Pain clawed at my skull, a white-hot spike that wrenched me back to consciousness. My eyes fluttered open, vision a blur of sterile white and gold, like a Cerberus lab left to rot. I was sprawled on a cold, polished floor, its faint vibration running through my cheek, foreign and wrong. The air stung my throat, sharp with scorched circuitry. My head was a pulsar of agony, screaming I'd taken a hit, hard. Where the hell was I? Flashes stabbed through the fog, splintered, disjointed. A ring of glyphs, glowing like a fractured mass relay, pulsed with a rhythm that shook my bones. Whatever I just fell through shrieked as a Reaper's death knell, tearing me apart. A shadow behind me, a rifle's butt cracking against my temple, stars exploding before the black swallowed me. I groaned, my fingers twitching, reaching for the familiar grip of my M-3 Predator. It was there, collapsed to its compact form, holstered at my hip.
A sharp report split the air, too close, like a thermal clip unloading in a firefight. My instincts screamed, and I rolled, head pounding, just as another shadow loomed. A figure in dark robes, gripping a clunky blaster rifle.
"Covenant scum!"
His insignia glinted, a twisted metal sigil I'd seen before, but I didn't have time to think. He swung the rifle's butt, same move that'd dropped me. Not again. My omni-tool flared, orange light snapping to life as the omni-blade manifested, a sixty-centimeter shard of molten death. I drove it through his chest, instinct overriding the pain. The guard gasped, eyes wide with shock, then crumpled, blood pooling on the pristine floor, his rifle clattering beside him. I staggered to my feet, breath ragged, the headache a dull roar now. The insignia caught my eye, same as those cultists in Coruscant's underbelly, the Sith Eternal. Fanatics with a fetish for red glowsticks and bad attitudes. I nudged the body, checking the rifle's stock. Scratched, smeared, mine, no doubt. So that's what'd knocked me out. Bastard got lucky once. Not twice.
The chamber was a cathedral of wrongness, all gleaming durasteel and golden conduits that pulsed like veins under skin. Holographic glyphs swirled in the air, their patterns mocking me, like EDI's data streams twisted into a language I couldn't crack. Blasts echoed nearby, mixed with that damn hum, glowsticks slicing through the chaos. Screams followed, human, alien, guttural, punctuated by the thump of grenades. A full-on assault, maybe a stone's throw away, only a corridor or two over. My gut went tight and cold. Trouble didn't just find me, it always rolled out the red carpet. I steadied myself against the wall, its surface cool and slick, the pain crawling up my arm. This tech, it screamed the same star-hopping madness I'd stumbled into on Yavin 4, then Mustafar, then that scrapheap Kaelis. This wasn't the Citadel, and it sure as hell wasn't Earth. I wasn't home, and someone still owed me answers.
The battle's din grew thicker, whining blasts like overclocked mass accelerators, and those sabers, their buzz cutting through shouts and shattering metal. I moved to a massive window, its frame etched with more glyphs, glowing faintly, almost taunting. Outside, a city sprawled, a fever dream of floodlit spires and signage that dwarfed Illium's glitzy sprawl. Towers clawed at a smog-choked sky, their peaks swallowed by holographic billboards that bled colors, alien script, garish faces, promises of vice. Hovercycles roared between spires, their engines a banshee's wail, weaving through drifting ash and cookfire haze. Below, the streets shoved and broke apart, flashes of gunfire, crowds scattering like roaches under a boot. It was a warzone masquerading as a marketplace, Omega's slums stacked a kilometer high, then left to ruin. A banner hung from a nearby tower, some gaudy crest with a slug-like emblem, corporate logo, maybe, or a local kingpin's brand. Didn't matter. This place was a powder keg, and I'd landed as the spark in the middle. My omni-tool pinged, medical diagnostics green despite the pounding in my skull. My biotics stirred, sluggish, an eezo reflex flickering in my veins, like a half-charged battery. The Predator's grip was solid in my hand, and I snapped it to full length without a thought. The Wraith hung heavy, its frame scarred from Reapers and worse. I was armed, pissed, and done playing tourist. The fighting was closer now, a level down, maybe less. Someone out there, friend, foe, or bystander bleeding out, had to know something. About this city, the transport device I must have fallen through, or why these cultists were now dogging my every step.
