’d all taken them off upon entering the shuttle. It was a wonder that life support and VI assistance still functioned, damaged as our armor was.

And still, that wasn’t my primary concern. Yeah, being thrown into the worst beating of your life—of anyone’s life, possibly—was a pretty big deal, but the pressing matter at hand had to be what to do with the Reaper’s statement. If, in fact, it had been real. I’d gone over it a dozen times in my head, like I always do, and I came to the solid conclusion that I hadn’t just imagined that entire conversation. I’m a creative guy, but everything seemed so authentic. So original. And if I’d made it all up, I would’ve done it differently. I’d have made the Reaper less of a jack-ass, for one thing.

So if it was real, what the hell was I supposed to do about it? Tell Hackett that a certain Reaper—or group of Reapers—actually wanted to stop the harvesting and save the galaxy? Forget that, I wouldn’t even be able to convince him that they wanted to save the galaxy because in all honesty I didn’t believe it. I’m a stubborn asshole of a man; even if I had the evidence right in front of my face I still wouldn’t believe it. Everything can be manipulated. Everything can be doctored.

How do you make sense of reality when everything you perceive could be only an illusion?

This is my problem. I overthink. I mistrust. I always go to the dark even when there’s a blinding light a few steps away because I’m so afraid it might go out. Cynicism at its finest.

We reached Sentinel Outpost after a few hours of weapon maintenance on Grunt’s part and silent contemplation from the rest of us. Even when the shuttle pilot announced that we were going through decon and screening we were all relatively disinterested. Whatever fascination the galaxy held in store paled in comparison to the shock and awe instilled in me from the clusterfuck in Jerusalem.

No one greeted us when the shuttle landed. Upon entering the station and making our way to the conference room we’d all converged in during our last trip to Sentinel, a marine showed us to our private quarters with the vague statement that Hackett would be in touch soon. For now, we had a bit of time to unwind before the actual debriefing. And from there we’d need to figure out what the hell to do about the war.

Of course, the only logical/illogical option was to share what the Reaper had told me. Whether it was lying or not, we didn’t have any other course of action. Hackett would process the information and decide what to do from there. He was the military strategist, after all. I was just the guy trying to survive this mess.

The quarters they’d stuck me in were a decent enough place to do whatever the hell it is you do after you’ve just had the biggest mindfuck in history. It was about the size of a nice hotel room, fully furnished, with an armor and weapons rack for easy access. Clearly designed for soldiers. Once I’d placed Invidium and my sidearm in the weapons panel, they folded into the actual rack, and the rack itself slid back into the wall to create more space in the room. Seeing as my armor was literally toast at that point, there wasn’t much point in putting it away.

I flopped down on the lengthy couch perched just in front of a holographic fireplace and let out a deep breath. Nothing else could express the torrent of thought and emotion flooding my mind and soul.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised at what I was feeling. After all, veteran soldiers would have had trouble processing the chaos I’d seen, and I was far from a soldier, let alone a veteran. Half of me wanted to find Troy and Adison and grab a bottle of whiskey, but the better half argued that being sober was the only good way to get my head clear.

Still, I could use a cigarette. Someone on this station had to have smokes.

I was taking off for the door before I’d even finished the thought. There had to be someone, a procurement officer, some low-level facilities management guy that enjoyed nicotine if only to pass the time. Someone on this damn station had a smoking apparatus, and knowing me, I’d find the one person who—

“Daniels?”

Stupid me, getting so lost in chasing my addiction that I blocked out the rest of the world until I nearly ran full-force into someone I’d thought was a million miles away. That actually happened a lot back in 2016.

“Hey,” she offered, running her hand uncertainly through her long hair.

“Hey,” I replied equally as ambivalently. Our last conversation hadn’t ended so well and I wasn’t eager to carry on a chat with all the crazy shit we already had to deal with. “I was just gonna go raid the station for a cigarette.”

She nodded diagonally, as if she expected nothing less, and pulled a pack from one of the leg pockets on her fatigues. I couldn’t resist a forced laugh.

“With all the shit you gave me about needing new lungs?”

