Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Penelope Daniels.

The name—my name—was written on the card, imprinted neatly onto the flimsy piece of white plastic with black letters that shimmered in the artificial light as I tilted it in my grip. I squinted down at the tag, and stared down at it numbly, clutching the card in my fingers until my nails turned white. 

“For normalcy,” the nurse had said with a gentle smile and a pitiful look in their brown eyes, before ducking behind the plain white curtain. The only barrier between me and the others in the same boat. 

Normalcy.

This isn’t fucking normal. 

None of this was fucking normal. 

It smelled sterile here. The faint odour of chemicals tickled my nostrils. My eyes were dry from overuse and there was a pain in my stomach that hit me in waves. Around me, a cacophony of noise—sobs, shouts, the scraping of metal beds, footsteps echoing in and out. It all blended together in white noise. For the first couple days, I had to force myself to keep breathing, today it was a challenge.

I didn’t know how long I’d been staring at the name tag until the sunlight outside had faded. 

I glanced at the window. Outside, the world was wrong.

The white city beyond was alien. The rounded buildings were huge, towering, with streets snaking around them below. Cars that were shaped with a sleek body zipped past the glass in a line like a school of fish, headlights blearing into my eyes as they drifted by. It all screamed something futuristic— a different era. Behind it all was a pretty greenscape, but it wasn’t earth . That much was obvious from the two sets of moons hovering in the dark skies, and the strange avian face that hauled me out of the cryostasis pod. One that looked eerily familiar to me and shouldn’t have. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to escape the crushing reality.

Another sharp pang lanced through my stomach. My nails dug into the bedsheets, tangled around my legs, the fabric twisting tighter as I tried to ground myself. But nothing felt real. Nothing felt right . The discourse in my head grew louder and louder, revving like an obnoxious car engine or like an overwhelmingly loud TV static. 

Turian.

The word slipped into my mind like a trigger being pulled, coming as easily as the alphabet did. Easily accessible memories of many nights spent playing through a beloved trilogy that stayed with me from my childhood to my twenties, from scrolling through wikipedias, watching YouTube videos and attentively reading the comics. 

The figure who had hauled me out of the ice pod—a turian. It looked too real. Felt real. The skin—plate—on their hands—talons?—was rough, slightly ridged. A strange mix between metal and bone and some faint soft tissue. 

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

I couldn’t dare say it out loud, couldn’t even admit it to myself, this didn’t feel real. It wasn’t real. 

It couldn’t be real. 

The same phrase kept echoing in my skull like a mantra. 

It couldn’t be. 

Except, it was. 

It was, and I was terrified.

When someone attacked one of the asari nurses with wild screaming, they realised we were pre-first contact, looked at us with such pity in their eyes and like we were fragile relics.

They’d removed all alien personnel, and brought in human psychologists. People trained to deal with emotional instability. They took us aside one by one, to a room with warm lighting, chairs and a table. There was no clutter, no distractions, nothing I could use to avoid the reality or fidget with. 

The psychologist was a middle aged woman, with short blonde hair and kind dark eyes. Her suit was neat, freshly ironed and sleek in design. She introduced herself as Dr. Seda and offered to shake my hand if I was comfortable with it. Then she gently asked if I knew what cryo-sleep was before breaking the news. 

That we’d been asleep for a very long time.

I asked what year it was. 

2181.

I barely slept in two days, barely moved from my bed.

Everything still felt like it was happening in a haze—each moment blending into the next, with no clear start or finish. The nurses made their rounds, speaking in calm voices that didn't match the tense undercurrent running through the place. The cries and sobs from the other victims had become a constant background hum, probably supposed to be a steady reminder that I wasn’t alone, yet this feeling of isolation had never been so strong. 

None of it helped.

There was still a good chance this entire thing was just a complex electrochemical reaction caused by my synapses randomly firing in the millisecond after my death. 

I went through a checklist, something from an article I’d read somewhere. 

Finger through palm. Supposedly, if they pass through, you are dreaming. I pushed my fingers against my opposite palm until there was pain from the tips of my nails. It was solid resistance, and my digits remained the normal amount in number.

Mirrors. In a dream state, your reflection won’t look normal. Aside from the lack of lustre in the dyed blue strands, hints of brown roots at the precipice of my head and tired paleness of my skin, everything seemed… normal. Numb blue eyes stared back at me, disappointment clear in the irises. The gradual building panic bubbled consistently just underneath the surface and threatened to spill over the rim of my sanity.

Nose pinch. Pinch your nose. You’ll be able to breathe if you’re in a dream. I held it for thirty five seconds before the pressure was too much, a gasp was forced out of me, dizziness swarming my head. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Reading. Look away from text then look back again. If you’re dreaming, the text will change. The name tag letters were infuriatingly clean, neat, too perfect. None of them changed, remaining faultless. No glitches or shifting text. They didn’t smudge when I attempted to smear them with my thumb, didn’t suspiciously change colour or form weird symbols.

I was shaking now. 

Tattoos. If you have tattoos, look at them. They’ll look different in a dream. I carefully pulled the thin sleeve of the hospital gown upwards and ran my fingertips across my bicep, firmly rubbing the skin until faintly red and raw. The intricately inked dragon was unaltered. It curled around my arm, fine clean black linework with minimal shading still preserved.

A sob escaped me.

Fuck. 

I bit down hard on my lip, trying to contain the nausea rising in my chest. I couldn’t break down now. I couldn’t. There had to be an explanation. Some kind of freak accident. Or a simulation. A nightmare.

But the smell of antiseptic lingered. The distant hum of alien cars outside continued. The sting of my nails digging into my arm was too sharp to be fake.

I was here.

I was really here. 

The nurses did tests.

A lot of tests.

The nurses performed frequent scans, monitored our vitals, and conducted endless evaluations. They explained each procedure with practised patience, so we didn’t freak out when they flashed their fancy equipment in our primitive faces.

I watched them scan me. 

The existential terror was exhausted, taking a temporary backseat, and the sense of child-like wonder was overriding. The inner gamer inside me was fascinated to see everything up close and personal. In the flesh , so to speak. The room they took me to was sophisticated with monitoring equipment, holo-displays hovering across screens and displaying real-time data. 

Nurses and doctors were outfitted in sleek white uniforms with blue accents, and talked to each other quietly in medical gibberish, raising their wrists to bring up the faintly glowing omni-tools and discussing whatever data was on their screen. 

Their eyes flickered up at me on the examination table every now and then. 

One of them said something about cryo-induced disorientation, and I figured based on the context that meant we were all still acclimating to the waking world. They pumped me full of fluids, asked about any symptoms, and checked my neural activity every few hours. My skin was always fluctuating between hot and cold, and they gave constant reassurances that my body was still adjusting to temperatures. They offered polite but detached smiles that never reached their eyes when they caught me looking. 

They put us through physical therapy, something about concerns for muscle degradation. But I was fine. Everyone else was fine. Physically, at least. The nurses said it was something short of a miracle, that simply breathing or blinking should feel exhausting, but it just felt like sleep-inertia. So they did more tests, kept our daily appointments with the physical therapist to assure everything really was normal. 

They gave us rooms for privacy. 

Small rooms, not much bigger than a cell. It was stark, almost empty outside of the bed and the dresser. The bed was a bit too firm, the walls too white. Separated from each other to give a feeling of solace with big windows in case we felt too isolated or easily accessible old fashioned curtains in case we didn’t want the reminder our life was fucked.

They asked if there was anything that could make us feel more comfortable, and I requested a weighted blanket. The next day, there was one folded on my bed. 

I buried myself in it, and cried myself to sleep. 

They let us personalise the rooms, but many didn’t want to, felt like their stay here was still temporary. 

I was starting to realise it wasn’t.

Weekly appointments with another psychologist were arranged, meant to help us cope.

