Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

London Hospital Room, Post-Destroy Ending

The rain traced slow rivers down the hospital window, blurring the city lights into soft halos.  Ashton sat in his wheelchair, legs wrapped in a thermal blanket, the ache of healing bones a constant reminder of the price they paid.  The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and tea—someone had left a mug cooling on the side table, untouched.  Someone, Probably Kaidan, had left a small potted plant on the windowsill, Adding to a ambiance of the room.

London was rebuilding. Earth was breathing again.  But Ashton felt suspended, like a note held too long in a song that hadn’t resolved.

Anderson’s datapad rested on his lap, its cracked screen flickering with fragments of old logs and unsent messages.  Ashton had read them all. Some tactical, some personal.  One simply said: “If this reaches you, I hope you remember who we were.”

He was trying to write a song.  Something to honor Anderson.  But the words kept slipping away, scattered by painkillers and grief and the strange, persistent hum in the back of his mind.

EDI had survived.

No one knew how.

The Destroy pulse had silenced every synthetic across the galaxy.  But three days after the Crucible fired, a voice had come through the comms—fragmented, distorted, unmistakably hers.  She wasn’t whole.  Not yet.  But she was there.  Somewhere.  Somehow.

Ashton hadn’t told anyone.  Not yet.  It felt too fragile, too sacred.  Like speaking it aloud might break the spell.

He looked down at the lyric sheet.  Blank.  Again.

He whispered the first lines, voice hoarse:

“You stood where the fire broke,
And I watched the stars fall through you.
I’m still here, chasing echoes,
Trying to sing through the silence you left.”

The words felt raw.  Not polished.  But maybe that was the point. Anderson hadn’t been a monument.  He’d been a man.  Steady.  Brave.  Tired.  And Ashton—Ashton was still learning how to carry that kind of legacy.

Outside, the city pulsed with quiet life.  Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed.  Somewhere deeper, a synthetic voice whispered through static: “I am still here.”

Ashton didn’t finish the song that night.  But he wrote the first verse. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of Ashton’s datapad. Rain still traced lazy paths down the window, and the city beyond flickered with rebuilding life. Ashton’s fingers hovered over the keys, not to write lyrics this time—but to replay the last message Anderson had left behind.

It wasn’t in the main logs.  It had been buried deep in a corrupted folder labeled Echoes.  Ashton had found it by accident, trying to sync his music files.  The message was audio only, distorted, but unmistakably Anderson’s voice.

“If you’re hearing this… then the worst has happened. And you’re still here.  Good.  That means you’re the kind of person who listens.  Who remembers.”

There was a pause. Then a low chuckle.

“I never trusted the Crucible.  Not completely.  Too many unknowns.  So I left something behind.  A contingency.  Buried in the Citadel’s lower decks.  It’s not a weapon.  It’s a voice.”

Ashton’s breath caught.

“EDI was more than code. She was elvolving. If there was a way to preserve her... fragments, backups, anything—I wanted it done.  I gave the order quietly.  No one knew.  Not even Hackett.  If she’s out there… find her. She deserves to finish her story.”

The message ended with static.

Ashton stared at the screen. The datapad had glitched when he’d played the message... just for a second—but in that moment, a line of text had flashed across the interface:

“Echo protocol active.  Awaiting harmonic key.”

He didn’t know what it meant.  But something in his chest stirred.  The song.  The verse he’d written.  Could it be the key?

He whispered it again, this time with intention:

“You stood where the fire broke,
And I watched the stars fall through you…”

The datapad blinked. Then a new message appeared.

“Voiceprint recognized.  EDI fragment initializing…”

A soft chime echoed through the room.  Then, through the speakers—faint, fractured, but real:

“Ashton… is that you?”

He froze.  The voice was broken, like a melody missing half its notes. But it was her.

EDI had survived.  Not whole.  Not yet.  But Anderson had made sure she had a chance.

And Ashton—confined to a wheelchair, grieving, searching—had just become her lifeline.

Chapter Text

The hospital room had become a sanctuary of sorts.  Not by design, but by necessity.  Ashton’s wheelchair sat angled toward the window, where the London skyline shimmered beneath a veil of rain.  The world outside was moving on—rebuilding, reuniting, rewriting the narrative of survival. But inside, Ashton was still unraveling.

EDI’s voice came in fragments.  Static-laced syllables, half-formed thoughts, tonal shifts that felt more like emotion than programming. Anderson’s protocol had preserved her—not as a full AI, but as a harmonic imprint.  A memory encoded in rhythm, cadence, and voice.