“That’s the shitty thing about being a medic. Forces you to be a hypocrite if you’re not as well-adjusted as the rest of the medical community.”

Huh. So she wasn’t this model of perfection that I’d suspected her to be. Hell, she wasn’t even trying to be. I admire that, when someone can realize their own faults and find a way to come to grips with it. I can’t exactly come to grips with mine, but I was halfway there at least so there’s a good deal of respect to recognize.

“Do you . . . want to come in?” I asked weakly, stepping to the side to allow her access to the doorway. She stepped through with a meek smile.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No, not really,” I replied, following her into the barracks and grabbing a cigarette she offered. “I was just . . . processing, I guess, when the inspiration hit me to go look for nicotine.”

“Here,” she said, lighting the cigarette for me with a futuristic Zippo. I took a long drag, letting the tobacco burn bright orange and sending a decent cloud of smoke directly into my lungs. I let it sit there for a few seconds before exhaling the pastel white smoke through my nose. You’d think the harshness of nicotine smoke would be the least soothing thing, but when you’ve smoked for as long as I have it’s like breathing a straight shot of oxygen. My first cigarette in days.

I could feel a little buzz, too. Maybe I’d taken too long a drag.

“Is it okay to smoke in here?” I asked, suddenly realizing we were in a controlled artificial environment.

“It’s fine,” Daniels replied, lighting a cigarette for herself. “Scrubbers take care of any contaminants and vent them into space. As long as we don’t smoke a damn carton we’ll be all right.”

I nodded, took another drag and headed back to the sofa, watching the virtual flames flicker and dance against the wood background of the fireplace. It felt like I should have offered her something in return for the cigarette, but the only material possession I could call my own was Invidium and I’m not well known for my sparkling conversation skills. A seat at the couch and a crazy chat about the Reapers was really all I had.

“Jesus Christ,” Daniels said absently. I looked over my shoulder to see her fixated on the wreckage of what had been my armor. “I heard your op went south, but . . . goddamn.”

“Yeah. Not one of the highlights of my life.”

My gaze returned to the fire as I took another drag and Daniels made her way over to the couch, sitting at the opposite end. I wanted to talk about Jerusalem, but with everything racing through my mind, something would slip. I’d say something that would endanger the false image I’d made for myself and take away what little trust I’d earned in this universe.

But thinking about it, why did that matter anymore? The whole point of this charade was to covertly give the Alliance intel that would help them win the war. Now that everything was so spectacularly fucked, I was reduced to a common grunt with no more to offer than the cigarette pressed between my lips could. A fleeting reprieve that ultimately hurt more than it helped.

Oddly, Daniels was being uncharacteristically quiet. I’d expected some kind of psych eval or at the very least an “are you still alive?” but got nothing. Usually I’m the one failing to keep up my end of the conversation. Story of my life, really.

It also struck me as odd and slightly rude that literally every time Daniels and I had talked, it was always about me. The woman who had saved my life back on earth and pretty much the only person aside from the guys who cared about my mental well-being was a complete unknown. The only thing I had to go on was that she was from Iowa, and what I’d gleaned from listening between the lines. She’d likely gone to med school to become a doctor but joined the Alliance after Sovereign and the geth attacked the Citadel. Aside from that, nothing.

Just ask her what’s been going on with her, it’s not that hard.

Right. She’d saved my life, tried to be a friend, and offered cigarettes when I needed them most, so the least I owed her was an attempt to care about something beyond myself. Hell, if she stayed as real as she was being now, I might actually enjoy a little interaction outside the two guys who literally know what I’m about to say before it happens.

“You doing all right?” I asked, taking one final drag off my cigarette before snuffing it out in the ashtray. Neither of us made eye contact. Given what we had on our minds and consciences, normal social etiquette was replaced by an authenticity that didn’t demand anything. I wasn’t a soldier or an information broker or a twenty-one-year-old who got pulled into this craziness by mistake, and she wasn’t a medic or a therapist or some random woman I never knew existed. We were just us. In moments like those, it’s enough just to hear the person’s voice.