Today was one of my appointments. 

“How are you feeling today?”

My eyes flicked up at them, a man this time. Dr. Rosewood. He had a trimmed beard and swept back brown hair that was peppered with silver, sage green eyes that I would’ve found pretty if my mental state wasn’t a mess. 

I could confide in him about waking up in a foreign future. 

But I could not talk to him about the other thing. 

No matter how much I wanted to. 

I picked at the skin around my nails and gnawed on the inside of my cheek, I pondered over how to phrase my next words, leaving a little awkward silence between us in the meantime. The eye contact was disconcerting, so my gaze lowered every now and then. 

“As okay as I can be.”

“It’s completely understandable to feel unsettled. This whole experience is something most people can’t even imagine. Being pulled out of everything you knew, waking up to a world so different... it can leave you feeling like the ground’s been ripped out from under you. It’s okay if you’re not ‘okay.’ This is a huge adjustment.”

“It feels like…” I started before adjusting my initial observation. “It feels like I’ve woken up with someone else’s life.”

An understatement.

They leaned forward slightly, voice soft. “That disconnect you're feeling, like everything around you is unfamiliar... It's natural. Many people who come out of cryo feel displaced, even lost. You're not alone in this.”

I was, in a way. 

He studied me in my silence. “Have you felt like this often since you’ve woken up?”

“Yes,” I said honestly, exasperated by the inability to talk to him about the doom and gloom that loomed in the future. About the unknown dangers lingering in Dark Space that made me sob until sleep took me, and then woke me up in the middle of it from the disturbing nightmares. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” he assured, unaware of my true inner plight. “It’s okay to take things one step at a time, and you don’t have to go through this alone. There are others who feel the same way. Some of them are dealing with the same kind of disorientation and fear. I know you said you feel like this isn’t your life, and that can feel incredibly isolating, but connecting with others who are struggling with those same feelings can help ease that loneliness.”

Others.

My mind flashed to the fearful faces of those who were in neighbouring pods. To the screaming and sobbing of the other victims of cryo. In my state, I hadn’t considered that maybe they were in the exact same boat as me.

There was a flicker of hope. 

Maybe I wasn’t alone. 

I’d never been great at small talk. 

I usually preferred peaceful moments, spent with myself. Video games, drawing, reading. Solitary hobbies were my sin, my bread and butter. The years at university and part time work had offered me practice to come out of my shell and gain some experience as an adult, but I still preferred to stay home and be social online than face to face. It was just easier.

The small group of Revivals (that’s what they were calling us now) from the same century, sat at the table. They were socialising us together daily now that we weren’t constantly freaking out, like we were a bunch of feral kittens that needed desensitising to other people, or figured we could find comfort in each other’s trauma— like my new psychologist pointed out. 

The silence was starting to build like an uncomfortable pressure in my chest. 

No one was talking. 

They picked at their food, scattered in uneasy spaces in the carefully crafted canteen, modelled to resemble something less… sci-fi, to normalise something for us and offer some form of comfort. But some were staring into their cups, others blankly staring outside the large window. 

I wasn’t a manipulative person. I was blunt. I preferred being upfront, to skip the false smiles, petty bullshit, misinterpretation and misunderstandings. It was simpler. 

But it made things difficult here. 

I couldn’t just ask, “hey so, I’m not the only one who knows this universe, right? That there are inevitable universe-ending monsters on their way in the next so-so years and we can easily die as collateral in the process because there’s literally nowhere to run, haha? ”

My gaze drifted around the table, counting just how many others there were. Most were adults in their thirties. Two were middle aged. One was elderly, and there were two teenagers. Then there was me. Fourteen or so, including me. 

The brunette across the table appeared mid-to-late twenties. I nervously ate a piece of apple from my plate, hearing the crunch in my own ears with every chew. 

“I’m Nell,” I offered quietly, and she seemed almost startled at being addressed. Her wide eyes snapped up to me, like a cornered animal. Gentle approach, then. 

“I’m… I’m Daisy,” she said in return, voice barely above a whisper. Her accent couldn’t be anymore different from mine, sounded more American. Southern. 

I nodded, and fiddled with another slice of apple, hoping my features were at least somewhat neutral. “Where are you from, Daisy?”

She was so quiet I thought she didn’t respond for a moment. “Louisiana…”

“Hm. Louisiana? That’s cool. I always wanted to go there,” I admitted, trying to make conversation. I flashed her a small smile. “For the food, mostly.”

“Mm,” she made a noise of acknowledgment, probably to be polite. She seemed uncomfortable, and I knew exactly how it felt. A stranger continuously chatted your ear off when you just wanted to be left alone. 

I understood that more than anything.

Especially now.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford social mercy, even to a kindred spirit. After a bout of awkward, torturing silence, I decided to test the waters once more, my fingers fidgeting with my hair. “This is like something out of a sci-fi movie, isn’t it?”

She very faintly nodded, barely responding to the question, barely reacting. No one else chimed in, nor looked up.

It’s like drawing blood from a stone.

Guess I couldn’t blame any of them, I was shell shocked and mute for the better part of a week, my own mind grappling with the reality that I was trapped not only in a different century, but in a different dimension . The enormity of it all was almost too much to handle, like my small brain couldn’t comprehend it. 

I needed to keep going, even if this was outside my comfort zone. 

“What do you… remember?” I asked softly. “Before this?”

Daisy’s eyes shifted to her lap. “Not much… just the usual stuff. Work, home… family.”

Her lip wavered, and I tried not to think about my own. “It’s… hard to wrap my head around, everything is so… different.” 

Her gaze became distant, and I was worried I was losing her, pushing too hard. Daisy looked up, her eyes finally meeting mine. “It’s all so… overwhelmin’.”

“Yeah,” I replied, clicking my knuckles out of habit. “Like that alien.”

“Alien? You mean…” her eyes flashed with fear. “You’re talking about that creature we saw? The one who…”

“Pulled us out of those pods,” I confirmed. 

The other Revivals flinched, avoiding eye contact, their faces pale and tense. They picked at their food with trembling hands. I swallowed slightly, and looked back to Daisy, who had started quaking. 

Shit.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I quickly said. “Just thought—talking about it might help.”

“I-” her eyes watered, hands clutching at the table. “I don’t want to. Please… just leave me alone.”

Fuck, I pushed too much.

“Okay,” I said gently. “I’m sorry.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her hands were still gripping the table. The silence returned, but now it felt more strained. The same uneasy expressions reflected in the others' faces, and it was clear the conversation was over.

So much for seeking comfort in others. 

I sighed.

The omni-tool blinked faintly around my wrist, casting an amber glow over my skin. I stared at it blankly and turned my arm over for the umpteenth time. The holographic interface shifted slightly with my movement, but mostly just hovered there, taunting me with its complex design. If I was struggling with a glorified smartwatch, the most common technology in this world, what chance did I have with anything else? 

“The pinnacle of advanced tech, and I can’t even turn it on,” I muttered to myself, waving my hand over it, prodding and tapping. It flickered, but was right back at the start up menu. I was this close to detaching and throwing it across the room. “Work dammit!”

“May I assist you, Penelope Daniels?”

I jolted, looking down at it with wide eyes. The voice wasn’t mechanical like a robot, too calm and smooth. A small figure materialised in front of me suddenly, a hologram, softly glowing and about a foot tall with the head of an ibis, golden eyes peering up at me over an elongated beak. He wore a shimmering white robe and carried a scroll in one hand, like some ancient scribe. 

“What the fuck are you?”

“I am your assigned virtual assistant,” the figure said, and bowed slightly. “I have been designed after the Egyptian deity Thoth, god of knowledge, writing, and wisdom, to assist you with your omni-tool operations and to answer any potential questions you may have.” 