I stepped over the guard's body, his smear a dark mirror on the floor. The chamber's echo followed me as I moved toward the noise. Blasts, more glowsticks, screams, they called like a siren, promising trouble and truth in equal measure. The corridor reeked of death, a sour cocktail of scorched metal and the chemical bite of eezo gone bad. My boots crunched on shattered glass, the Predator steady in my grip. I moved low, my N7 training kicking to reflex. Clear the angles, control the space, end anything that twitches. The facility was a graveyard, its multi-level sprawl gutted by a massacre that screamed an assault by brute force. Bodies littered the floor, human, alien, and things I couldn't name, their flesh torn by precision strikes or raw savagery. A mercenary in patched armor lay slumped against a wall, his chest a crater, clutching a vial of glittering dust. Spice, Galen called it. A mech husk sparked nearby, its branding half-melted to slag. Blood slicked the durasteel, pooling under flickering holoscreens that looped garish ads, alien faces, promises of quick credits, lies in a language I didn't need to understand. This wasn't just a skirmish. This was a seek and destroy mission, the kind that levels organizations. And I'd landed in the aftermath.
A figure flickered ahead, and I froze, Predator low-ready. A straggler, robed like the guard I'd dropped, the Sith Eternal sigil stamped at his collar. He raised a clunky blaster, too slow. The Predator barked, a single thermal round, clean through his throat. He gurgled, collapsing, a red arc spraying the wall behind him. No mercy given, none expected. The shot's precision, and the gunfire bleeding in from outside, pulled me back to Illium, to Thane Krios, a drell wraith haloed in the signage-glow. I'd watched him drop from vents, scales glinting like polished jade.
"Amonkira, guide my hand."
His biotic pulse flared, a guard's neck snapped in a blur, then a pistol round took Nassana Dantius's skull, sharp, quick, lethal, like a prayer answered in blood, teaching me to weave my Vanguard charges with that same cold focus. His craft was art, and I'd carried it here, to this foreign hell. I stepped over the body, clearing the next room, empty, save for a shattered console spitting sparks and a corpse with tentacles for a face, its tech rig glowing faintly, like an eezo core twisted wrong. It wasn't my home's tech, but it was something oddly familiar, and that made my skin crawl. These Covenant, or whatever they were, didn't belong here any more than I did. The fighting's echo grew closer, a level down now, maybe two left to go. I descended a stairwell, boots silent, checking corners. Bodies piled at the landing, more Covenant, their salamander-like skin glistening, containment rigs flickering around them, like biotic barriers gone haywire. I nudged one with my pistol's barrel. Dead, but the tech hummed, foreign yet familiar, like Cerberus gear warped through a funhouse mirror. I continued on, more of the Veiled Covenant's work, no doubt, tearing through this Sith Eternal nest. Why though? I needed more than dead men to tell me.
Another straggler lunged from a doorway, vibroblade flashing. I sidestepped, biotics flaring, a quick barrier to deflect the strike. My omni-blade snapped to life, orange heat slicing through his chest. He dropped, lifeless, his Sith Eternal mark clinking against the floor. Damn. Another one hell-bent on my death with no answers. I kept moving, the corridor narrowing, walls scarred by saber burns and blast craters. A holoscreen flickered, its ad drowned by static, garish light bleeding through a cracked viewport. This place was Zakera Ward's gutters on steroids, towers of greed, streets of desperation, all teetering on collapse. I cleared another room, then froze. Ahead, a cavernous chamber yawned, a command center, or what was left of it. Consoles lay gutted, screens shattered, bodies strewn like broken toys. The room stank of rot and spilled coolant, the floor slick with oil and worse. Glyph-etched consoles flickered faintly, like Prothean beacons gone dark, and a central altar, studded with bled kyber and glowing red, pulsed with a menace that raised my hackles. Relics littered the floor, tablets and fragments etched with star-like patterns, half-smashed. The Sith Eternal weren't just running ops. They were dabbling in something older, darker, something that didn't belong in any galaxy let alone the one I'd been estranged in.
A side door beckoned, its frame ornate, like an officer's sanctum. I approached, Predator raised, and eased it open. Inside, a figure worked feverishly, red-skinned, tentacled, his face like a batarian crossed with a hanar. A Sith Eternal Darth, in the same robes as the one that killed Revan's knights on 1313, shredding records and smashing relics with a manic edge. Artifacts, like the one we bought off of Ryari, crumbled under his boot, inactive but familiar. He didn't see me at first. I stepped in, pistol trained on his forehead.
"Don't move. Where are we?"
He froze, yellow eyes narrowing, one of those double-bladed glowstick staffs on the desk next to him.
"...You… are... on Nar Shaddaa..."
His voice like gravel, confusion flickering.