“I just found out Sorola’s MIA,” she replied, exhaling from her previous drag.

“Shit. What happened?”

“After you left for earth and Shepard went to Eden Prime, Hackett reassigned us. Since the station doesn’t have any medical personnel I got stuck here, but Sorola requested to be sent back to earth. That idiot actually requested it, after everything we saw.” She took another drag. “His shuttle went down during re-entry, dropped from low-atmo straight to South Africa.”

From the tone in her voice it was safe to assume any such fall would leave little doubt as to whether or not the personnel on board had survived. The MIA listing was more than likely just because they couldn’t afford to send a search and recover team to confirm what they already knew.

“Fucking hell,” I breathed. “You guys were close?”

“Not really. We got assigned to the same squad a couple months before the attack on earth. Didn’t see too much action before then, but still. There’s a camaraderie between soldiers, you know? Even if you don’t know or like each other much, you’re still there through all the bullshit together. And you heard Sorola, his granddad was a war hero, an N6. He was on the same career path. Probably would’ve made N7 if it hadn’t been for this war.”

Weirdly enough I did get it. I hadn’t spent much time in this insane alternate universe, but I felt a similar bond with Shepard and Garrus. Even though we hadn’t spent much time in combat together and I could hardly be considered a soldier, there was an attachment there that had grown beyond simply relating to what had once been fictional characters. When you place your life at risk with other people—when you work with them, fight for a goal that you know is unattainable simply because necessity forces you to—there’s no other feeling like it. All the bullshit that usually accompanies a relationship between two people is eradicated. There’s no mistrust, no doubt, no skepticism because you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’ve got your back. No matter what. I could only imagine what it felt like to lose a brother like that.

“I’m sorry,” I offered. “I’ve lost people before, but . . . not like that. Can’t even imagine.”

“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around these days. You want another?”

I looked up for what felt like the first time in hours to find her holding a cigarette between her fingers again. Fuck it. The second one’s always better. I wasn’t sure if cancer had been cured yet, but shit, if they could replace my organs before they got too fucked up I might as well live like there was no tomorrow. No pun intended.

“It must’ve been crazy down there,” Daniels said once we’d both begun burning our cancer sticks. “I saw the footage. There’s no good way to process that kind of shitstorm.”

“The footage?”

“From your helmet cam. They didn’t tell you?”

That they’d actually seen everything that happened firsthand? For the first time in the entire conversation my eyes found hers, hoping that she’d tell me I wasn’t insane for believing what I believed. If they’d seen it all go down there would be no need for me to convince them; they’d have the proof right in front of their damn faces, talking Reaper and all. Shit, maybe I wasn’t totally screwed.

“You’re telling me you saw everything that happened in Jerusalem?” I asked for clarity.

“Yeah. The ambush, you and your cousins holding off the drones, and that arrogant son of a bitch doing what the Reapers do best. Screwing all our plans to shit.”

“So I’m not completely crazy. That thing actually told us they want to save the galaxy by wiping us out; you heard all that, right?”

She nodded, taking a drag from her cigarette, and I realized in my neglect I’d allowed mine to accumulate a healthy bit of ash. That mistake was quickly corrected by taking a long drag, letting the tobacco burn and the ashes drop to the floor.

“Audio cut out a bit, but we got the big picture. Hackett can’t make heads or tails of it. I mean Christ, a Reaper spared your lives, told you it wanted to save the galaxy, then attacked its own ally so you could escape in the confusion. I’m not sure if we should be jumping for joy or trying to come up with a contingency for when the rest of the robots decide to go batshit.”

“So we end up here,” I finished the thought, “trying to make sense of something that defies all fucking logic.”

Daniels nodded as if to say “Pretty much.”

So Hackett knew everything I did. Probably more; I was pretty incoherent for extended periods of our excursion into the desert. If they had audio and video from me, Troy, and Adison, maybe Shepard could review it and see something we hadn’t. She was the one with the most experience fighting Reapers, after all. She’d be the one most likely to know whether or not it had been telling the truth, and probably the only one who could convince Hackett. The problem was finding a way to proceed now that we knew not all the Reapers wanted to harvest us.