I couldn’t help but huff a laugh, despite the bizarre situation. “They gave me a personal assistant modelled after an ancient god?” 

He replied smoothly, his beak-like mouth unmoving. “In your sessions with Dr. Rosewood, you mentioned a keen interest in Ancient Egyptian Mythology. The thematic design is meant to inspire a sense of familiarity and comfort. If you prefer a different representation, I can be customised to your liking. Does this form suit you, or would you like to select another?”

Having a mini Thoth as a little helper, fake or otherwise, struck me as kinda awesome. “No, thank you, this is fine.”

“Very well, Miss Daniels. I am pleased to hear that. Now, shall we begin navigating your omni-tool? I can guide you through the start-up process, or would you like to inquire about any specific functions?”

“I could use a tutorial on the startup process, please.” 

The scroll in his hand vanished as he raised a finger, pointing toward the lower part of the omni-tool. “Please swipe your hand over the lower surface of the omni-tool band vertically to initiate the primary interface.”

I followed his instruction, swiping tentatively, and to my surprise, the omni-tool flared to life with various holographic icons hovering in the air. My eyes flicked across it in quick wonder, giddy to finally have progress.

“Good. Now, this is your main command centre. You can access communication channels, data storage, and various tool functions from here,” Thoth continued. “Would you like to make adjustments to the interface for ease of use?”

“Adjustments?” I asked. “Like what?” 

“We could simplify the menu, increase icon size, or activate voice commands for most functions.”

“Voice commands might be a good start,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. If I got lost trying to navigate it again, actively telling the omni-tool to go to where I needed it to go could be more than useful. “Yeah, activate voice commands, please.”

“With your permission, I will enable them.” Thoth waved his hand, and the omni-tool blinked, shifting subtly as the interface restructured itself. “Now, you can simply ask for what you need. Try saying, ‘Open diagnostics.’”

I took a breath, feeling slightly foolish talking to a machine, but this whole week had been ridiculous already. “Open diagnostics.”

Immediately, a screen popped up displaying a list of my omni-tool’s functions and current status. I blinked down at it, and felt a swell of satisfaction for a second, then confusion followed at the kerfuffle of information. I was at least glad to recognise the universal battery symbol, revealing that it was at eighty-five percent, with a message below it saying that all systems were fully operational. Then there was a section labelled “functionality Overview” which listed several things beneath it. Detected hazards, nearby resources, repair functions, current processes and recent activity. 

“Diagnostics are now accessible,” Thoth confirmed. “This tool can scan your surroundings, repair technology, and process data. With time, you will become more proficient.”

"Why would I need to scan my surroundings?" I always wondered if normal civilians could use such a tool, and this all but confirmed it.

“Scanning your surroundings can serve several practical purposes,” Thoth supplied. “In your disorientation, understanding your environment can enhance your safety by aiding in identifying potential hazards, such as unstable structures or environmental dangers. Additionally, it can guide you by revealing nearby amenities, providing a map of the area if you get lost, and even scanning unfamiliar technology to inform you of its function. This is particularly useful for your status as a Revival.”

Seemed like the title was going to stick after all.

“Thank you, Thoth,” I felt a little silly being polite to the robot, but felt strangely comforted by his presence. It didn’t make me feel… so alone. As sad as that was.

The ibis-headed figure inclined his head. “You are most welcome. I am here to guide you whenever needed.”  

My eyes flickered over the interface again, the bubbling excitement in my chest at new technology providing a lovely distraction from my situation . “So, what kind of apps does this thing have?”

Thoth’s holographic form shimmered as he responded. “Your omni-tool offers a wide range of applications designed to enhance your experience. You’ll find communication apps for messaging and video calls, ensuring you can stay connected with others. There’s a data storage app for organising files and documents, as well as a mapping application to help you navigate your surroundings. For entertainment, you have access to holo-games and immersive virtual experiences. Additionally, there are tools for environmental scanning, health metrics management, and connecting with other technologies nearby. Each app is designed to make your life easier and more connected in this new world.”

Okay, I had to admit, this thing was fucking cool. 

And more importantly, I could use it to my advantage. 

Knowledge was power, after all. 

Which brought me to my next question. “Is there an internet in this future?”

“We have what’s known as the Extranet.” He started. “A vast network of interconnected computer systems that spans the Milky Way. It allows for real-time communication and information sharing across various platforms. However, access is prioritised. The Citadel Council and Spectre’s have top-tier bandwidth, meaning they get first dibs on network usage. Governments and their militaries follow, and during conflicts, civilian communications can face significant delays.”

The familiar names of the Citadel Council and Spectre’s was surreal to hear.

“How much delay?”

“While everyone can access the Extranet for free, they’re last in line for bandwidth. That said, it’s an invaluable resource for cross-cultural communication, accessing a galactic encyclopedia, and even engaging in trade or entertainment. Utilising the Extranet can provide you with a wealth of information.”

“Can you help me access it?” I asked, my mind racing with possibilities.

“Affirmative,” he replied, and I nearly squealed. “To connect to the Extranet, simply download the browser app ‘Holonet’ and your omni-tool to establish a link.”

“Okay, how do I download the app?”

“With your permission, I will search for the application and initiate the download process for you. Once it is installed, you will be ready to explore the Extranet.”

“Alright Thoth,” I stared intently down at the Ibis. “I give you permission to download the app.”

The screen flickered, displaying a progress bar in the corner. The download completed in a heartbeat, a cheerful beep signalling its success. I bit my lip, that giddy feeling from earlier returning and tingling in my chest, making my heart beat faster. There was a grin stretching across my face.

In that moment, the darker days ahead faded away. 

For now. 

Since learning that my omni-tool could provide information on practically everything around me, I started scanning everything in my room like a woman possessed. 

The omni-tool hummed softly as it processed the space around me. The familiar sights transformed into glowing outlines on the display, a log of details on the materials writing out quickly on the side. The walls, the furniture, even the clutter on my desk—all of it became information. The tool identified objects, highlighting the half-empty glass of water, the bed, the weighted blanket, and the poster of an Extranet action-drama series that they kept playing in movie night for the Revivals to acclimatise us to asari culture, called Blue’s Anatomy.

I liked movie night, not a lot of others did.

Finally, I turned my focus to the door, aiming the omni-tool’s sensor at it. The device whirred softly as it analysed the structure for me.

“Scanning complete,” Thoth reported. “The door is made of reinforced metal. Its status indicates that it is currently closed and locked. There is no visible damage.”

That much was obvious, the assigned nurse that escorted me back and forth between my room, the mess hall, and my appointments always locked it behind me when I wanted to return to it. Our freedom was a little limited until we showed progress, though mine was less restricted lately. 

I guess I was improving, to them.

The distraction the omni-tool provided certainly helped.

Thoth paused, considering. “Unfortunately, you do not have the clearance to unlock the door directly. Access is controlled by the facility’s security protocols.”

I didn’t like that.

A knot of unease formed in my stomach. I approached the door with a few steps and tried to peer outside of it, but the small window in the centre was blurred for privacy. Now I didn’t know if it was for me, or them. 

“Hello?” I knocked on the door, and when I received no response, gnawed on the inside of my cheek in frustration. “Thoth, can you please message the nurse assigned to me that I want to talk to her?” 

“Of course,” Thoth replied. “Initiating a message to your assigned nurse now. The omni-tool flickered as it prepared the message. “What would you like me to include in the request?”

I thought for a moment before replying, “Just let her know I’d like to discuss my current status and any potential for more freedom.”

“Message composed. Sending now.” Thoth’s holographic form glowed as he completed the task. “Your request has been sent. I’ll notify you when I receive a response. Is there anything else, Nell?”

I’d changed the formalities in my profile, finding the ‘Miss Daniels’ a bit too… impersonal. 

“Yeah,” I looked down at my omni-tool, bringing my wrist up. “What games are on this?”