"Why ask such a stupid question, Covenant dog? Is this a test?"
His eyes bored into me, searching, then faltered.
"You are… outside the Force. Like them."
I laughed, a dry bark that echoed Revan's puzzled stare back on Yavin 4.
"That's right, I'm outside your league, pal. Why's the Covenant hitting this place?"
His lip curled.
"You are all lying charlatans. Swore to share what we needed for our master's plan, then betrayed us."
His tentacles twitched, rage simmering.
"Why all these riddles, Ashen?"
"But what do they want now and why do they want you all dead?"
My finger steady on the trigger. His eyes gleamed, a fanatic's fire, his voice rising to a fevered chant.
"Tenebrae, Soul-Reaver, shatter the veil! Devourer of stars, in darkness we wail! Eternal, unbroken, your will we obey! Rise, Vitiate, rise, and consume the decay!"
The staff flared to life, twin blades igniting with plasma. I knew that sound all too well by now. My finger squeezed the trigger as I exhaled. The Predator punched a round through the knot of tendrils where his mouth should be, blowing out the back of his skull. His head snapped back, tentacles limp, the body crumpling to the floor. Blood spread dark and glistening across the durasteel, reflecting the chamber's sickly glow.
"Thought you'd sense that, huh? Guess not."
The office was a crypt of chaos, scattered papers, shattered relics, the air reeking of burnt circuits. I holstered the Predator. A datapad glowed faintly on the desk, its screen cracked but alive. I swiped it, skimming the message. "Personal transport detailed, ready in garage bay 7. Prepped for discreet transport."
A skycar, probably built for someone who didn't want to be seen. Perfect for some cultist playing spy games. I rifled through the Darth's robes, fingers closing on a small key-like device, etched with runes that glowed faintly under my thumb. I turned it over, its weight solid in my palm. Had to be the starter, I figured. If it got me moving away from this carnage, I'd take the gamble. The desk was a mess, littered with fragments of those ancient relics, their glyphs dim but familiar, echoes of that deal with Ryari on Coruscant. These were dead too, just cold stone carved with secrets I didn't have time for. I grabbed a few intact pieces, their edges keen, heavier in my hand than dead stone had any right to be. I shoved more artifacts into my pack, their bulk straining the seams, and glanced back at the Darth's body. His blood still crept across the floor, black and slow under the altar's red wash. The faint crackle of blasts echoed out from below the office, quieter now, the fight moving deeper into the facility. This Nar Shaddaa had chaos waiting out there, and this tomb wasn't giving me any more answers.
I headed for the door, ready to find that garage and whatever ride this bastard left behind. My boots found their rhythm on the corridor's metal floor, the Predator heavy in my grip again, its frame a cold comfort. That cultist's rifle butt still rung in my skull, a blunt reminder of how fast things go south. I'd fought through worse, Reaper husks, Cerberus phantoms, but this place, this Nar Shaddaa, was a different kind of hell. My omni-tool flared, orange glow slicing through the dark, scanning for garage bay 7. A ping hit, cluster of vehicles, south, two levels down. I locked the path and moved, low and steady. The facility's second pass felt different. The shock had burned off. I wasn't cataloging the dead anymore, just counting doors and corners, tracking the rhythm of the assault below the way I'd tracked Collector swarm patterns on the Normandy's tac display. The air turned sour with hot metal and panic-sweat. The Covenant's main assault was crumbling, a full-on rout under a Sith Eternal hammer. I hit a stairwell, boots silent, Predator low-ready. Corpses clogged the landing, those salamander-skinned Covenant dead everywhere. One stirred, eyes cracking open. The pistol snapped, the round splitting its salamander skull and dropping it back across the bodies it had stirred from. No chances, no regrets. This place was Tuchanka's bombed sprawl stretched to a planet's core, and I was learning its rules the hard way.