Then again, there was my near-death lucid dream or whatever the fuck you want to call it, which I doubt had been something the helmet cam would’ve picked up. To be honest, the Reaper had conveyed more helpful information outside the realm of reality. The entire conversation beforehand could just be taken as arrogant self-gratification from a boot crushing an ant.

Still, something had to be said. This opportunity was too good to pass up on, and with the Citadel turned into a debris field, our only option was to find out what this rogue Reaper wanted us to do. The boogeyman was kicking down our door and his better half was telling us we needed to worry more about the apocalypse.

How the fuck do you handle a situation like that? Billions of people were dying across the galaxy and we were supposed to ignore that so we could save trillions in the long run? Logically it was the sensible course of action, but when you’re responsible for all those lives you don’t see thought and rationality—you see heart and reckless empathy. And thinking with your emotions never works.

I breathed in another cloud of smoke and let it hang in my lungs for a while before exhaling. Nicotine takes a bit of your focus away from whatever shit you’re dealing with. Thank God I had cigarettes.

No, it wasn’t really working. This is another of my faults; I trick myself into believing that cigarettes and alcohol help block stress when all they really do is make me guilty for not being capable of handling it appropriately. The fact that I was sitting in a comfortable, safe room enjoying half an hour of chain-smoking while everyone on earth was fighting for their fucking lives wasn’t right. It couldn’t be.

“Hey Daniels,” I uttered nonchalantly.

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

She blew out a cloud of smoke and smothered her cigarette in the ashtray. “Shoot.”

“First, and I’m an asshole for not asking sooner, but what’s your first name?”

If I’m not mistaken, she had to hide a light smile with that one. “Claire.”

“Claire,” I repeated. “Is it all right if I call you that or would it be breaking some chain of command regulations?”

She did legitimately chuckle this time, the first laugh I’d heard in what felt like days. “Claire is fine.”

“Good, because I really did not want to be on a last name basis with you for the rest of my life.”

“Neither did I. But it sounded like you wanted to ask me something a little more serious.”

I took my last drag and put out my cigarette, noticing that I’d gotten a bit light-headed from smoking so fast. Maybe I’d need those new lungs sooner rather than later.

“Yeah,” I replied, the conversation shifting back to a more somber tone. “Is it just me or does it feel . . . wrong?”

“What?”

“Us being here while there are people out there dying every minute. Don’t get me wrong, we’re putting our asses on the line just like everyone else, but it seems like we’re getting special treatment. The guys out there in the trenches on earth—they don’t have a safe FOB to fall back to or stealth vessels that can get them from one place to the other without attracting attention. Is what we’re doing really any more important than what everyone else is doing?”

Daniels exhaled emphatically. No doubt I wasn’t the first soldier to ask a question like that, and from the sound of it she’d asked herself the same thing.

“There’s no good answer for something like that,” was her straightforward reply. “In an ideal world, yeah, everyone would have the same chances of coming out of this alive. The best soldiers would be here making the most of this war, Hackett would be able to coordinate with our entire army rather than a tenth of it, and you and I would probably be on the frontlines holding down a shit position with the rest of the grunts out there. But there’s no fairness in any of this. Never is. Shit happens and we make the most of it with what we’ve got. You may not be the best soldier in the Alliance and I may not be the best medic, but we’re here because you had the foresight to find Shepard back on Vancouver; because you knew the only shot at survival was Normandy. So we can either sit on our asses cursing our uselessness, or we can do our best. Because it’s up to us to make a difference for the ones who can’t.”

I sighed and lit another cigarette. Third time’s the charm.

“I guess,” I replied weakly. “I just . . . I guess I just feel powerless. With everything the guys and I knew about this war—everything we thought we knew, at least—I thought we could do some fucking good. Make this war a little more bearable. Instead I’m convinced we’ve just fucked it up even worse.”

“Why?” Daniels asked. “You have been doing good work out there. You helped save the Councilors. You got intel from the Reapers and managed to escape one of the worst onslaughts I’ve seen or heard of in this war. Why is it that no matter what you do, you still beat yourself down like this?”