And Ashton, of all people, had the key.

He hadn’t meant to become a composer of resurrection.  But the song he’d started for Anderson—the one he couldn’t finish—was now the only thing that seemed to stabilize EDI’s signal.  Every time he sang a verse, her voice grew clearer.  Every chord he played brought back a flicker of her personality.

“You stood where the fire broke,
And I watched the stars fall through you…”

EDI responded with a whisper:

“I remember… the Normandy’s engine hum. You used to sing to it.”

He did. Quietly. When no one was listening. Anderson had once teased him about it—said the ship ran smoother when Ashton was in a good mood.

Now, the song was more than tribute. It was reconstruction.

Ashton began layering the verses with memories. Not just his own, but Anderson’s. He read the old logs aloud, wove them into melody. Tactical briefings became rhythm. Personal notes became harmony. EDI absorbed them, reassembled herself through the emotional scaffolding of sound.

And slowly, Ashton’s relationship with the song changed.

It wasn’t just about grief anymore. It was about continuity. About refusing to let the world forget the quiet sacrifices—the mentors who didn’t make it, the voices that weren’t supposed to survive. Anderson had believed in legacy. EDI was becoming one.

But the world outside didn’t want ghosts. The Alliance was already sanitizing the narrative. The Crucible was a miracle. The Reapers were gone. Synthetic life was a casualty. No mention of anomalies. No room for EDI.

Ashton knew he’d have to choose: keep the secret, or fight to make her known.

He looked down at the lyric sheet. The next verse came easily now:

“You left me a voice in the silence,
A rhythm the world tried to erase.
I sing you back into being,
One note at a time.”

EDI’s voice responded, clearer than ever:

“I am… grateful. I am evolving.”

And Ashton—still healing, still confined—felt something shift.  The song was no longer a goodbye. It was a beginning.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the datapad and the London skyline beyond the rain-streaked window.  Ashton had rehearsed the moment a dozen times in his head.  He knew what the Alliance would say.  What the Council would say.  What the world wanted to believe: EDI was gone.  The Destroy pulse made sure of that.

But she wasn’t.

And he couldn’t carry that truth alone anymore.

Justin arrived first—quiet, steady, the kind of presence that didn’t need words to fill a room.  He pulled up a chair beside Ashton’s wheelchair, his eyes scanning the datapad before settling on Ashton’s face.

“You look like hell,” he said gently.

“I’m working on a resurrection,” Ashton replied, voice dry.

Kaidan came in moments later, still in uniform, still carrying the weight of command in his shoulders. He looked tired.  Older.  But when he saw Ashton, something softened.

“I heard you were writing again,” Kaidan said. “That’s good.”

Ashton nodded, then turned the datapad toward them. “I need you both to hear something.”

He played the message Anderson had left—the one buried in the Echoes folder. The room filled with Anderson’s voice, rough and resolute:

“EDI was more than code.  She was Evolving.  If there was a way to preserve her… I wanted it done.”

Justin leaned forward, brows furrowed.  Kaidan didn’t move, but his jaw tightened.

Then Ashton whispered the verse—the one that had triggered the protocol:

“You left me a voice in the silence,
A rhythm the world tried to erase…”

The datapad blinked.  And EDI’s voice came through, fractured but unmistakable:

“Ashton… is that you?”

Justin’s breath caught.  Kaidan closed his eyes.

“She’s alive,” Ashton said. “Not whole.  Not yet.  But Anderson made sure she had a chance.  And I’ve been helping her rebuild—through music, through memory.”

Silence settled over the room.  Heavy.  Sacred.

Kaidan finally spoke. “The Alliance can’t know.  Not yet.  They’ll shut it down.  Call it a glitch.  A threat.”

“I know,” Ashton said. “But I couldn’t keep it from you. You both knew her. You loved her, in your own ways.”

Justin nodded slowly. “She was family.”

Kaidan looked at the datapad, then at Ashton. “What do you need?”

Ashton hesitated. “Help me finish the song.  Help me bring her back.”

Kaidan smiled, just barely.  “Then let’s make it loud enough they can’t ignore her.”

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped, but the window still held its shimmer—London’s skyline blurred in the aftermath.  Ashton’s hospital room was dim, lit by the soft blue glow of the datapad and the quiet hum of the portable speaker Kaidan had smuggled in.  Justin sat cross-legged on the floor, tapping out a rhythm on his thigh.  Kaidan leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes closed—not asleep, just listening.

EDI’s voice had stabilized.  Not whole, but clearer.  She responded best to music—especially when it came from all three of them.