I reached an upper-floor balcony, its open railing framing a vast lobby that dropped twenty meters to the ground floor. The chaos below was a warzone, Sith Eternal warriors, mechs, and robed cultists tearing into Covenant elites. Blasts whined hot and close, sabers carved arcs of red death, and screams clawed the air. My target floor, two levels down, was south, a ten-meter drop I could hit if I didn't botch it. I crouched, Predator steady, scanning the mess. The Covenant were breaking, their retreat a desperate scramble, but the Sith Eternal pressed, their twisted metal marks washed red by saber-light as they cut through scaled flesh. Those tentacled Covenant caught my eye, their tech pulsing, familiar yet still wrong. Out of nowhere, a Covenant elite, scales gleaming under the lobby's smoke, raised a clawed hand. A biotic warp, raw, vicious, like my own, ripped through the air, shredding a Sith Eternal soldier into a mess of flesh and armor, dark energy twisting the corpse inside out. My heart slammed against my ribs, eyes wide. I'd know that exact warp signature anywhere. Liara on Thessia, dark energy pouring from her hands as Cerberus phantoms folded like wet paper, her face calm while the Athame Temple crumbled around her. Jack in the Grissom Academy corridor, biotic shockwaves peeling mechs off the walls, laughing as she did it, a feral joy that terrified her students and saved their lives. My own fists on London's streets, splitting Reaper husks with charges that burned my eezo nodules raw. That was mass effect tech. Here, in a galaxy that had no business holding it. Others from my universe, or their toys, were here, and it wasn't a coincidence. I was so caught in the shock I missed the glint of movement in my peripheral.
A Covenant straggler hissed, scales catching the light with its weapon raised. I'd tipped my hand, guard down like a rookie. Three more joined, containment rigs flickering, eyes locked on me. I snapped to, the Predator barking twice, one round through a scaled brow, the next through the containment rig at another's throat. Two dropped. The third lunged, blade flashing. I caught the strike on a snapped-up barrier, pivoted him into the balcony rail, and drove the omni-blade up under his jaw. He folded over the railing, the spray hot on my arm. A figure then stormed the balcony, another Sith Eternal Darth, masked, his single crimson saber igniting with a snarl that cut through the din. The Covenant froze, panic splitting their focus. Two turned on the Darth, blades swinging wild. The last came for me. I didn't blink. A biotic throw smashed the Covenant into a wall head first, skull crunching like a melon under a Krogan's boot.
The Darth was a blur, dodging their strikes like he was born to it, his blade carving through scales with surgical grace. He was a killer, and I was in his sights next.
I charged, omni-blade roaring, aiming to end it. He parried, saber meeting my blade with a screech that set my teeth on edge. I poured biotics into the omni-blade, silicon-carbide glowing molten, but it buckled under his plasma's edge, chewing through after a heartbeat of a second. My arm shook, biotics screaming, and I broke off, stumbling back. The Darth started to advance, blade raised. The Covenant's wild swings bought me a breath, but I was out of time. I vaulted the railing, leaping for the floor I needed, a ten-meter drop with the ground floor's chaos twenty meters below. My biotics surged, a desperate hover clawing at the air, slowing my fall as the lobby's smoke rushed past. My boots slammed the target level, knees buckling, the landing punching the air out of me. I'd made it, barely, bones rattling, biotics burning in my veins.
The floor was a slaughterhouse, Sith Eternal and Covenant corpses tangled in heaps, oil and worse spreading black across the deck plates. Stragglers fought on, more sabers clashing with containment-charged blades. I pushed through, the Predator dispatching a Sith warrior who got too close, his collar-sigil smeared with his own blood as he fell. A biotic throw hurled another into a pillar, the metal cracking with the crushed gravity. The garage threshold loomed, a promise of escape. I crossed it, lungs raw, and scanned for the detailing area, five sleek skycars spotted, their tinted canopies and leather interiors screaming mob boss and dirty credits. Civilian rigs, but the kind built for discretion. I yanked the transponder key from my pocket, thumbing its runes. One of the skycar-lookalikes purred to life, its console glowing. Bingo. I slid into the driver's seat, the door sealing with a hiss that sounded like the Mako's hatch slamming shut on Noveria, that same vacuum-sealed finality that meant I was committed to whatever came next. A steering yoke stared back, straight out of an old Earth history vid. I chuckled, dry and tired.
"Manual controls, huh? Figures."
The console flared red. Authorization Denied. Biometrics Failed. Typical. I glanced back, gut twisting. The Darth, mask glinting, marched through the garage, crimson blade dragging sparks, his Covenant pests gone and dealt with. I was next.
My omni-tool blazed, orange light dancing as I brute-forced the lock. The console blinked, stuck like a loading screen from a bad op.
"Come on, could really use your help EDI if you can hear me," I growled.
My fingers flew, sweat stinging my eyes. The Darth was closing, his blade's whine sharpening as he came, each step a countdown. A second stretched into a lifetime, then green. The ignition animation flashed, the skycar roaring to life under my palms. I slammed the controls, its hover lurching forward, weaving through the garage's maze. A ramp glowed ahead, promising Nar Shaddaa's streets. I gunned it, the Darth's shadow fading in the rearview.