Why? Well, that was a question that could keep therapists busy for years. Because of my moral belief system, maybe. Because I believed that it was my obligation to protect people from anything that threatened them, whether physical, emotional, or moral. Or maybe it was because I always seemed to lose the people I care about the most. Every time I grow close to someone they leave. And yeah, sometimes they come back, but it’s like part of them is still gone and I take responsibility for losing them. For not being enough.

I couldn’t tell her that, though. I didn’t dare let her see how fucked up I am inside. Despite the fact that she was rapidly growing on me, there have been maybe three people in my life that have ever known the damaged person I really am. No one understands it. No one seems to get that I really couldn’t care less if I’m dead. No one understands my reasoning or how my thoughts and emotions work; they label it crazy or the bummed-out ravings of a kid that’s way too depressed. So I form a mask, put on a façade so the rest of the world thinks I’m normal, and every day it kills me a little bit. And I know it. I know I’m losing myself.

So the better question was: why the fuck wouldn’t I beat myself down?

I puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Because if I don’t take the blame, someone else has to. No one should have to deal with the weight of darkness like that.”

“And you’re . . . what? You’re the exception to that? You’re the only person in the galaxy that deserves to feel shitty about themselves?”

“Of course not, there are plenty of assholes out there that should, but . . . ” I sighed in frustration, failing to express myself adequately. “You know the one thing I want out of life? Every day I wake up and I tell myself I’m going to be a better man. That I’m going to seek wisdom and not fall into the traps people always find themselves in. That I’m going to put my demons behind me and press on. And you know what? I fucking hate myself. I hate everything about me. I hate that I smoke and drink and swear; I hate that I’m this fucking robotic person that can turn his emotions on and off like a fucking light; I hate that no matter what I do—no matter how hard I try—I’ll never be better than I am right now. And I know that’s the problem. I’ll never be better if I can’t set all that aside, but I can’t fucking do that. I can’t let go of who I am, so I’ll never be anything more than a shadow.”

God, what an idiot I am. I snuffed the cigarette forcefully with the end of my rant and stood to my feet, crossing the room to the small refrigeration unit. The full bottle of whiskey was calling my name.

I had the liquor in hand and was popping it open when I felt the warmth of Daniels’ fingers slide across mine. With a gentle but clear motion she guided my hand to put the bottle away, and while every bone in my body told me to resist, something else compelled me to let it go.

“Listen to me,” she said, tightening her grip on my hand. “You are not broken. I swear to God you are a good man. It may seem like you’re chasing shadows, like you’re the only one lost in a sea of darkness, but you’re not alone. And you’re not lost. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. You think you’re surrounded in this mist of guilt and pain, but you’re there because you’re strong enough to survive it. The world needs people like you. Someone who can go into that darkness and lead people out of it. No matter what, remember that. You aren’t the shadows surrounding you. You’re the light they’re trying to put out.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t really sure I was supposed to say anything.

Then she hugged me. I hadn’t even begun to process what she’d said or how it affected me when she let go of my hand and slid her arms around my shoulders. For a moment I was paralyzed, unable to think or move or even breathe. Something like purposeful instinct took over and I returned the embrace.

There haven’t been very many poignant moments in my life. The last time I’d cried had been three years earlier when I was driving home from helping my stepdad move when he and my mom split up. The last time I’d felt real happiness had been two years before that.

So you can imagine how strange it felt when suddenly I breathed a veritable cocktail of emotion ranging from despondence to overwhelming gratitude. I was sure I was making an ass out of myself, shaking on the spot and trying to steady my breathing knowing full well it refused to calm, but Daniels didn’t seem to pay it any attention. She just hugged me tighter, offering an abundance of comfort to combat my raging emotions.

I swear, if I hadn’t had so much practice keeping a strong face there would have been waterfalls pouring out of my eyes.

