Singularity fic, because Alba does not know where else to put this shit.
Interior Design: just another day
Morning to evening, what it means for Thane at Sacrosanct. PG-13 Rating
soundtrack
Safety is a luxury, one in which he doesn't have. Not for years, and certainly not since all that's happened. Before, having naps in the vents suited him fine.
Since the necromorph outbreak, that seems a little less. Safe.
In his new room, he's made himself a small entrance to get under the flooring and sleep there instead, because he can't trust the vents and he hasn't felt completely comfortable sleeping in a bed since they were on the Normandy. So instead, he occasionally dusts off the cot in his room to make it look like he sleeps there, but he doesn't, because despite EDI's presence and other crew watching his back, he does not feel sufficiently protected.
Anything can go wrong. Anything will go wrong.
So he sleeps, or tries to, under the floor, curled up against the cool metal and stealing minutes of rest. Here, when he is exhausted and dozing, he will carve into the floor of his room, symbols he does not comprehend entirely, and shapes of the Marker.
Thane hasn't had time enough to blowtorch it all off yet.
He wakes to seeing a bloodied Irikah crawling towards him. It's stopped making his heart jump after the first few times, but it's still unsettling. One could never possibly get used to seeing their dead wife clawing at you when you immediately wake up under the floor. But she isn't real; he reminds himself of this, vividly.
Not that it helps chase away the vision, because Irikah is always there now.
When he forces himself to remain calm and simply leave, he hears her snap at him uncharacteristically, screaming at his cowardice because if he wanted to die so damn bad, he could just do it himself. Irikah, these days, seems to have grown the habit of trying to coax him to kill himself.
At times, he is tempted, due to bitterness. But he is not so weak.
Thinking of her these days unfortunately causes more than just the mere discomfort of her dead presence due to his mind, due to the affects of the Marker; it makes him, in turn, think of Motoko every day, because his drell mind cannot stop himself sometimes. Thane thinks of Motoko, and anger swells in his chest, and he's almost tempted to kill her again for masquerading as his siha, tricking him, and essentially torturing him to suit her need for him to live because she didn't know how to respect people's choices, just knew that she needed to prove herself right.
That, in turn, makes him think of the six hours. Six hours of being operated on, each organ removed and replaced with an improved, perfected mechanical one. Ultimately, he was cured, and Thane will have a very long existence dwelling on all of it, including the sins he's executed in his lifetime. No amount of meditation has helped him, he cannot sleep because Irikah has the habit of interrupting him and he supposes the nightmares do not help either.
So when Thane wakes up in the morning, he is typically angry, tired, and a little frightened. The adrenaline is nice, at least.
Breakfast is a haze of reluctance and fruit; his body needs nutrition, but he himself has no desire to eat. The idea is not sickening, but more of a robotic motion to fuel his body than even something he can enjoy properly.
Mordin planned for a medical examination today. Irresponsibly, Thane skips it; prior to SHODAN, he would have respected the professor's wishes and shown. These days, not so much. The lab unsettles Thane, and he'd rather not reveal that weakness.
Shortly after, with no orders from Shepard, he finds himself scaling walls of Sacrosanct. Exploring the many ways to venture through the station, and throw himself into life-threatening falls only to catch himself. At times, he dashes with Anon, when they come across each other; the program is well trained, and in some ways innocent. Thane is... glad for that.
Afternoon comes. Over his shoulder, Irikah flickers, reminding Thane that he lives here now, conveniently free of his responsibilities as a father. Thane knows this is not his fault, and ultimately Kolyat is better off at the Citadel.
"Is that your choice or his?" Irikah challenges him. "Because that worked so well last time you made a choice for him."
Thane says nothing. To acknowledge her would be to inform her that he cares what she has to say. He does care; he doesn't wish to admit it.
"If it ever happened again, you will not be able to keep them alive. You know that. You were trained to be alone, Thane. Not to coexist with others. I would think my being killed would have told you that."
