The Translation in Blood

 

Twelve months (give or take a bottle of ryncol) after Commander Shepard's death.

Hannah stood on the edge of the old ravine on Shanxi, staring down into the green dark and wondering why the hell she was here.

She was due some real shore leave, and no one really questioned why she took it on this old colony. The outpost was big enough to occupy most of her crew for the weekend, and hell, with as rigorous as her exploration routes tended to be, they took the rest when she offered it.

Still... it didn't explain why she wanted to come here.

Scans showed that the oasis was still the same, one of the few sources of renewable water in the area. The little ridge she and Sparatus had perched on before making their way back into their respective societies was still there. She stood right above it, looking down, wondering if she'd break her neck.

And there was no Turian to catch her at the bottom this time.

It had never occured to her that he would care so much. About her, yes; time had taught her that they were meant for each other, one of those star-crossed sappy couples that they write songs about. Except they wouldn't, not about them. Because she'd let it fall apart. She had refused to acknowledge just how much he had loved her in that it hadn't just included her scampering, limber, pyjak ass, but that of her bouncing, vivacious, head-smashing, curb-stomping baby girl. Letting herself be blind to the signs and thinking he cared because she cared... she'd lost him. She'd completely underestimated his depth of affection for all things Hannah Shepard.

He had walked away and she had let him. Because she was stupid.

And now it's time for me to pay for my stupidity.

Standing above their private little paradise, Hannah shook her head to clear it. This was why she was here. She needed to focus.

On her butt, she scooted down carefully and turned over, finding footholds and working her way down the wall to the canyon floor. The scent of green and water rushed over her, bringing with it the memory of him underneath her, the feel of three-fingered hands stroking up her back, tangling in her hair...

On her feet again, she brushed her palms self-consciously across her barren scalp. She'd taken clippers to it the night she'd lost Sparatus, and coupled with the loss of her daughter it was the only way she'd found herself again. She didn't want to analyze what that meant, or the thousands of cases where distraught, grieving women hacked off their hair in order to feel better.

She was stunned it worked.

Vanity still wounded, it was hard to get used to the sudden lack of weight attached to her head, or the trade-mark bun she always wore. There was a freedom too, unexpected, like she'd not only cut off several pounds of hair, but the weight of several decades of heavy sorrow. And the last year of unimaginable loss.

She traced her footsteps back down along the stream, letting her eyes adjust to the organic, mellow twilight of the crevice. The over-hang she and her lover had found was still there, complete with the bed of moss he'd found so interesting. It had overgrown in the decades since, plush and creeping up along the walls.

She had a bio-pack ready for it, and within minutes she'd gathered about half of what was growing. More scans showed that the lichen would replenish easily in this environment, so she left with little guilt over her biological sabotage. She pulled herself out of the alcove and swung herself up along the ravine wall, climbing back up.

In an effort to distract herself from her pain, Hannah had taken up a few new hobbies, even going so far as to install a climbing wall in her cargo bay. It kept her limber and flexible, coupled with the other rigors she put her body through to keep herself in shape.

Her face, peeking above the edge as she hauled herself over, had the signs of a woman in her maturity, but suppliments and the enhanced diet of a spacer lengthened her life just as it did with her fellow humans these days. Long surpassing a hundred years as their life expectancy, it was generally the Asari who were credited for their medical advances at keeping the decaying signs of age at bay. Youth was still just as short as it always was, but the golden years of body strength, flexibility, and mental clarity were incredibly extended, depending on genetics and individual. Hannah had long since lost the soft curves on her face that marked many people in their twenties, but she was far from gaunt. Her face was still uncommonly round, skin smooth and hair unchanged, body toned and agile. There were more laugh wrinkles around her eyes, but her lips were still soft, her eyes sharp and bright.

She still made people smile when she walked into a room, and her laughter still turned heads. Even with her hair hacked off.

Life was still hollow, though, since her daughter had gone missing and she'd unceremoniously kicked Sparatus from her life. Or let him kick her from his.

She sighed, shook herself again.

Bio-organic treasure safely sealed, she tossed it in the co-pilot's chair and started up her shuttle. She'd be back to the colony by nightfall.

ooo

"I don't care how great of a find it is, Daveen. Can you do it?"

The Salarian hmphed at Hannah as she stood there, hip cocked and arms over her chest. "You've gotten so short-tempered since the loss of your progen- hair," he amended quickly, flinching at the light that flared briefly in her eyes over his almost-disrespectful-comment. "When it grows back, will your previous tempermant return?" His hands passed over the controls of his console, keying up the information Hannah wanted.

She growled at him, a feral, Turian noise that made him jump in his chair. He stared at her. "That ... was just uncanny-"

"I swear to God, Daveen, I will pull off my boot and beat you to death with it. Answer the damn question."