“Alliance Corsair is automatically installed, along with Chess, and the 400-year old human card game Solitaire. Do you wish to browse the app store for further options?”

“Yes, please.”

Chapter Text

“Good to see you again, Nell. How have you been feeling since our last session?”

I didn't hesitate to answer this time, determined to show him I was better, wanting more freedom. "Good."

He scrutinised me closely. “That’s encouraging to hear, but remember, it’s perfectly okay to feel a mix of emotions.” 

“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got a lot of distractions.”

“So I’ve heard,” his eyes drifted to my wrist, where the thin omni-tool band was. “How are you finding it? The omni-tool? Is it useful, or too overloading?”

“Very useful,” I nodded, a smile twitched on my lips. “Thoth is a big help.”

His expression softened. “I’m glad to hear it. I thought you might appreciate the personification. What kind of things has Thoth helped you with?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “Just learning how to use the omni-tool, connecting to the extranet and stuff.”

There was a hint of amusement in his sage eyes. “Ah, yes. I heard you're a Galaxy of Fantasy fan.”

My skin flamed a little, my smile sheepish. It was fascinating, with slithers of militaristic ancient Roman culture, there were a lot of themes of war and honour. It was almost reminiscent of Warhammer 40K. I ended up spending most of my nights on Galaxy of Fantasy before bed, it was addictive. 

“No need to feel embarrassed,” he gently smiled. “It’s a clever way to engage with your new reality. Escaping into a fantasy world can be a healthy way to cope with everything you’re experiencing, within moderation. Are you feeling a better sense of control? Do you feel more grounded?”

I nodded quietly.

He leaned forward slightly. “What aspects of the game help you feel that way, do you think?”

I rubbed my neck. "I'm not sure, I guess... the game is just really cool. Ridiculously amazing graphics compared to what I'm used to, I can make my own character—which is one thing I love doing in rpg type games, and I'm learning a lot about turian mythology—they’re very similar to the ancient Romans."

“That’s a positive shift, Nell. Your interest in their culture and mythology suggests you're becoming more open to the possibilities of this new future,” he motioned with his hand. “Once you're able to meet an alien, how do you think you’ll feel? Excited, nervous, or a mix of both?”

Terrified, I thought. Amazed. I picked at the skin around my thumbnail. “Both.”

“That’s understandable, it’s a big step,” he crossed one leg over the other. “Do you know how the First Contact between our species went? Have the leaflets provided by Dr. Seda helped in that regard? If you haven’t, there is no judgement here, it’s a lot of information to retain. You’ve missed a lot of history.”

“I know a bit,” I said carefully. The secret I was going to keep until my grave pressed down on my chest like a heavy weight. “First contact made things rocky between turians and humans, right?”

“Yes, it was a… complex interaction. There were a lot of misunderstandings, which has led to a lot of hate on both sides, but relations are getting a little better each day…” his eyes searched mine. “How do you feel about that? Knowing that there’s a history of tension? Do you still want to meet an alien?”

“Yes,” I blurted, honestly. “I want to meet the one who rescued us.”

His face twitched in surprise, but he quickly recovered. “What do you hope to gain from that encounter?”

“I want to thank him, personally.”

He looked at me with intrigue. “How do you envision that conversation going?”

“I haven’t, but I’d like him to be the first turian I meet.” I flashed a quick, easy smile.

He nodded, the faint lines around his eyes softened though. “His name is Nihlus Kryik. He’s a turian spectre, do you know what that is?”

I blinked, and blinked again.

My heart froze, pausing at picking my skin. My mind struggling to process what he just said to me. I didn’t even have to force the impression that I was lost in my thoughts, and actually had to dampen my reaction. The shock of it rebooted my brain, overloaded the circuit with a jolt of electricity and fried any reasoning that stuttered to life. 

What?

Fucking what?

Nihlus Kryik. That Nihlus Kryik? The same one in the beginning of Eden Prime? Who was betrayed by Saren and shot in the back? The person who was supposed to observe Sheperd and see if they were ready to be the first human spectre after Anderson was declined? He was the one who saved me? Who pulled me out of that ice coffin? Who pulled all of us out?

For some reason, even if I was in the same universe, it didn’t click in my brain that the characters would be real people too. That they wouldn’t be a figment of a digital world, it made this whole thing too surreal—but the thing that rocked me to my core the most was that he rescued me. A character from a video game saved my life and actually existed with flesh and blood—plate and blood? The point stood. Of all things, Nihlus Kryik saved my life.

It was too convenient, too much of a coincidence that sent me reeling. 

Why him?

Why Nihlus?

What relevance did he have to me? Was he somehow the reason I was here? Was I somehow linked to him? He saved my life, maybe now I had to save his somehow? I didn’t want to be near any of that—Sheperd, Saren, geth, collectors, the fight for humanity against the reapers, things my puny self couldn’t even comprehend being real—I didn’t have a plan for it. 

I just wanted my distractions— hoped that despite this world being the one that I knew, that it wouldn’t take that path. 

I wasn’t a hero. 

I was just a woman. 

A normal, human woman who couldn’t organise for shit. A normal human without a courageous bone in her body—a body or mind not made for combat or the battlefield whatsoever . I was just a woman who wanted to play her video games, and figure out her shit day by day. 

What if you don’t have to directly get involved? A small, stubborn part of my mind whispered. What if Nihlus lives? Would that change anything? Get Saren taken down a peg quicker? Maybe Sheperd would be able to reach the necessary information quicker? 

But still, why me?

The singular question that would probably haunt me until the end of my days. 

He continued, as if my stunned silence was just uncertainty at his question. “Spectres are elite agents of the Council, given their authority and permission to act above the law if necessary to complete difficult missions. They’re very special people.”

I cleared my throat, realising he was watching me. “Is this your way of telling me that a meeting with Nihlus is not likely?”

Nihlus–fucking–Kryik.  

Still not over that.

“He is a spectre, there is no guarantee he’ll be available or even respond to such a request.” My lips thinned, and he sighed. “But if you’re serious about this, I can help facilitate a missive, see if he might be willing to meet with you, how does that sound?”

Even if I don’t try to save him… it would be really neat to meet him. Not everyone got to meet fictional characters, and who knew when this opportunity would come up again?

Yeah, I decided, despite the bubble of anxiety, there was a tinge of excitement. It’d be like meeting a celebrity, in a way. 

“It sounds great.”

Dr. Elias Rosewood

Nova Health Clinic

Citadel, Presidium

[Feburary-19th-2181]

14:32PM

To: Nihlus Kryik

Spectre, Councilor’s Office

Dear Mr. Kryik,

I hope this message finds you well.

As the head doctor overseeing the Revivals process for reintegration to society at the Nova Health Clinic, I am reaching out to you regarding one of the individuals: Penelope Daniels. 

Your involvement in her extraction from cryostasis has not gone unnoticed by her. Your unique perspective as a Spectre, coupled with your experiences in interspecies relations, could greatly benefit her adjustment process. 

Nell, as she prefers to be called, has shown remarkable resilience in adapting to her new circumstances. She has expressed a deep appreciation for your role in her rescue and is eager to thank you in person. She specifically requested to meet you in person. I believe this would assist with her closure and would be grateful for your cooperation should you so choose to accept.

I understand that this might not be likely due to your role as a Spectre. However, if you are willing, I can arrange a private space in which you can both speak freely.  Please let me know your availability, and I will ensure everything is set up accordingly.

Thank you for considering this request.

Best regards,

Dr. Elias Rosewood. 

Nihlus stared at the message, the glow of his omni-tool brushing against the angular shape of his features. He leaned against the railing of his balcony overlooking the Presidium, tilting his head as he read over the same words a few times. 

