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Shepard dreams of a park abandoned, of dense fog and frozen trees and brittle branches. These are dreams of decay, of death, of autumn’s surrender to winter’s grasp. She is not long in these dreams alone. There is a boy. Or a man. Or a caricature of both. He appears, or was there, or settles with a heavy sigh and sits on a green bench head tilted just-so, a slant to lips.
He says: Goodbye Shepard. Thank you. Spectre, proud, the very best. Hand sure, quick. Pistol rounded on a thing that was and will be; shoots to preserve; hope they tell you, he shot himself because he was himself, because you made him see.
He says: You didn’t. Young, tired, proud. Teeth ground, words thrown; you did not give hope.
He says: Doubt. You bred doubt across the galaxy. Whispers into cracks; maybe, maybe, maybe and what if?
It is, she thinks, true enough. Words were weapon enough, when quick drawn and on-point. Saren was the hero in his own tale, a leader, a pioneer using talent and skill to herd a people and a galaxy into a future that demanded unflinching change in effort to survive. And it called for tremendous effort, really, to survive what was coming.
He says: Join us. But you have. Falling, falling, fallen. Melted skin, bonemeal ash. Your suit would not have survived reentry; N7 badge worn on metal worn on circuits. Consensus reached. Not hard suit worn through atomo. No yours… plating cracked, onmi-gel in too many joints. Repair needed. No time, many things to do. So, storage locker, 49KNOVA to open. Open. Open. Opened. Join us. But you have.
He says: better faster stronger built to order built to last built better faster stronger joke joke this must be a joke what have they done what am i
He says: Join us. Ready-made miracle; two coins for two eyes; don’t look back or you’ll never leave, follow the song, follow you love, but don’t look back. Did you? You did. Look and look and look. You were dead. Death took you but you were taken by a song. No. Cerberus.
He says: Bad dog. Isn’t there always a bad dog somewhere in the tale?
He says: Join us. And you do. You did. The only one, they were the only choice, take from them as they take from you. Take and take and have them join you instead. And they did. Yours to take. Yours to place. Yours to command in death. In life. You they see. You they emulate. A miracle of impossible, of immutable, of the last bastion, of leadership, of prideful defiance. Say no, say no. They all say no. But maybe, maybe, maybe and what if?
He says: You set impossible standards. They all want to be you, be like you, be part of you.
He says: Joining you.
He says: Are you taking direct control?
Shepard dreams of a place abandoned, of death and decay (but not Horror, never Horror. She does not dream of Horror nor Fear nor Rage). These dreams are not filled with endless searching; here there is nothing to find. Always, always, there is a boy or a man or a caricature of humanity. He greets her with a smile and she doesn’t always sit at his side, he doesn’t ever leave his seat. But it doesn’t matter; they paint the spaces between them. With hope and doubt; with Despair.