He flinched again, hit a button, and the disc popped out of his personal computer. He handed it to her, as well as gesturing to the large, capped flask that dispensed from a panel in the wall. "All yours, minus the quarter you gave me as payment. It's an incredble find, amazing that we haven't found it before-"

"I told you," she mumbled, lifting the large flask and holding it up to the light. Still looked just like clear water to her. "Not many people really went spelunking through the caves of Shanxi. The Contact War soured the desire for survey."

"Mm, noted."

Hannah eyed her friend, her gaze softening a little. "Thank you for this, Daveen. I really do appreciate it."

He perked visibly at the return of her sweeter side, smiling and giving a little nod. "I am happy to help, and honored you chose me to study the species. Might have to name it after you, however, just for propriety's sake." He tapped his chin. "Hmmm. Fiestius humanus chloro- OW!"

Hannah put her boot back on, reaching out to retrieve the carefully placed beaker. She ignored Daveen scandalized expression while she placed it in her reinforced carrier sack. "And it'll stay bright? I mean, to Turian vision, it'll be that glowy, reflector-bright white?"

Daveen rubbed his arm, trying to glare at her. "It'll fade a little, maybe by ten degrees, but with enough illumination to catch, it will flash like, as you said, a reflector, but more like the scales on a fish. Irridescent, I guess, might be a better word." He pondered. "Yes. It will be somewhat hard to miss, but easy to conceal. Does that answer your question?"

Hannah nodded. Then... she stooped to kiss his cheek. The Salarian spluttered. "Oh-! Well I ... ah..."

She flashed him her brightest smile, then headed out the door.

The wards were busy as she exited the elevator down from the labs, but it was usually that way here on the Citadel. The lack of night-cycles here made it a free for all for everyone, but this was the peak for activity. She felt a flinch of worry for ther percious cargo, wondering irrationally if she'd be safe through the crowds, but she shook the fear off with a visible twitch.

You're doing this today, she thought angrily at herself. There's no backing out now. Don't make any excuses to stall.

She had to take a cab to a place further out along the arms of the Citadel, along the ward called 'Zakera'. The neighborhood she sought out was a hodgepodge of cultures and species, known for it's artistic, eccentric, and talented occupants.

The community here had a strange story, a small haven for all those who create, using the canvas of walls, buildings, whole streets, or other peoples' bodies. Jewelry, paintings, sculptures, utilitarian objects made into beautiful items, vehicles painted and worked into strange colors and shapes, tapestries, clothing... If you wanted handmade beautiful items, this was where you came if you didn't want to break your pocket. There was the uncommon air of a folk who created because it was their calling, not because they needed money.

The latter bit was probably because they were given a great deal, patrons coming far and wide to keep the population in this tiny corner of the wards well funded and well fed and content with their place. Far from being held prisoner, Hannah surmised that in a place where you were encouraged to make the world your canvas, an artist would find it hard to leave.

The address she'd been given led her to a small storefront that was, like everywhere else here, clean and well kept. She grazed a palm over the panel, identifying herself. It didn't surprise her when it chimed and the door slid open; she had an appointment.

The Asari within was probably one of the strangest Hannah had ever seen, with skin that was less amethyst or blue and more red, beyond the shade of violet. She wondered at first if this was due to a skin ailment, when the Asari moved closer and further into the light. Hannah's eyes widened in surprise.

The red flush of her skin, though a dark hue and far from bright, wasn't natural pigmentation. As she got closer, Hannah could see beautiful, swirling, tiny, intricate patterns crawling across flesh that was clearly dark, beautiful blue. It marked around her eyes, across her cheekbones, down her neck, her arms, her hands, her legs, even across her fringe, which, to the human's knowledge, was one of the more sensitive parts of the Asari body. To put a needle there-

"Hannah, yes?" purred the woman. Her lips were curved in an understanding smile, one hand resting on a nearby counter. "You're the one who asked all the questions about the Turian design."

Finally tearing her eyes away from the minute details of the Asari's tattoos, Hannah nodded. She undid the latch on her carrier and withdrew the flask. "Is this enough?" she asked.

The artist's eyes lit up with curiosity and pleasure, gently taking the container. It was easily a gallon of fluid, probably more than enough. Her nod confirmed this.

Hannah cleared her throat. "And you're alright with keeping the rest as payment? I can give you credits, that's not a pr-"

The Asari looked over her shoulder. "Menlaeus! Come here!" she called.

The back of the parlor was apparently a lead off into another room, as a door opened and a Turian with a shorter fringe and pale hide poked his head out. "Mmm?" he called. "Still with Shayla, Madea-"

He went silent as his eyes lit to the cylinder she held. "...oh wow," he murmured. "Is that what you were telling me about?" he breathed. Hannah had never seen a more non-Turian Turian. He was practically quivering with excitement, and from here, she could see his fingers stained with tattoo ink.