The human had been one of the few left alive from those ancient cryostasis pods. He searched his memory banks for her face, wondering which one of them was Penelope Daniels, and came up blank. He never learned their names, just found them floating in a derelict ship. It was a damn miracle the remaining Revivals were alive, with how volatile and primitive their cryo tech had been. He couldn’t even believe it at first, when he found them. 

It was human made, from the 21st century. 

They should have been long dead; the ship should have failed generations ago. In fact, most of the people he encountered there had perished, especially since the ship had siphoned power from other cryostasis pods to keep its systems running. There were only fourteen or so left when he stumbled upon them, out of hundreds.

He could imagine they were beyond horrified at their situation.

Now, they’d all have to adapt at such a tumultuous time, with humans pushing and pushing for more power and receiving ire for it. With the shadow of First Contact looming over them, humans from their past would struggle to process—would most likely be as aggressive as their possible descendants in the face of aliens, and struggling to share the galaxy like it was theirs first. He had observed humanity from a distance, and while he respected their tenacity, adaptability, their passion, he couldn’t ignore the underlying tension that still coursed through their interactions with other species, especially turians. The scars between the two were still fresh.

Yet, this one, this Penelope Daniels, requested him. She wanted to meet him, to personally thank him. It was an unusual sentiment, especially for a human that never went through First Contact.

He could admit, he was curious. 

Nihlus looked out over the lush gardens of the Presidium, observing a group of humans and asari laughing and chatting together below. 

Their rise had been meteoric, but so had their propensity for conflict. Humans were ambitious, perhaps too ambitious for their own good. Their rapid expansion did showcase a desire for exploration and growth, but also impulsivity . They often acted without understanding the implications of their actions. The First Contact war was a golden example of this, one his old mentor liked to reiterate time and time again. 

But he was a Spectre. It was his job—in his very nature to see the bigger picture. He could see their potential, despite their unyielding drive to push boundaries. Their ability to adapt, their technological advancements and their tenacity were impressive. 

Humanity possessed a unique spirit, one that, if nurtured properly, could lead to significant change. Nihlus was too pragmatic to believe he could single-handedly bring about this transformation, but perhaps he could serve as a catalyst or an example.

There was also a small weight on his shoulders that he hadn’t anticipated. He was the one who pulled them from the brink of oblivion after all, and now she was reaching out, looking for some kind of connection in a world that probably felt overwhelming and alien. She was probably looking for purpose or feeling lost, and while it wasn’t necessarily his responsibility to provide either of those, he felt the pull of sympathy. He became a Spectre to make a difference. A lot of the time, he made difficult, morally ambiguous choices for the sake of the galaxy because no one else could, often sacrificing personal connections for the greater good if he needed to. But perhaps—

Perhaps the small, seemingly insignificant choices, could matter just as much. 

Perhaps simply being there to check on them, to lend an ear, could have an impact.

His gaze returned to the omni-tool, where the message from Dr. Rosewood flickered invitingly and he began to compose a response, keeping it short and to the point. 

Dr. Rosewood, 

Please arrange for a suitable meeting time, and I will be there.

Regards, 

Nihlus Kryik.

I scratched the fresh scar underneath my ear, where the translator chip was inserted.

The skin felt tender, and I knew it was going to leave a mark. There was a slight lump, but they told me I wouldn’t feel it within the day, that the harder shell around it would dissolve and that it was very small.

He was coming today. 

Nihlus Kryik was coming to visit me. 

Me.

I hadn’t slept much last night, tossing and turning with my brain running in an energetic loop. The anticipation gnawed at me, a strange blend of mind blowing disbelief and buzzing excitement. I was about to meet someone who I’d only ever seen on a screen, brought to flesh. A fictional character—now a real person. It was surreal. So much more than surreal—it was like the universe had bent itself around something impossible and made it real, and I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.

The meeting room was private, but simple, sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, drummed on the surface of the table and fidgeted endlessly.

Eventually, the door abruptly hissed open through the deafening silence, and my heart leapt into my throat, nails pausing the moment I saw him. 

He was tall, imposing, his presence filling the room immediately like a sudden flood. His skin—plate? Carapace? Was an intricate mix of dark greys and deep reds, his face adorned with those distinctive markings I’d seen countless times on the screen. Maybe now I could actually ask what they meant and get an answer—assuming it wasn’t an offensive question. 

That is, if I could convince my own brain to work. 

I forced myself to breathe as he paused near the door. His gaze scanned around every inch of the room before landing on me. They were a brilliant, sharp emerald against a dark sclera. Almost distantly cold in their assessment.

This is insane. This is actually insane. 

My lips parted, closed and reopened— 

“Hi–lo?”

There was instant regret, a flush of hot embarrassment through my face. My mind was moving at a mile a minute and apparently unable to form a coherent word. Instead, the words ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ were merged. 

Fuck my brain. 

Nihlus— fucking hell —tilted his head slightly, the mandibles on his face twitching. He didn’t seem to comment on my slip, standing there for a beat and scrutinising me. Unease lanced through my stomach, and I resisted the urge to sink underneath the table. 

“You’re… Penelope Daniels?” He asked. His voice was an instant delight, pleasing to listen to, low and gravelly. He took a step closer and I barely restrained my flinch, then he lingered in the doorway. He carefully raised his hand, eyes watching me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

My pulse hammered.

“It’s okay,” I coughed, clearing my throat and gestured to the other chair. “Uh, go ahead.”

He gave a brief nod, before approaching, still looking at me as he pulled out the chair in a smooth motion. He settled down into it, his frame seeming almost too big for the small plastic chair. His gaze remained steady, calm, but there was something softer beneath it as he measured his words. “I appreciate the invitation, Miss Daniels.” 

I swallowed, and adjusted in my seat, peeling at the skin around my nails again before finding the bravery to speak again. “It’s… really neat to meet you, Mr. Kryik— I’m sorry, am I saying that right? I know the translator chip does most of the work but I want to get it right.”

“You’re close,” he said, his mandibles moving a fraction. I wished I could read turian expressions better. His tone wasn’t harsh or reprimanding, just direct. “But no need for formalities. Just Nihlus is fine.”

I adjusted the sleeve of my shirt, one of the few they'd given us, and gnawed on my bottom lip to stop the giddy smile, screaming internally. So far, so good. "It's an honour to meet you, Nihlus."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes, but it was gone before I could examine it closer. His posture was upright, disciplined, as relaxed as a turian from the military could be, I guess.

“Honour may be too strong a word, I just did my duty… but I can appreciate the sentiment,” he mused, his tone remaining neutral, and he gave me a light nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Daniels. I must admit, this isn’t exactly a typical situation for me.”

“Just Nell is fine,” I repeated his own words somewhat, with a nervous flashing smile. 

I could have sworn I saw mirth in his gaze, but my lack of recognition with turian subtleties didn’t help. “Just ‘Nell’ it is, then.”

Silence stretched between us, probably far less than I actually perceived, but my mind was so busy trying to find ways to fill it. I had so many questions before, my mind had been racing and filled to the brim. Now it was blank. 

“I’m sorry,” I blurted, and I quickly learned what a confused turian looked like. “I can’t seem to remember anything of what I wanted to say, I’m—this is a little overwhelming, y’know?” I chuckled nervously.

His head tilted slightly, leaning back into his chair. I expected annoyance, but he seemed relatively patient. “Take your time.”

I collected myself, breathing in and out. 

“I wanted to thank you,” I expressed. “For dragging me out of that cryopod. So… well, thank you. A lot.”

His expression shifted slightly. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied. “But I’m glad you’re here now.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “Can I ask what you remember? Before the cryostasis?”

"Nothing." I sighed, frustrated about the blur. I wished I did. Though even if I did, I doubted I’d tell him. It wasn’t like he’d believe me anyway, I barely believed myself. "I don't remember anything. I was hoping you could tell me about the facility you found me in."