And that’s the crazy thing: nothing she’d said was something I hadn’t heard before. I grew up in modern churches; that’s literally all they do there is give you affirmation. Maybe it impacted me so deeply just because I knew Daniels was struggling the same way I was and yet she saw something in me that I didn’t think existed. Whatever the reason, the woman who had been a passing acquaintance only half an hour earlier was now responsible for completely destroying the wall of apathy I’d spent ten years building to protect me.

And it gave me hope.

I’m not sure whether it was because I’d finally stopped shaking or because we spent several minutes like that, but Daniels released her hold on me and pulled away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a happier smile on someone who’d clearly bawled her eyes out.

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

Her smile widened and she looked away momentarily to wipe her eyes. “We both need that, I think.”

Yeah. Yeah we did.

I don’t know how many hours passed after that moment. A handful, at least. We transitioned from that intense conversation to small talk easily, then slipped in and out of more serious topics as the day went on. Or night, I really wasn’t sure seeing as I’d shut my omni-tool down. It’s amazing how you can lose track of time just enjoying someone’s company. What starts as a simple midnight chat turns into an 8 AM discussion in no time, leaving you to wonder what the hell you just talked about for eight hours straight. I think it’s even more astounding for someone like me who doesn’t relish digging into their thoughts and emotions for someone else’s perusal. But Claire had witnessed all my fears and failures and still hadn’t run full-speed in the opposite direction. There was no reason to hide after that.

At some point Troy and Adison let themselves in, claiming I was ignoring all their messages, and after a few more hours of winding down and enjoying ourselves we’d all passed out in various locations throughout the room. I tell you, that was the most comfortable floor I’d ever slept on. Fuck the couch and the bed, and the fuckers that got there before me.

I woke up before the others. Amazing what a good rest and the faith of someone you believe in can do for you. Generally I’m the one who can stay up all night and sleep for twelve hours; seriously, in my old life it wasn’t uncommon for me to be up until three in the morning, go to work at six all week, and sleep literally all weekend. Waking up at a decent time when everyone else was still struggling to recuperate wasn’t something I was accustomed to.

I debated laying on the floor all day until I got called to go out on some important errand, but something was different. I actually wanted to do something productive.

Breakfast. Breakfast sounded amazing, and if I knew Troy, he’d need something to eat after all the bourbon we’d downed the previous night. Even that was out of place, though. Normally when I drink it’s to relieve the stress of a shitty week. But last night was just . . . fun. We enjoyed ourselves despite everything that stood against us, and while I still struggled with this martyr complex, it felt good. I think I realized we couldn’t continue to cripple ourselves with our fears and responsibilities. We had to take the bad along with the good and celebrate what we had rather than despair over what we didn’t.

I had my family. I had a friend in Claire. And we would figure things out. Whatever bullshit the Reapers threw at us, we’d deal with it.

It took me a minute to figure out how to work the appliances in my crammed kitchenette, but after a few minutes of omni-tool tutorials I had a skillet of bacon and scrambled eggs cooking on the stovetop. Thankfully no matter how much I drink I never get hungover, otherwise I’m sure a simple task like making breakfast would’ve turned into a catastrophe.

There was still something missing though, so I dug around on the extranet until I finally found them.

Dear G-d – Being as an Ocean

My God, they did exist. I was worried that my boys wouldn’t be a thing in this reality, but I suppose the universe knew their music was crucial to my survival.

I’m trying my best to be a better man. Despite all my fears, I really am. I write these things to remind myself that amidst this darkness there remains light, hope, and a perfect plan.

Joel screamed out the verse in a perfect blend of emotion and sincerity, evoking the same in me. Out of the thousands of musicians and the millions of songs I’d listened to, this was the one band that felt like I was really part of it. Like I could’ve written the music myself. I’d actually had in-depth conversations with the guys a few times; everything they put to music was something that they cared deeply about, and our outlooks on life coincided so perfectly. I’d never met anyone else who shared my thoughts and opinions on such a real level.

Well, aside from Troy. And maybe Claire.