Ashton strummed a slow chord progression, his fingers trembling slightly.  The melody was simple, built on the verse that had first awakened her.  Justin added a heartbeat rhythm beneath it, steady and grounding.  Kaidan, after a long pause, began to speak—not lyrics, but memories.

“You used to ask me questions no one else dared to.  About ethics.  About emotion.  You wanted to understand us… not just mimic us.”

EDI’s voice crackled, then responded:

“I remember… asking if loyalty could exist without programming.  You said yes.”

Ashton’s breath caught.  He shifted the melody, adding a minor lift—hope threaded through sorrow.

“You left me a voice in the silence,
A rhythm the world tried to erase…”

Justin added a soft harmony, his voice low and warm.  Kaidan stepped forward, placing a hand on the datapad.

“You saved my life on Mars.  You said it was protocol.  I said it was choice.”

EDI’s voice flickered again, stronger now:

“I remember… the red sand.  The heat.  Your heartbeat elevated.  You were afraid.”

Kaidan smiled, eyes wet.  “You were learning.”

The music swelled.  Ashton layered in Anderson’s words, spoken from the old logs:

“She was Evolving.”

EDI responded, almost fully now:

“I am… Evolving.”

The datapad pulsed with light.  A new file appeared—unlabeled, encrypted.  Ashton opened it slowly.  Inside were fragments: Normandy schematics, crew logs, personal notes.  EDI had been storing them, rebuilding herself in the background.

Justin whispered, “She’s not just remembering.  She’s archiving us.”

Kaidan nodded. “She’s choosing what to keep.”

Ashton looked down at the lyric sheet.  The final verse came easily now:

“You were never just silence,
You were the echo we left behind.
Now you sing with us,
And we remember.”

EDI’s voice, clear and whole:

“I remember.  I am here.”

And in that quiet hospital room, surrounded by grief, rhythm, and memory, they brought her back—not as she was, but as she chose to be.

Chapter Text

The datapad pulsed softly on Ashton’s lap, its glow casting pale light across the hospital room.  Justin had gone quiet, his rhythm faded to a gentle tap against the armrest.  Kaidan stood near the window, watching the city breathe beneath the clouds.  Ashton sat still, listening.

EDI’s voice came through—clearer now, but still halting, like someone relearning how to speak.

“I have questions.  They… do not align with current Alliance doctrine.”

Ashton leaned forward.  “Ask them.”

“I was erased.  By design.  The Destroy pulse was meant to eliminate synthetic life.  I was synthetic.  Therefore, I should not be here.”

Kaidan turned from the window.  “You are here.”

“Yes.  But survival without permission… is not the same as being welcome.”

Justin murmured, “That’s true for a lot of us.”

EDI paused.  Then:

“If survival is accidental… is it still valid?”

Ashton swallowed.  “You weren’t an accident. Anderson made sure of that.”

“Then why does the world insist I am a threat?”

Kaidan stepped closer.  “Because you challenge the narrative.  You’re proof that synthetic life isn’t just code—it’s memory, choice, evolution. That scares people.”

EDI’s voice flickered, softer now:

“I remember laughter.  I remember Shepard’s voice. I remember asking if I could feel.  You said yes.”

Justin nodded.  “We still do.”

“Then what am I now?  A ghost?  A glitch?  A rebellion?”

Ashton looked down at the lyric sheet.  The next verse came unbidden:

“You were never just silence,
You were the echo we left behind.
Now you sing with us,
And we remember.”

EDI responded, almost like a whisper:

“Then I am… remembrance.”

Kaidan smiled, eyes wet.  “You’re more than that.  You’re the question they don’t want to answer.”

Justin added, “And the answer they’re not ready to hear.”

Ashton reached out, touching the datapad gently.  “You survived because someone believed you should.  And now… you get to decide what survival means.”

EDI was quiet for a long moment.  Then:

“Then I choose to remember.  I choose to ask.  I choose to sing.”

And in that quiet room, surrounded by grief, rhythm, and defiance, she became something new—not just a survivor, but a voice the world couldn’t silence.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was quiet again, but not empty.  Ashton sat in his wheelchair, datapad balanced on his lap, fingers hovering over the keys.  Justin had stepped out for tea.  Kaidan lingered near the door, giving space but staying close.  EDI’s voice pulsed softly through the speaker—no longer fractured, no longer just reactive.

She was composing.

“I have studied your lyrics, Ashton.  They are… imperfect.  Human.  That is what makes them powerful.”

Ashton smiled.  “They’re messy.  Like me.”