“You really don’t know?”

“No.”

His facial plates shifted slightly, but I could see the thoughtful look in his eyes. 

“It was more of a cargo ship. Not a facility.” He said, and I stared. “It’s surprising any of the pods survived at all. From what I could gather, it was technology from the human 21st century—ancient, by all accounts. At least by our standards. From the information I managed to extract, it seemed to be part of a colonisation expedition. An ambitious human billionaire was dissatisfied with the pace of space travel, by the looks of things.”

I never signed up for any of that.

Or did I, and I don’t remember?

“You found yourself caught in the crossfire of their reckless aspirations.” His tone was sympathetic, but also firm. “I’m sorry.” 

“So I’m a relic of their failure?” I asked dryly, bitterly. “Great.”

“You survived,” he asserted, and I felt surprise at the conviction in his voice. “You’re adapting to what many would consider a terrifying change, and you’re handling it far better than your fellow Revivals, from what I’ve heard. Most minds would crumble under the weight of it all—but you, Nell?” His gaze held mine, and warmth crept into my cheeks. “Your resilience is truly impressive, a testament to human potential.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, if I believed him, but gratitude swelled in my chest. “I—thank you, Nihlus. That means a lot.”

He offered a small nod. “Strength can come from the most unexpected places, just remember that as you navigate this galaxy.” I think a smile flashed across his face—mandibles spreading slightly. “It can be a cruel place, but it can also surprise you.”

A small flicker of hope, like a small flame, warmed my skin. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said softly. 

“Don’t forget it,” he said. “It’ll serve you well.”

I let my eyes drape over the markings on his face, and couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “so…. Your markings.”

His mandibles flickered. “What about them?”

“What do they signify?” I wondered, trying to tame the excitement. 

His expression remained neutral, with the exception of something else flashing across his gaze. “Each turian’s markings reflect their heritage, their colony or home planet. Markings can be a source of pride.” 

“Can I ask where yours are from?” I chirped, admiring the unique paint— or was it a tattoo? Something to look up on the extranet later if he didn’t feel comfortable answering. “They’re really beautiful.”

There was a subtle change in his posture. His eyes blinked at me, and his brow plates shifted slightly. The fleshy part of his neck seemed to darken, but I didn’t know what that meant. Oh dear, was he getting irritated at the questions? 

He hesitated for a moment, and there was a hint of warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. “Mine signifies my connection to Palaven—the turian home planet. It’s a part of who I am.”

“I’d like to go there someday,” I confessed, feeling a lump form slightly in my throat. I wanted to go everywhere before it was… gone. Before everything was. “I’m sure it’s amazing, oh– especially the buildings, I bet your people have really interesting architecture!”

A flutter of eagerness shot through me, turning my voice to a slight squeal. Then a thick blush formed on my cheeks at the shifting brow plates rising upwards on his face. My expression turned sheepish, and I wanted to sink into the floor. 

Way to go, Nell. 

He chuckled, and the sound was smooth and held a melodic quality that was rich to my ears. I could listen to it all day. “Turians have a knack for functionality over flair.”

“There’s beauty in that too,” I tucked my hair behind my ear shyly. “I’ve already been reading about our dietary differences on the extranet, it’s a shame I won’t be able to digest your food. I wanted to try everything.” 

His brow plated twitched. “You’ve been reading about turian cuisine?” 

“You have a dextro-amino acid based biochemistry right? I think I remember reading that it’s primarily protein based and—” I was rambling, and with his mouth opened and closed, that sheepish feeling shot back through me. “Ah- sorry.”

“It's nothing to apologise for. I’m just surprised.” He admitted. 

“Oh…” I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “Why?”

He leaned back in his chair slightly, and the plastic creaked with the movement. “Most humans don’t take the time to learn about other species’ cultures. To see a human take such an avid interest—let alone one that’s from their past, where by all rights your reaction could be considered... abnormal—it is… refreshing, to see your curiosity, but it also makes me ponder how first contact would have gone if you were the first human to encounter a turian.” 

It didn’t feel fair that he was praising me for that. I probably would’ve screamed and ran away under different circumstances, but considering I had outside knowledge…

“I’m sure others would have reacted the same,” I dismissed, waving a hand as if to swat away the compliment. “I’ve just had the privilege of reading about your people before meeting you, is all.”

“Perhaps, but most wouldn’t even bother to learn the basics,” mirth reflected back at me through his piercing, green eyes. “Your enthusiasm stands out. It’s a good thing. Don’t sell yourself short.”

My fingers twisted together and I bit my lip, a flurry of emotions leaving me speechless and struggling to regain my composure. It was warm in here, but that was to be expected. Receiving compliments from a fictional character, from him , was—by all accounts— surreal .

I swallowed, trying to build my confidence back up with a change in topic. "What's your favourite food?"

He hummed in thought, a pleasant rumble coming from his throat that almost reminded me of a running engine. “Unironically, there’s this…dried meat in turian MRE’s. It’s called Secameat. It’s similar to—I think some humans said it’s the equivalent of jerky, but with a kick .”

“Spicy jerky?” I asked with a laugh in my voice, my eyebrows jolting upward and my mouth having trouble restraining a smile. My muscles had loosened without realising, relaxed. “Your favourite food is spicy jerky?”

His mandibles were quirked into what I was starting to learn was something like a… smile? “It’s practical in my line of work, lasts long and packs a punch. There’s a certain comfort in it.”

“Are you getting defensive?” I teased, leaning my elbows on the table. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone the scary spectre is really into mundane snacks and ruin your image.”

“Mundane?” He wondered aloud, and scoffed incredulously. “I could say the same about your human snacks. What is it you call them, potato chips?”

“Crisps,” I corrected. “Or at least where I’m from, we call them that. They’re a perfectly good snack.”

“Crisps, then.” He tilted his head, a glimmer of something in his gaze. “Tell me, what’s so special about them?”

“They’re versatile!” I couldn't help the grin. “You can have them plain, salted, cheesy, barbeque, sour cream—and you can get different textures! And they also have a satisfying crunch. Potato based products are one of the best things humans have ever made.”

“A shame I’ll never be able to test this theory,” he mused, his mouth opened a fraction, a subtle curl like a smirk . “And a tragedy you’ll never be able to try Secameat.” 

“Ah, yes. Curse the inner workings of my human organs.”  

“Indeed.” 

The discussion drifted. Nihlus was surprisingly easy to talk to, but I probably shouldn’t have been too shocked, he was a Spectre after all. It was probably in the job description to be charismatic and navigate effortlessly through conversation in order to extract information from people or network. 

I found myself leaning in slightly, intrigued not only by his insights but by the hints of his personality through the stoic mask he formed. He had moments of quick wit through his more professional facade, seeming to relax the more time he spent talking. I had expected to be starstruck, sitting across from a Spectre with a sense of awe so strong that I’d be left speechless, my thoughts a jumbled mess behind my eyes. But to my surprise, he was doing the opposite—putting me at ease. The way he engaged in our conversation, his calm demeanour and the subtle glimmer of humour in his gaze, made it feel like we were simply two people sharing stories rather than one being a legendary figure of the galaxy—or a fictional character. 

I found myself genuinely enjoying his company, wanting to keep the conversation flowing, to explore more about him and share more about myself, to bond further. 

There’s no way he’d want to, right? I thought to myself, nervous. Jitters shook my hands, which I firmly kept hidden underneath the table, but I pushed myself. 

Never know until you ask. 

“Forgive me, if this is forward,” I started anxiously, and heard my own heart drumming in my ears. “But… would you be okay with keeping in touch? You’re… very easy to talk to—O-of course if you’re busy you don’t have to, I get it, big Spectre business right? I won’t take offence.”

But I would be heartbroken.