I pulled the first helping of bacon off the skillet and laid it on a plate to the side of the stovetop, reaching into the refrigeration unit for more. The song ended and started over, kicking off with a light post-hardcore guitar riff. Simple, not more than six notes in a line, but so effective. The song was about recognizing our faults as fallible human beings, but it was also meant to convey that perfection is an impossible goal. Not everything is possible. We’re going to fail. Sometimes we simply won’t stack up. But the measure of a man is not determined by what he achieves in life, it’s determined by how hard he tries to overcome the obstacles set in his way and how gracefully he handles his failures.

So you can call this sort of life a hopeless endeavor, that this tiny vessel could ever endure such violent weather. Call it pointless; I’ll continue to carry out grace nonetheless.

The smell of slightly singed eggs hit my nose before I let my mind slip away and I scooped them out of the pan hastily. I’d never been much of a cook, but eggs, bacon and pancakes are pretty hard to mess up unless you just aren’t paying attention.

Shit, that’s what I was missing. Pancakes. No flour in the cupboard, and there wasn’t a source of running water in the room. Apparently everyone in the future used steam for sinks and showers.

Well, two out of three. Good enough. To be honest the bacon was all that mattered.

“What are you doing up so early, Donz?”

I turned briefly, as much to grab a fork as to greet Adison.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, grabbing the rest of the bacon out of the skillet. “I don’t know if I made enough for everyone so I guess just dig in while it’s here.”

He didn’t have any objections, going straight for a prime slice of bacon before Troy and Claire woke up. I was actually surprised they were still asleep, given how small the room actually was. We were practically suffocating in bacon fumes.

“This is good,” Adison stated, taking a seat by the miniscule countertop adjacent to the stove. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Seriously dude? I lived in the middle of fucking nowhere; only thing in twenty miles to eat was McDonald’s, of course I can cook. Some.”

Though we’d all achieved a measure of peace the night before, it was clear something I’d said set Adison’s mind racing. I’ve had a few guys in my life that I’ve considered brothers, but Troy and Adison were my only actual family. Sure we were cousins by blood, and in Adison’s case we didn’t even share that, but we’d grown up together. We’d been there consistently for twenty years, even when we were all going our separate ways. In the end we always found and relied on each other. When you understand someone so well it’s easy to know what they’re thinking.

“Lived,” he said, repeating the word. “Is that really in the past now?”

I exhaled deeply. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s weird, it’s only been five days, but on the other hand . . . it’s been five days. I dunno, maybe it’s because I’ve been so focused on getting shit done here, but I haven’t really thought much about my life back then.”

“You don’t want to go back?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I do, man. My sister was supposed to get married in November! Every time I think about it my stomach twists because I’m not going to be there to see it.”

And yet . . .

There was part of me that didn’t really give a fuck. As I’ve mentioned before, I had an average job with a moderately nice car and a somewhat decent house. The two guys that meant the most to me had come along on this ride.

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming though,” Adison commented.

I forced a sigh. “I dunno dude. Aside from my sister, what the hell else is back there for me? I’ve got a job at a small business that’s running itself into the ground, my money situation’s nothing to brag about, and the only girl I loved moved to Ohio and hates my fucking guts. So is it crazy that I’m actually not opposed to the idea of a clean slate?”

“Assuming we survive the Reapers.”

Well, yeah. There was that.

“What about you?” I asked. No point digging deeper into my flawed mode of thinking. “You seem to be handling all this pretty well, all things considered.”

“It might seem that way. I’m just glad you and Troy are here. Don’t get me wrong, this is the opportunity of a lifetime for a guy like me—getting to shoot a bunch of mutant zombies in real life—but if I’d wanted to be a soldier I would’ve joined the Army. I’m a cop. I was happy with my life. But, like you said, it seems like this is my life now. Maybe it’ll just take time to get used to it.”

I’ve always admired that about Adison. You can tell when he’s not content with something, but he never shows it. He never wants to seem ungrateful for the positive things in his life, even if the negative vastly outweighs them.

Someone stirred on the other end of the room and I suddenly remembered that I’d better get some bacon while I still could.

“So what’s the deal with you and Daniels?” Adison asked, nodding toward the bed where she rolled over and settled back to sleep.

