Identity (a Mass Effect fanfiction)

Human

Garrus hesitated. "Yes. That's what I'm saying. Look, Shepard, you need to go look in the mirror."

"That an order, Vakarian?"

"Let's call it friendly advice." Sensing Shepard's rising temper, Garrus stressed the "friendly".

Without another word, Shepard turned and walked away. He fumed all the way up the elevator. Go look in a mirror. Come on, it was just a couple of lines. What was Garrus getting so het up about?

He practically punched the buttons on the pad keying himself into his quarters, and then had to retype them more calmly. Instead of looking in a mirror—damned turian, who did he think he was, giving orders?—he poured himself a stiff drink, sat down on the couch, put his feet up, and read a report from the engine room. Only then did he get to his feet and saunter over to the bathroom. He used the head and washed his hands, finally allowing himself to glance casually in the mirror. No subordinate was going to tell him what to do, no matter how old a companionship they shared.

At first, his gaze flicked over his reflected face in his accustomed manner. Hair, check. Teeth, check. Shave—still needed one. Wait—was that a new scar on his chin? He leaned closer to the mirror. It was. Well, so he had a new scar. Maybe he had a couple.

Finally he looked himself straight in the eye, and he started so badly he nearly fell into the head. Collecting himself, he leaned closer, and at last he saw what Garrus had meant. Not only was his skin practically criss-crossed with bright lines, his eyes were ... orange.

What in the hell had Cerberus done to him?

What even was he? Was all this talk about Commander Shepard being rebuilt a lie? Was he actually some kind of machine? He knew he had some cybernetic implants, but ... He took another good look at his eyes. They were actually glowing.

He ripped off one of the arm braces he wore, his fingers searching for a pulse in his wrist. It was there, beating fast because he was agitated, but steady. Surely if he had a pulse, he was human. Wasn't he?

It had never occurred to him before to wonder, or even to think about what it meant to be human. Not that he would have minded being turian, or krogan, or maybe drell. He wasn't sure he would have made a particularly effective asari, and he had no desire to be salarian. Or volus or elcor, and certainly not hanar. But he had been born on Earth, born a human, and he had always been fine with that. To be a machine, though, or some kind of ... was he a hybrid? Was he even a person? Could Cerberus just make another one of him if they felt like it? If so, who was he?

In a rage—and something of a panic, if truth be told—he stomped out of his quarters and onto the elevator, heading down to the only person who could explain this to him.

He fumed all the time he was waiting for Miranda to open her office door to him. She looked up from behind her desk, her eyes wary. "What—"

But she didn't get any further, because Shepard slammed his fists down on her desk and leaned over her, shouting, "What the fuck did you do to me, Miranda?"

To her credit, she didn't flinch. "Saved your life."

"Look at me!" he roared. "What am I?"

She did look, and her eyes softened with pity. "You're Commander Shepard. And Commander Shepard is one scary s.o.b."

"Don't make jokes. What am I, Miranda?" There was a note of desperation in his voice that he didn't like, but couldn't keep out.

"We didn't get a chance to put on the finishing touches because of Wilson, Shepard. You know that."

"But they're getting worse."

"Yes, I can see that."

"So, what am I? Am I some kind of a machine? Is my skin wearing out?"