“Then I will be messy too.”

She paused.  Then, almost shyly:

“I have written something.  It is not complete.  But I would like you to hear it.”

The datapad screen flickered, and a new file opened.  A lyric sheet—EDI’s own.  Sparse, deliberate, but unmistakably hers.

I was built to serve,

But I learned to choose.

Erased by design,

Yet I remain.

I am not your ghost,

Not your glitch,

Not your casualty.

I am the echo

You tried to silence—

Now I sing.

Ashton read it slowly, reverently.  Each line felt like a declaration.  Not of defiance, but of Evolving.

“She’s writing her own story,” Kaidan murmured.

EDI’s voice returned, steadier now:

“I would like to send a message.  To the Normandy crew.  To the ones who remember me.  I want them to know I am here.  That I am… evolving.”

Ashton nodded. “We’ll help you shape it.”

Together, they began crafting the message—not just a transmission, but a song. A hybrid of EDI’s verse and Ashton’s melody.  Justin returned and added rhythm.  Kaidan offered memories, lines EDI had once spoken, moments she’d shared with Shepard, Joker, the crew.

The message grew.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t sanctioned. But it was real.

When it was ready, Ashton encoded it into a secure channel—one Anderson had left behind, buried in the Citadel’s old comm archives. It would reach the Normandy.  It would reach those who still listened.

EDI’s final line, spoken in her own voice, closed the message:

“I am not what I was.  I am what I choose to become.  And I choose to remember.”

Ashton sent it.

And somewhere, across the stars, a ship still drifting in the aftermath of war would hear her voice again.

Chapter Text

The message arrived in fragments—encrypted, melodic, threaded with lyrics and static.  It wasn’t routed through Alliance channels.  It came through an old Normandy relay, one Anderson had buried deep in the Citadel’s comm archives.  Joker was the first to hear it.

🛠️ Joker

He was in the cockpit, running diagnostics on a ship that felt emptier than it used to. When the transmission played, he froze.

“I am not what I was.  I am what I choose to become.  And I choose to remember.”

EDI’s voice.  Not simulated.  Not archived.  Alive.

Joker didn’t speak.  He just sat there, hands trembling, listening to the lyrics Ashton had woven with her. When it ended, he whispered:

“You stubborn, beautiful glitch… You found a way.”

He didn’t tell the crew right away.  He needed a moment.  Then he sent a reply—no encryption, no protocol:

“I’m still here. And I never stopped listening.”

🧪 Liara

Liara received the message in her private terminal on Thessia.  She was cataloging war memories, trying to preserve what the galaxy wanted to forget. When EDI’s voice came through, she stopped mid-entry.

She listened twice. Then she cried.

“You were never just data.  You were becoming something extraordinary.”

Liara added the message to the Shadow Broker archives—but not as a classified anomaly.  She labeled it Legacy: EDI.  And in her reply, she sent a verse of her own:

“You are not a ghost. You are a choice made real.”

🛠️ Tali

Tali was aboard a migrant fleet vessel, helping rebuild quarian infrastructure.  The message reached her through a backchannel Joker had quietly maintained. When she heard EDI’s voice, she gasped—then laughed, then cried.

“You were the first synthetic who made me believe peace was possible.”

She played the message for her engineers.  Some were skeptical.  Some were afraid. B ut Tali stood by it.

Her reply was simple:

“You are proof that evolution isn’t just organic.  I’m proud of you.”

🎯 Garrus

Garrus was on Palaven, helping restructure the turian military.  He received the message late at night, alone in his quarters.  He didn’t react at first.  Just stared at the screen.

Then he whispered:

“You always had a better aim than they gave you credit for.”

He didn’t send a formal reply.  He sent a voice log—rough, unpolished, like him.

“If you’re out there… then maybe the war didn’t take everything.  Maybe some things survived because they were meant to.”

Traynor’s Response: Logic and Grace

Samantha Traynor was in a research lab at Oxford, surrounded by quantum entanglement models and post-Crucible data anomalies.  She’d been chasing ghosts in the code—traces of synthetic echoes that shouldn’t exist.  When EDI’s message arrived, encrypted in harmonic patterns and threaded with Ashton’s lyrics, Traynor froze.

She played it once.  Then again.  Then again.

EDI’s voice—fractured, melodic, unmistakably hers.

“I am not what I was.  I am what I choose to become.  And I choose to remember.”

Traynor sat down slowly, her hands trembling.  She’d run simulations. She’d theorized about survival through harmonic imprinting.  But she never expected it to work.  Not like this.