The skycar roared out of the garage, its ramp spitting me high above Nar Shaddaa's skyline. Same vertical maze of credit and rot I'd glimpsed from the facility window, only now I was alone in it, no Normandy, no sign of Galen or Vicrul, just me and a stolen ride. My hands gripped the steering yoke, its ancient Earth vibe a grim joke in this star-hopping nightmare. The console glowed, green lights steady, should be a smooth ride to wherever the hell I was going. A glint in the rearview snapped me alert. There he was, that same Sith Eternal Darth, his masked face a shadow of rage, closing fast on a hovercycle. Black, angular, it was built for a killer, sleek and mean. His crimson saber flared in his hand, a slash of death cutting through the smog. I slammed the accelerator, the skycar lurching forward, my N7 instincts kicking in from a hundred Mako runs and that wild chase through Illium's skies after Vasir. Keep the target in sight, weave the chaos, don't let the bastard get in front.
The skycar screamed, banking hard left as I dove into traffic, more cycles peeling wide. The Darth matched me, his hovercycle a dark streak, that red blade slashing at my tail. Screech, a molten gash tore through the rear hull, sparks raining into the cabin, the console flickering. I cursed, yanking the yoke right, threading between two freighters hauling who-knows-what. The city blurred, towers, ads, holographic signs shouting alien propaganda I couldn't read. I boosted in bursts, the skycar's thrusters howling, dodging a billboard that exploded into shards as the Darth's saber carved it apart.
He was relentless, weaving through traffic with a killer's grace, unable to sense me but not needing to. A crate hurtled from a platform, his Force trick tossing it into my path. I banked sharp, the skycar grazing a spire, metal screeching, the crate smashing another skycar behind me. I rammed the accelerator harder, diving into a narrow alley, walls so close the skycar's sides sparked. The Darth followed, his bike a shadow, that blade slashing again, another gash, this one deeper, thrusters starting to cough black smoke. Warning lights flared, altitude dropping. I boosted again, pulling up into a crowded sky-lane, traffic parting as I barreled through.
Minutes bled into a blur of adrenaline and holographic light. I wove through a swarm of hovercycles, their riders cursing in tongues I didn't know, using them as shields to break the Darth's line. He carved through, saber a red blur, closing the gap. I twisted the yoke in a hard right motion, power-sliding around a tower's curve, the skycar's nose kissing glass. Another slash, hiss, the left thruster sparked, more smoke trailing. The console screamed, altitude hemorrhaging. I rammed his bike, a desperate shove, but he held steady, eyes burning through his mask.
"Ok, hell of a driver, I'll give him that."
I smirked as I banked into a dive, the skycar shuddering as I skimmed a platform's edge. The city's sprawl stretched endless, but a new shape loomed, twin hotel spires for some gaudy casino, their peaks framing a grand waterfall, an artificial spectacle pouring into a dome below. Water roared, a Hutt-funded monument to excess like on one of Galen's holodramas, the gap between the towers barely ten meters wide. My skycar was dying, thrusters spitting, altitude fading fast. One shot. I gunned it, threading the needle, water hammering the canopy like a Krogan charge. The skycar bucked, consoles sparking, but I held the steering yoke and didn't let go. The Darth followed, rage in his eyes, bike screaming through the gap. The waterfall hit him head-on, ripping him from the saddle. He tumbled, a black speck vanishing stories below toward the casino dome, no body, no recovery, just gone, a shadow gone into the dark between the spires.
The reprieve didn't last. Warning lights blazed louder, the console a red mess. Critical Failure. The skycar lurched, thrusters now completely dead, Nar Shaddaa's skyline rushing up. I scrambled, omni-tool flaring, hacking overrides like I was cracking a Cerberus lock. Nothing. The flight sticks were useless, the city a glowing death trap. The casino dome loomed, its gaudy spires and holographic signs screaming wealth and ruin. High-roller territory, packed with sabacc tables, enforcers, and fools too rich to run. I braced, biotics surging, a barrier snapping around me as instinct took over. The skycar smashed through the dome, glass and durasteel exploding, and plowed into the high-roller floor. The impact was hell. The skycar crumpled, sabacc tables splintered, and screams cut off as patrons, human, alien, draped in credits, failed to clear the wreck. Blood and spice mixed with the smoke, panic ripping through the survivors. My barrier held, but my ribs burned, bruised deep, and a cut on my forehead stung, blood trickling into my eye. The concussion hit like a batarian fist, vision swimming, but I was alive. The skycar was a twisted husk, its console dark, the steering yoke bent like a bad joke. The casino's enforcers bellowed, blasters drawn, their slug-like boss nowhere in sight. Nar Shaddaa's chaos had chewed me up and spat me out, and I was still a stranger, battered but breathing.