“She patched me up back in Vancouver,” I said through mouthfuls of food. “Right after we got . . . taken, I guess, from 2016. The whole city was in fucking panic mode, dude. Me and Troy were trying to find Shepard when a frigate detonated in-atmosphere. The blast knocked us down a good fifteen stories. Claire put me back together and helped us to the Normandy with another soldier from her unit.”

“So she’s not an officer or anything.”

“No. Why?”

“It’s just weird, don’t you think? I don’t know nearly as much as you and Troy do about this war, but from what you’ve told me things aren’t going at all according to plan. And you’d think after the mess we just went through, they’d want to talk to us about it as soon as possible.”

My brows raised involuntarily and I went for the eggs. “They don’t have any clue what to do. Claire told me they’ve got video from all our helmets, so they know what happened down there, they just can’t believe it. Any time a Reaper ever spoke to Shepard it was nothing but threats and arrogant declarations of supremacy. And this one just tried to tell us we need to find a way to stop the end of the world so the rest of them will stop harvesting us. It’s well beyond anything I was prepared for.”

Adison helped himself to a bit more bacon and I realized some orange juice would make this go down perfectly.

Thank God, I have some.

“So nothing is the same as the game?” Adison asked when he finished chewing.

“The beginning was. But as soon as we got to the Citadel everything got turned upside down. As far as I can tell, everything’s right on par up until that point.”

“No idea what changed things?”

“Aside from our existence here? No. But it doesn’t really matter all in all. It is what it is. I’m just doing as I’m told at this point, man. Hackett will comb through what happened in Jerusalem, Shepard will keep doing her thing, and hopefully we’ll find a plan.”

More stirs coming from the two slumbering individuals only a few feet away. We still had a good helping of bacon and eggs left, but the two of us were digging through it fairly quickly. Whoever woke up last was going to be screwed.

Apparently it was going to be Troy. And damn, I’d made all this food on the pretense that he’d need a hangover cure.

“You two are up and at it early,” Claire said, easing out of bed and making her way to the empty stool by the counter. “Who made breakfast?”

“Guilty,” I replied, raising a hand in the air. “But if it’s horrible you can blame Adison, no one will know.”

She smiled, grabbed a slice of bacon, and scooped the eggs up with it. I’ve seen it a million times since then but all I could think in the moment was how fucking ingenious that was.

Shit. I really hoped she’d actually been asleep for that whole conversation, otherwise we were in a bit of trouble. Adison had the same look on his face, probably before I did.

“God,” Claire suddenly announced.

My breath caught for a moment.

“This is great. What seasoning did you use?”

Sigh. Resume breathing.

“Salt and pepper, courtesy of shitty Alliance rationing,” I replied. Adison gave me a meaningful look, and we both understood that we’d have to be much more careful from now on. Our lie was a carefully constructed one and while ultimately beneficial for the relationships we’d established, the possibility of it unraveling was too real.

I only then realized that I was in nothing but my briefs and a T-shirt. Well, there went both my modesty and my dignity.

“You guys sleep okay?” I asked, making conversation to draw attention from the fact that I was desperately searching for my jeans.

“About as well as any other night,” Claire replied. “Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way. I feel a little guilty about you sleeping on the floor.”

I laughed at that. “Well, I was gonna end up there at some point anyway.”

There!

The jeans were on in no time. It turns out that steam-cleaning denim makes it much easier to wear than washing it.

A chime sounded off from somewhere in the room, and despite having occupied it for several hours I had no earthly idea what could’ve possibly been making the noise. It almost sounded like an omni-tool alert.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to cut breakfast short,” Claire said. Yep, omni-tool. “Hackett wants to see us.”

“All of us?” I asked.

“All of us. And apparently he’s invited guests.”

Guests? That wasn’t possible. The only ship that could get in and out without being noticed was Normandy, and she was a million miles away. Unless . . .

“Shepard found the prothean?”

Claire checked her omni-tool again. “Him, and a few dozen others. Looks like some of the most powerful biotics in civilized space are inbound.”

Well. No way that was a coincidence. Hackett had been doing his research, and he had a plan.

Time for action.