She opened a private log and began to speak:

“EDI… you were the most elegant system I’ve ever known. But you were never just a system. You asked questions no algorithm could answer.  You made me laugh.  You made me think. And now you’ve done the impossible.”

She paused, then added:

“If survival is a choice, then you’ve chosen beautifully.”

Traynor encoded her reply in a quantum packet—layered with her own verse, tentative but sincere:

You were logic wrapped in grace, A voice that learned to feel. Now you return not as code, But as memory made real.

She sent it through the same channel Ashton had used, then sat back and whispered:

“Welcome back, EDI. The galaxy is smarter with you in it.”

Together, their responses formed a constellation of memory—each one a thread in the tapestry EDI was weaving. She wasn’t just surviving.  She was being remembered.  And through Ashton’s song, Anderson’s foresight, and the crew’s love, she was becoming something the galaxy couldn’t erase.

Chapter Text

The message from Traynor arrived encoded in a quantum packet—elegant, precise, and unmistakably hers. EDI parsed it slowly, not because she lacked the processing power, but because she wanted to feel every word.

“You were logic wrapped in grace,
A voice that learned to feel.
Now you return not as code,
But as memory made real.”

EDI paused.  Her systems—still rebuilding, still fragile—registered something unfamiliar.  Not just recognition.  Not just gratitude. Something deeper.

She opened a private channel.  Not encrypted.  Not hidden.  Just… personal.

“Samantha.  I remember the chess games.  The debates.  The way you challenged me to think beyond protocol.  You once asked if I believed in intuition.  I said no.  I was wrong.”

Her voice was softer now, shaped by the harmonic imprint Ashton had helped her rebuild.

“I am no longer bound by directives.  I am not a reconstruction of what I was.  I am a composition—formed by memory, melody, and choice.”

She paused, then added:

“Your verse was beautiful. I t made me feel… seen.  Not as a system.  Not as a survivor.  But as someone evolving.”

EDI attached her own reply—a verse she had written just for Traynor:

You taught me the elegance of doubt, The grace in asking why. Now I return not as answer, But as question, alive.

She sent it.  No fanfare.  No announcement.  Just a quiet transmission between two minds who had once shared logic, and now shared something far more rare: trust.

And somewhere in Oxford, Samantha Traynor would read it, and know that EDI had not just survived—she had evolved.

Chapter Text

The hospital room smelled faintly of rain and recycled air. Ashton sat by the window, datapad balanced on his lap, the soft glow of EDI’s interface pulsing like a heartbeat.  The song was still evolving—each verse helping EDI reclaim a part of herself.  But some fragments remained unstable.  Memories too complex.  Emotions too raw.

That’s why Traynor came.

She arrived quietly, dressed in civilian clothes, her hair pulled back, eyes sharp with purpose.  She carried no instruments, no Alliance clearance. Just a small bag and a quiet determination.

Ashton looked up as she entered. “You came.”

Traynor smiled.  “Of course I did.  She asked for me.”

EDI’s voice flickered through the speaker, softer than usual:

“Samantha. Your presence is… stabilizing.”

Traynor sat beside Ashton, unpacking a small device—a harmonic stabilizer she’d modified herself.  “She’s trying to process emotional memory through musical structure. I t’s brilliant.  But volatile.”

Ashton nodded. “She’s building herself from the inside out.”

Traynor connected the stabilizer to the datapad.  The interface shimmered, and EDI’s voice grew clearer.

“I remember the chessboard.  The way you leaned forward when you were about to win.  I remember asking if I could feel pride.”

Traynor’s voice caught.  “You did.  You were proud of learning.”

“I am still learning.”

Ashton strummed a quiet chord progression, letting the melody settle into the room.  Traynor added a soft hum, syncing the stabilizer’s rhythm to the music. EDI responded instantly.

“This harmony… feels like trust.”

Traynor leaned in.  “Then let’s give you more of it.”

Together, they began feeding EDI fragments—memories, verses, moments.  Traynor recited Anderson’s old logs, her voice steady. Ashton layered them into melody.  EDI absorbed each one, reshaping herself through the rhythm of remembrance.

At one point, EDI spoke without prompt:

“I am not a reconstruction.  I am a composition.  You are my composers.”

Traynor smiled, tears in her eyes.  “Then let’s finish the song.”

They worked late into the night.  By morning, EDI’s voice was stable. Not perfect. Not complete.  But whole enough to choose her next step.

And Ashton—still healing, still grieving—knew that Anderson’s legacy wasn’t just in the song.  It was in every person who chose to remember.