The Asari, Madea, nodded with a knowing smile. "She said we can keep what's left over," she practically purred. She turned back to Hannah. "Did the botanist say anything about replicating its features?"

Hannah shook her head while she passed Daveen's disc to Madea. "He said it was impossible, and that while the 'glow' might initially fade by a few degrees, it would still remain. Easy to conceal with make-up, he said, but otherwise..." She shrugged. "It's got a non-toxic preservative that's commonly used in the tattoo inks the Asari use. Ventis?"

Madea's eyes glowed with pleasure. "Venthys, yes. Good, good... this is perfect." She stared at it hungrily, her smile widening as the Turian came closer, eyes round and wide. "This will keep you supplied with touch-ups and additional work for the rest of your life, my dear. This is a treasure you've found, and a brilliant idea." Her expression softened as she gazed at the human. "Your lover would have been pleased."

Hannah ducked her head and tried not to shuffle her feet. She hadn't told the Asari everything, but she knew enough to know the human loved a Turian deeply... and had lost him. Hannah cleared her throat and lifted her face, willing the tears away. "Where do we do this?" she asked, her voice rough with emotion.

The Turian retreated to his client as Madea led her to another room off to the right, down a hallway and into a room with a spectacular view of the Wards. "I've gone over your design a few times," she artist explained as she settled Hannah into the chair, tilting it back as she scooted closer. Hannah heard a rustle of tools and equipment, and the careful removal of the flask cap. "I've modified it to your species, rank, and, per your request, your status as a mother of ... of a great woman."

Hannah had to look away from the sympathy in Madea's eyes; that wouldn't do right now.

Settling her head back against the chair, she closed her eyes as the Asari began to carefully mark Hannah's skin in preparation for the ink-loaded needle.

ooo

Hannah knew it had worked. There wasn't a Turian that would keep his eyes off her when she left the tattoo parlor.

She was being too bold; for all she knew, any one of them would have reported back to the Turian councillor and revealed what she'd done. After the first block, she slid into a restroom and rubbed the concealer into her skin. It was a cream-based pigment, semi-permenant and long-lasting, and fairly weightless. She really couldn't tell the difference as she looked into the mirror; it was a little like rubbing moisturizer into her skin.

Just as well, she thought. No one would guess what this was if they ever found it among her things.

Her new test passed with flying colors; while previously, most Turians couldn't keep from staring at her, this time, she was given hardly a first or second glance.

Back in her quarters on her ship, after she'd given her face a good scrubbing, she pulled up the program on her omni-tool that Daveen had set up for her and turned the lights off in her bathroom. She passed the transparent screen over her face, staring hard at the mirror.

And gasped.

Clear as everyone had said, a soft white that bordered on glowing, the clanmarks of Sparatus flowed gracefully across the features of her face.

Madea had indeed modified the design as she'd said. The lines were slimmer, more elegant to fit her human features. Hannah had fears of peering out of a mask that made her look like an owl, or a ghost, but the Asari had a deft touch; Hannah looked... she looked ...

I look ... complete.

The subtle sweep of line, a curve or length that wasn't typical of anything she'd seen ... This was her mark, her face framed in a declaration of who she was, despite how presumptuous she was being. Her fingers traced the path that blazed across the bridge of her nose and went up to her brow, followed the gap up into the newly-bare skin across her crown.

Madea had to shave down the center of her head. The line that parted the crown of her lover now split down her own skull. She intended to let her hair grow over that line; Madea assured her the mark would still be visible. For now, Hannah would have to do a little creative french-braiding until her hair grew back.Thankfully, the Asari's modifications didn't require Hannah to lose her eyebrows or her lashes.

She studied her face for a little longer, examination leading to pensive musing, which led to sorrow and a few tears. With a groan of self-resentment, she flipped off the program and stumbled back towards her bed, hand dipping under it on her way to her desk for a bottle. Hannah was not by nature a drinker, but the last few months had been hard.

First, there was the dedication to her daughter, and then the Plaza they built, tacked with their family name and emblazoned in every known language that could be written. Then the posthumus awards, the memorial dinners...

She took a drink.

Then there were the denouncements, the denials, and the careful erasure of reports, records, findings, and claims.

Hannah blamed herself; if she'd been less of an ass to Sparatus, maybe he'd have a better memory, or a clearer head, or hells, a toughter spine.

She knew she couldn't control him, but he'd come to her when he thought she'd neaded him most. He hadn't been wrong. And she had ... she had ...

She took another drink.

Later, passing out, wrung clean of tears and wrongs, all she could think of was how she'd punished herself by bearing his marks. Now she couldn't forget him even if she tried.

Even if she wanted to.

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