There was something thoughtful in his gaze that made me feel a little less vulnerable. “My work as a Spectre can be unpredictable, so there will be times when I may be… unreachable.”

I picked at my nails and chewed my lip, wondering if he was just trying to be polite.

“However,” he continued, and my eyes perked up. “I would be glad to keep in touch.”

“Really?” My voice sounded so hopeful I nearly grimaced. 

“Yes,” his mandibles quirked upward slightly. “Just keep in mind, if I don’t respond immediately it may not be a reflection of your worth as a conversation partner, but simply my job.”

“I look forward to it!” 

He hummed. "As do I."

Chapter Text

Every day was a new routine at the clinic, one I’d settled into like a well-worn glove. 

Wake up early, prepare myself for physical therapy and their endless tests, then mentally prepare myself for the weekly therapy session. The clinic had become somewhat of a safe haven, a place to hide myself away from the rest of the universe and pretend everything was okay. Ironically, before therapy, I always felt a dread building in my chest, knowing that I was going to cry at least once in every session but feeling better afterwards. 

I sat with Dr. Rosewood, discussing things from my past to my hopes for the future, which was looking bleak with how behind I was in terms of skills or technological knowledge. But we took it one step at a time, and he kept patiently reminding me that my own pace was valid, that I had a lot happen to me and I had a support system.

That I wasn’t alone. 

But one day; one of the Revivals killed themselves. 

I was in the middle of my session with Dr. Rosewood next week when I first caught wind of the news.

He had paused mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he received a message on his omni-tool. The warmth of the room was stripped away as he read the screen. I could see the tension in his shoulders as he forced himself to look back at me to inform me.

Camilla Ross. Her husband had been one of the people in the other pods, shut off to preserve her life. She’d barely been living, with the nurses forcing her out of bed and running her through the therapy program for loss like the rest of us, but she obviously needed something further—maybe a different treatment. But it wasn’t caught in time—or she was good at hiding it.

They didn’t want us to know what happened, how it happened. Probably so we didn’t try the same method. 

Now there were thirteen of us left, including me. 

The atmosphere in the clinic shifted that day. It was like a smothering, depressing fog had settled over the building. A shared silence weighed over everyone’s head. Camilla consumed my thoughts the next week, a small pang of guilt in my stomach. I replayed memories of our brief interactions, felt an urgency to talk to the others before someone else felt like it was too much.  

Security tightened at the clinic after her death. 

A guard was stationed in every room. Additional cameras had been installed, their unblinking lenses capturing every moment with a cold, clinical eye. The staff members moved about with more tension in their shoulders. 

It was unnerving. 

I brought up the omni-tool, pressing my lips together in a grim line, deciding how to broach this. Fuck it. I had a VI assistant, might as well use him. “Thoth…?”

"Yes, Nell?" Thoth's voice was calm, the soft hum of his interface punctuating the silence. "I sense you are troubled. How may I assist you today?"

"I want to...uh…mm," I paused in frustration. "I want to message Nihlus—about what happened, how should I...go about it?"

“I recommend starting with a simple message expressing your concern and desire to talk. Would you like me to draft a message for you?"

I tilted my head and nodded, before realising the VI probably didn't understand what that meant and spoke. "Yes, please."

Draft: Hello, Nihlus. I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been thinking about reaching out to you because I really need someone to talk to right now. Things at the clinic have been tough lately, and I could use a friend. Could we set up a time to chat? Thanks, Nell.

I read over the words. After a moment of deliberation, my fingers forced themselves to move, feeling heavy, editing slightly to make it sound more like me, but Thoth helped me word the jist. Having a VI was useful. “Thanks Thoth.”

“Of course, Nell.”

Nell: Hey Nihlus. I hope you’re doing well. Things at the clinic have been tough lately, and I could use someone to talk to, if you’re free? If you don’t have time though, there’s no worries.

I stared at the blinking cursor, wondering if Nihlus was busy somewhere, fighting for his life or busting a space terrorist in some epic adventure. I didn’t know what he was up to prior to Eden Prime, but Spectre life seemed chaotic from the glimpse of what the game showed with Sheperd—and here I was, messaging him with my problems.

I felt stupid.

When my omni-tool pinged, my heart quickened and I checked the message. 

Nihlus: If you need to talk, I’m free. I might not be great at this, but I’ll listen.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. I typed, tapping my fingers on my leg as I considered how blunt to be before saying ‘fuck it’ under my breath. 

Nell: One of the Revivals died. They killed themselves. Couldn’t handle it.

There was a brief pause before his response. 

Nihlus: Are you alright?

I slowly thought over his question. 

Nell: No, not really. I feel guilty.

He typed for a while, and I started to feel nervous when I heard the ping. 

Nihlus: You’re not responsible for the choices of others. What happened is a reflection of their struggles, Nell, not your shortcomings. Do you understand?

My bottom lip wavered. I wiped my eyes, feeling my vision blur. I didn’t know Camilla that well, but that was my own fault. I closed up, pushed the others out when it wasn’t easy to deal with them. Did that make me a bad person? Was I selfish? Was I being dramatic? 

I just wanted to shut off. 

Nell: How do you deal with this kinda shit?

He took a moment. 

Nihlus: I try to focus on what I can control. 

Nell: Like what?

Nihlus: Anything. Routine. The small things help. 

I drummed my nail against my thigh, peering out of the window for a minute before coming up pathetically short. Not much was within my control here, except my little escapades into the modern video games like GoF. Maybe Rosewood could organise a trip for us, or something.  

Then Nihlus typed something that rang in my skull. 

Nihlus: You can’t save everyone, Nell. I learned that the hard way.

“How are you feeling about everything?”

I answered honestly. “Guilty.”

He nodded softly. “What specifically makes you feel guilty?”

"That I didn't do anything?" I questioned, like I was uncertain of it myself. "I feel like I should've reached out more to the others."

“You can only do so much, Nell,” he offered. “Have you considered that you were also navigating your own challenges? It’s important to balance your support for others with your own needs.”

"I've only been focusing on my own needs," I argued.

He held my gaze steadily. “You are allowed to prioritise your own healing. You need to try and remember that.”

I grew silent and swallowed, struggling to counter that, eventually speaking again. "Nihlus said to focus on what I can control."

Dr. Rosewood nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a wise perspective. Focusing on what you can control helps to alleviate feelings of helplessness. Perhaps you could think of ways to support your fellow Revivals while also setting boundaries that protect your own mental health. Have you considered how you might do that?”

"I don't know," I said quietly.

“Maybe that’s something we can explore?” He offered, and I nodded softly. “What small actions can you take, do you think?”

“I could…” I trailed off, thinking. “Bake? My mum liked to bake when my siblings and I were feeling sad. It helped a bit.”

A small smile broke over his lips. “Baking can be rather therapeutic. I bake, actually. It calms my mind.”

“You do?” I blurted, now picturing him in a pink, fluffy apron. 

“I do,” he grinned. “You’d be surprised how satisfying it is to create something. I could share some recipes if you’d like—or, I’ll do you one better. Why don’t I arrange something? A baking day with the others?”

"I'd—yeah, I'd like that." I brightened a little.

“Excellent,” his omni-tool glowed on his arm, he started typing into it. “A little camaraderie can go a long way. Will next week on the 6th do for you?” 

I nodded, and as he was typing, a curious question popped into my mind. "What's your favourite dessert?"

His eyes twinkled in amusement. “Chocolate soufflé, what about you?”

"Uh, cheesecake." I said. "I've never had a soufflé before, are they easy to make?"

“They can be a bit tricky,” he admitted. “If you’re not careful they can fall flat pretty fast. If you’re up for it, I can guide you through it.”

“Fuck yeah,” I blurted, then coughed as he smirked. “Sorry, yes, I meant yes.”

“There you are, Nell. Ready to get started?”

