#ANYWAY HAPPY N7 DAY THIS IS THE FIRST THING RESEMBLING REAL WRITING I'VE DONE IN LITERAL YEARS...

[astorythatwritesitself]

Déjà Vu

He feels like they've crossed paths before.

(Also on AO3!)

The dust settles and he slips away in the confusion of rescue and retrieval. Failure never loses its sting- but sometimes it’s out of his hands. He, like the rest of the galaxy, simply needs to step back and process all that happened.

He keeps to the fringes of the Presidium crowd, his steps slow and shaking and clothes drab- no need for complicated cloaking tech, even for overt stealth, even here. The infirm and poor are invisible, wherever they go.

He hasn't seen the news like this since he was a child. Then- every screen, every site on the extranet, every scrap of radio alive with the Relay-314 incident. Now-

The target's well in sight and shows no sign of deviation from her usual route, leaving the embassies and circling the presidium, not long until she boards the line to the lower wards-

The ground trembles.

He stumbles for real, clutching the walkway rail to keep from falling, all thoughts of the target lost because the shaking does not stop.

He pays enough attention to give context to the names seared into his memory. Sovreign, alternately called a Reaper and terror from dark space, or simply a warship led by a madman; Udina, an admirable addition to the Council or a coup waiting to happen; the ship Normandy, officially under Alliance command yet her crew shows a krogan, quarian, turian-

‘anyone who can make them, barriers, for the love of the Goddess!'

The lights have gone out, yet the Presidium glows bright with biotic flares. The arms are closing and there is something here, something dimly sensed that some deeper instinct shies away from committing to memory.

The asari cry out for their Goddess, turians their spirits; countless prayers amidst the screaming and crash of rubble as ships slip in, as geth storm the halls.

He offers his own as he weaves away from the worst of it, lungs burning as he sprints over the lake bridge with so many others, seeking shelter to weather out the storm.

Debates rage and rumors fly; he sifts through contracts and finds a name woven throughout it all. Some hail her as a hero, others call her a maniac, a threat to galactic stability who must be dealt with, an asset that will cripple the Alliance and human interests if eliminated.

He doesn't take those jobs.

Those who want Shepard gone get their wish anyway.

He cannot forget, but the name fades until that evening on Illium. A difficult job and fraught with memory of the Citadel under siege, of his failure to end Nassana's cruelty then and there.

He is aware of the chase, that as he hunts Nassana, Shepard's crew hunts him. But there is only one moment where his steps falter, now as they did then, when the air shifts through the vents-

His prayers have turned to Kalahira when there is a scent like lightning over the raging sea, a figure streaking through the carnage as if on wings.

He slips through the tower, wondering about what awaits at the end.

He had meant it to be his death, but now... now, he has questions.

He hopes Kalahira will be kind enough to hold back the tide long enough to find the answers.