"-and that's how I landed in this dump months ago."
I lower my glass with a clank against the table. The bite of Corellian whiskey burns my throat.
The bar swells around me, a grimy Chora's Den knockoff drowned in pink and green glow, spice-laced tabac smoke hanging low enough to sting my eyes like batarian ale fumes. Clinking glasses and alien chatter fill the space, a lively buzz of Nar Shaddaa locals unwinding after another day in this hell. My ribs ache, the bruises from that skycar crash long faded but never quite gone, and a faint scar on my forehead itches under the bar's flickering lights. I force a grin, leaning back, a nobody who spins wild tall tales nobody will believe.
"Kriff you, Torel, and your made-up bantha fodder!"
A Twi'lek girl pipes up across the table. Her lekku twitch as she smirks, her violet eyes glinting with mock scorn.
A roar of laughter erupts from the lowlifes around us, my so-called work friends, a ragtag crew of casino runners, spice peddlers, and dock grunts who don't buy a word of my tale about crashing the casino dome. They think I'm some drifter, not the idiot who actually plowed a skycar through their high-roller floor. I laugh back, the sound hollow. I shrink into Torel's skin like I've done for months, winter bleeding into spring on some distant planet by now while I play this game of pretend. The bar is a staple here in Nar Shaddaa, a dive where the city's underbelly comes to forget. A Rodian drunk hacks through the tabac fog, his coughs lost in the wail of a jazz band, their off-key horns whining like a busted comms relay. Holoscreens flicker with Hutt ads, slug-faced bosses hawking swoop races and spice dens, their voices drowned by the clatter of sabacc chips. A Twi'lek bartender slings glowing swill, her hands quick as she dodges a Weequay's clumsy grab. The smoke drifts, glowing faintly with spice, a bitter cloud that clings to my jacket. I've been here long enough to know its tricks, Corellian whiskey the only drink worth choking down, but I'm still a stranger, my bones aching for a galaxy that doesn't seem to exist anymore.
I nurse my glass, the whiskey's burn a faint echo of the life I've lost. The crash took everything. My omni-tool, Predator, Wraith, my armor are still locked in the Hutt's casino armory, guarded tighter than a Cerberus black site. Hospitalization patched me up, but the Hutts' security still holds my gear, keeping me from making any sort of comms back to Mustafar. I am alone, no crew, just Torel, a nobody who everyone believes is just another faceless in a sea of struggle. The lowlifes can't see the truth hiding in plain sight, my only way to survive while I work to get close to that armory, to claw back what's mine. The laughter dies down, and I drain my glass, the clink of ice against its bottom a lonely sound. I push through the crowd, dodging a Rodian's spilled drink, and stumble into Nar Shaddaa's underbelly. The streets are a maze of flickering lights and graffiti, smog hanging over everything, the distant whine of swoop bikes underneath. My boots scrape cracked duracrete, each step a reminder of how far I've fallen.
The city's bowels close over me, funneling me toward my apartment, a cramped hole deep in its guts, walls stained with leaks. The bed is too small, creaking under my frame, a pathetic place to rest for a man who has faced Reapers and won. I lock the door, the bolt's click a hollow victory. A bottle of Corellian whiskey sits on the table, its label peeling like my resolve. I take a swig, the burn bright, and sink onto the bed, the frame groaning. The silence drags at me, denser than the crash, denser than this city. I never knew I'd miss them this much. Galen, with his haunted eyes and raw power. Revan, that masked enigma who sees balance chasing something that makes no sense to me. His Knights, rough but loyal, are a flicker of purpose I hadn't expected to crave. And then there's them, my crew, my home. Garrus's dry quips, Liara's steady calm, Tali's spark, Wrex's growl. Miranda, most of all, her sharp edges and sharper heart, the one I've loved through every hell the galaxy threw at us. London's ruins flash in my mind, ash choking the air, Reaper drones screaming.
"Come back to me, John."
Her blue eyes fierce yet soft. My hand brushed hers, the Crucible's fate looming just beyond that moment.
The whiskey bottle slips from my hand, clinking against the floor. My vision blurs from the whiskey, or just the exhaustion, and I let it take me. No more fear of the Reaper nightmares that always seem to be waiting for me in my dreams.