I glanced around the room, noticing the others’ downcast expressions. A few of the others offered me small nods of acknowledgment, but no one said much. The shared silence was a language of its own.

“Yeah,” I smiled, feeling the slight strain in my lips. 

Thoth was guiding me softly through the recipe he found on the extranet. Dr. Rosewood stood beside me, checking on me between moments of making his own recipe. His presence was reassuring, even as we worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the clinking of bowls as people prepped their own treats. They seemed… a little more peaceful. Camilla’s death still loomed over us like a faint shadow, but they were all frowning in concentration, distracted with the motions.

Then again, I didn’t know what was in their heads.

I transferred the bag of crumbs to a tin covered with baking parchment, then leaned closer to Rosewood, clearing my throat and lowering my voice to an uncertain whisper. “Do you think this will help?” 

He didn’t even pause when whisking his bowl. “It’s not a solution, but sometimes… small comforts, like baking, can give us a feeling of control in chaos.”

We worked in silence again for a few moments. The motions of whisking, measuring, and pouring ingredients was oddly soothing, the rhythm of it all helping to settle some of the unease in my chest. Across the room, one of the others—a woman—was rolling dough for some kind of pastry.

I remembered seeing her in the mess hall a few times, but didn’t get a chance to focus on her appearance before in my own depressive cloud.

She was gorgeous, with dark warm skin and furrowing brows, her skillfully painted lips pressing together for a brief moment as she kneaded the dough. She wore the same as the other Revivals, plain clothes (A t-shirt and jeans) ordered from the same place until we could go out and buy our own, and yet her curves filled them out nicely like she was made to wear them—or model them. 

I wagered she could wear a burlap sack and pull it off. I didn’t know whether to be envious, or—

Shit, I’m staring. 

Some of the dough must’ve gotten on the inside of her nails, as she seemed to be picking out something from them, looking around. Her eyes - lighter than I expected, perhaps green? —  locked with mine momentarily, and a small smile broached her darkly painted lips, with a small wink following. My eyes widened slightly, snapping down to my table. I felt a hot flush crawl over my neck, and a flip in my stomach.  

Shit. She saw. 

“Nell, are you alright?” Rosewood noticed that I’d stopped suddenly. 

“U-I-uh, yeah,” I said quickly. “Just—got lost in thought.”

“Are you struggling? Do you need some help?”

“No, I’m—I’m fine.”

“Alright…” he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Would you mind doing me a favour then?”

“Hmm?” I glanced at him. He held up his own tin, and offered it over to me. 

“Could you put this in the fridge for me? I have to continuously mix this.”

The fridge, right next to her station. 

I took a breath and took the tin. “Sure.”

It was no big deal, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t. 

My pulse picked up a little as I walked closer. The fridge door squeaked open as I opened it, a cold breeze softly shivered up my arms as I slid the tin inside on one of the shelves. Before realising what I was doing, my gaze had drifted to her table again out of curiosity. She was carefully shaping the dough into small, flat rounds. They weren’t pastries like I’d originally thought. 

My eyes flickered up, meeting hers, and realising that I’d been caught—again.

In a frantic attempt to make things less awkward, I found myself blurting, “what are you making?”

Her eyes seemed to brighten just a little at my question. Somehow she had gotten a hold of makeup, as her eyes were lined precisely in a winged fashion, with a shimmer of rose gold on her eyelids.

“My nne - mum, sorry - loved making these fried dumplings after she spent time in the Caribbean. They’re called Johnny Cakes,” was her sombre response, her smile slightly tinged with sadness. “Glad I still remember it, honestly. What about you?” 

Her voice was like warm honey, mixed with an accent that was both Nigerian and English. It was unique, and I liked listening to her.

“Vanilla cheesecake,” I blinked. “I’ve never—uh, I’ve never had Johnny Cakes before, what are they like?”

“Better than any dumpling you’ve probably ever had,” she chuckled, turning to face her table again to continue making rounds of the dough. “It’s savoury and buttery. Delicious, really. Great for a little sandwich or just on its own with butter or jam.” 

I tried to picture it, and imagined something more sweet when jam was mentioned. “I’d… how many are you making?”

“Sixteen, I hope. Never been good at cooking or baking for one. How many slices do you think your cheesecake will be?” She looked at me now, finished with her little rounds of dough. 

“About…” I considered it, rapidly feeling my cheeks prickle with heat at her attention. God her eyes are beautiful, what the fuck— “Eight? Six? I’m not good with calculations.”

“Well, if it isn’t too much to ask, I’d enjoy a slice. A trade, if you will.” 

My chest fluttered at the thought of her trying my creation, immediately self-conscious, and chuckled nervously, “I- I can spare some, definitely, I’m not a great baker though, I feel like I’m getting more out of it.”

“Nor am I, but honestly? It’s the thought that counts.” Her smile was genuine and soft as she talked to me, shrugging with her words. “I’m sure your cheesecake will come out great.” 

My face was definitely burning. I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to will my blush away. “Thank you, you’re very sweet. I-I’m Nell, by the way. Well, Penelope, but I go by Nell.”

“Nice to meet you, Nell. Don’t think my doctorate’s got any hold in this day and age, so… Isioma. You’re free to call me Isi, though, if it’s any easier.” 

Doctorate? My mind echoed, impressed. Goddamn. “Isi is cute,” I chirped, feeling too aware of my arms just uselessly hanging there. “What kind of doctorate?”

“Biomedical Engineering. Toughest years of my college career. Lots of nights spent crying over my dissertation, but I did it.” She seemed rather proud of this accomplishment, turning her back to the table to let the rounds rest, looking at me.

“Oh, shit,” I blurted, echoing my thoughts. I felt a little intimidated. She was very pretty and smart. Meanwhile—I made small dioramas, before all this. It wasn’t exactly a stable income, and didn’t require an encyclopaedia of knowledge in my head. “That’s— wow .”

“I’ve seen some of the medical tools and stuff that are around. Things I couldn’t even have dreamed of being available. Maybe in concepts and theories, but - real ? It’s - it’s phenomenal.” Her eyes were alight with awe. “It’s far beyond what I worked on. They won’t let me touch anything though. A shame, really.” 

I managed a small smile. “It is pretty cool, yeah.”

There was a soft chime of my omni-tool, the band lighting up to let me know I had a notification. I glanced down with relief, seeing the familiar interface blink to life. A message from Nihlus. I’d send him an update later. It was rude to stop mid-conversation. 

“Have you customised your personal VI yet?” I asked her, glancing up. “Rosewood customised mine to look like Thoth because I like ancient Egypt.” 

Isioma tilted her head, lips parting in shock. “Wait—customise them? You can do that?”

I blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Nope.” She frowned, then huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head. “I just thought they were standard for everyone. Mine’s still got the basic interface—no wonder it’s so boring.”

I grinned. “You’re missing out. You can change the voice, the look, everything. Rosewood walked me through it—he’s kind of a tech wizard on top of being a therapist, apparently.”

“Clearly,” she said, her lips curling into a playful smile. “Now I feel left out. Guess I’ll have to bribe him with a slice of my Johnny Cakes to get a tutorial.”

I chuckled, imagining Rosewood pretending to haggle over pastries. “He’d probably jump at the offer. Or, I could show you sometime, if you want.”

Isioma’s smile softened, her gaze meeting mine with a warmth that made my stomach flip. “I’d like that, Nell. Thanks.”

The oven timer beeped, breaking the moment. Rosewood’s voice called across the room, “Alright, bakers! Time to check on your creations!”

“Moment of truth,” Isioma said, turning back to her dough with a small laugh. “Let’s see if I remember how to fry these without setting anything on fire.”

“You’ve got this,” I assured her, a smile tugging at my lips.

As I turned back to my own station, I couldn’t help but glance her way again. There was something about Isioma that made me feel just a little less lost.