She shoves his pistol into his hand, forcing it up to his temple. A glare in her beautiful eyes is there, daring him to pull the trigger. A moment later, she is gone from his sight.
And he holds the pistol on his own.
A steady breath in. The trigger is squeezed a little.
Thane lowers it quietly, placing it into its holster.
Late afternoon, he meets Zaeed at the shooting range, because he needs to vent. His normal meditations do not quell him, but the substitution of violence does. This is a level of communication he can share with the mercenary. After, there are drinks to be had, then perhaps more shooting.
But he wishes for something more violent. It bothers him, but in a way, sometimes he wishes there would just be. Cannon fodder. That Shepard could take them on missions again. To shoot, or even on a more primal level, to tear apart. These vicious desires are not usual for him, having only appeared one other time -- when Irikah was killed. However, since all that's happened, he wishes for more.
He remembers, the violence he was permitted to when the necromorphs were abound. Slicing them with the buzzsaw, dismembering them, stomping and crushing the bodies, pulling them apart with biotics as entrails rained down. It was an excellent outlet, even if the reason they were there was so miserable.
Thane is Disconnected.
At the base, despite his alcohol intake, he finds a way to avoid Mordin. Thane expects a look of disappointment from the professor tomorrow, and he cannot blame him. Mordin is looking out for him, making sure the mechanical organs keep working, but Thane doesn't want to deal with the raw fear he has now.
It's midnight. He explores the vents, to watch various individuals at the base. Make sure that they're alive. That they're all right.
No more losses. Or so he hopes.
"They'll die. Out of your grasp, as always. Entropy will win; entropy always wins." Her arms wind around his waist, just as he remembers her doing before when she was real and alive. "It doesn't matter how much further your life is extended."
He grits his teeth, saying nothing.
When she whisks away, Thane returns to his room. Under the floor he goes.
He curls up on his side. He hasn't felt so... helpless since he was a child, first taken in by the hanar to be their hand. The only difference is that there's absolutely no comfort.
Just a cold floor, and knowing that he'll see Irikah in a few hours.
Thane shuts his eyes. And tomorrow will repeat itself.
Morning to evening, what it means for Thane at Sacrosanct. PG-13 Rating
soundtrack
Safety is a luxury, one in which he doesn't have. Not for years, and certainly not since all that's happened. Before, having naps in the vents suited him fine.
Since the necromorph outbreak, that seems a little less. Safe.
In his new room, he's made himself a small entrance to get under the flooring and sleep there instead, because he can't trust the vents and he hasn't felt completely comfortable sleeping in a bed since they were on the Normandy. So instead, he occasionally dusts off the cot in his room to make it look like he sleeps there, but he doesn't, because despite EDI's presence and other crew watching his back, he does not feel sufficiently protected.
Anything can go wrong. Anything will go wrong.
So he sleeps, or tries to, under the floor, curled up against the cool metal and stealing minutes of rest. Here, when he is exhausted and dozing, he will carve into the floor of his room, symbols he does not comprehend entirely, and shapes of the Marker.
Thane hasn't had time enough to blowtorch it all off yet.
He wakes to seeing a bloodied Irikah crawling towards him. It's stopped making his heart jump after the first few times, but it's still unsettling. One could never possibly get used to seeing their dead wife clawing at you when you immediately wake up under the floor. But she isn't real; he reminds himself of this, vividly.
Not that it helps chase away the vision, because Irikah is always there now.
When he forces himself to remain calm and simply leave, he hears her snap at him uncharacteristically, screaming at his cowardice because if he wanted to die so damn bad, he could just do it himself. Irikah, these days, seems to have grown the habit of trying to coax him to kill himself.
At times, he is tempted, due to bitterness. But he is not so weak.
Thinking of her these days unfortunately causes more than just the mere discomfort of her dead presence due to his mind, due to the affects of the Marker; it makes him, in turn, think of Motoko every day, because his drell mind cannot stop himself sometimes. Thane thinks of Motoko, and anger swells in his chest, and he's almost tempted to kill her again for masquerading as his siha, tricking him, and essentially torturing him to suit her need for him to live because she didn't know how to respect people's choices, just knew that she needed to prove herself right.
That, in turn, makes him think of the six hours. Six hours of being operated on, each organ removed and replaced with an improved, perfected mechanical one. Ultimately, he was cured, and Thane will have a very long existence dwelling on all of it, including the sins he's executed in his lifetime. No amount of meditation has helped him, he cannot sleep because Irikah has the habit of interrupting him and he supposes the nightmares do not help either.
So when Thane wakes up in the morning, he is typically angry, tired, and a little frightened. The adrenaline is nice, at least.
Breakfast is a haze of reluctance and fruit; his body needs nutrition, but he himself has no desire to eat. The idea is not sickening, but more of a robotic motion to fuel his body than even something he can enjoy properly.
Mordin planned for a medical examination today. Irresponsibly, Thane skips it; prior to SHODAN, he would have respected the professor's wishes and shown. These days, not so much. The lab unsettles Thane, and he'd rather not reveal that weakness.
Shortly after, with no orders from Shepard, he finds himself scaling walls of Sacrosanct. Exploring the many ways to venture through the station, and throw himself into life-threatening falls only to catch himself. At times, he dashes with Anon, when they come across each other; the program is well trained, and in some ways innocent. Thane is... glad for that.
Afternoon comes. Over his shoulder, Irikah flickers, reminding Thane that he lives here now, conveniently free of his responsibilities as a father. Thane knows this is not his fault, and ultimately Kolyat is better off at the Citadel.
"Is that your choice or his?" Irikah challenges him. "Because that worked so well last time you made a choice for him."
Thane says nothing. To acknowledge her would be to inform her that he cares what she has to say. He does care; he doesn't wish to admit it.
"If it ever happened again, you will not be able to keep them alive. You know that. You were trained to be alone, Thane. Not to coexist with others. I would think my being killed would have told you that."
She shoves his pistol into his hand, forcing it up to his temple. A glare in her beautiful eyes is there, daring him to pull the trigger. A moment later, she is gone from his sight.
And he holds the pistol on his own.
A steady breath in. The trigger is squeezed a little.
Thane lowers it quietly, placing it into its holster.
Late afternoon, he meets Zaeed at the shooting range, because he needs to vent. His normal meditations do not quell him, but the substitution of violence does. This is a level of communication he can share with the mercenary. After, there are drinks to be had, then perhaps more shooting.
But he wishes for something more violent. It bothers him, but in a way, sometimes he wishes there would just be. Cannon fodder. That Shepard could take them on missions again. To shoot, or even on a more primal level, to tear apart. These vicious desires are not usual for him, having only appeared one other time -- when Irikah was killed. However, since all that's happened, he wishes for more.
He remembers, the violence he was permitted to when the necromorphs were abound. Slicing them with the buzzsaw, dismembering them, stomping and crushing the bodies, pulling them apart with biotics as entrails rained down. It was an excellent outlet, even if the reason they were there was so miserable.
Thane is Disconnected.
At the base, despite his alcohol intake, he finds a way to avoid Mordin. Thane expects a look of disappointment from the professor tomorrow, and he cannot blame him. Mordin is looking out for him, making sure the mechanical organs keep working, but Thane doesn't want to deal with the raw fear he has now.
It's midnight. He explores the vents, to watch various individuals at the base. Make sure that they're alive. That they're all right.
No more losses. Or so he hopes.
"They'll die. Out of your grasp, as always. Entropy will win; entropy always wins." Her arms wind around his waist, just as he remembers her doing before when she was real and alive. "It doesn't matter how much further your life is extended."
He grits his teeth, saying nothing.
When she whisks away, Thane returns to his room. Under the floor he goes.
He curls up on his side. He hasn't felt so... helpless since he was a child, first taken in by the hanar to be their hand. The only difference is that there's absolutely no comfort.
Just a cold floor, and knowing that he'll see Irikah in a few hours.
Thane shuts his eyes. And tomorrow will repeat itself.