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Before they begin the last assault on the Reapers, a foe he has waited fifty thousand years to make an end of, Javik thinks he is ready. He has seen the memories of hundreds of years of war. He has heard and felt the anguish of his dying people, magnified a thousandfold for every prothean who clutched the memory shard in bloody fingers. No matter how many times he washes his hands, over and over, his skin will never forget. He carries their pain with him like a stone honing him into a keen blade, a weapon -- a fitting vessel to carry out his people's vengeance.
It is something he can find a dark humor in. Even though he is organic, the purpose for his existence is as single-minded and clear as a machine's.
Javik thinks, then, that he knows something of loss -- that he can understand the meaning of sacrifice. To give his life fighting the Reapers will be a fitting end for the last living prothean, the proper closing of a cycle that began long before he was born. Then the universe can properly belong to the new races of this cycle, for them to make a beginning or end of it as they please, but Javik's task will be done.
He will see it through. He must.
Javik thinks he is prepared, but nothing in all the memories of the living or the dead could have prepared him for this.
Shepard's ship is caught in the shockwave that spreads from the Citadel. The lights in the cabin flicker; for a moment, the engine stutters, and then the drive core comes back online -- too late to prevent them from dropping out of FTL speed.
Even standing at the bridge, bleeding from wounds wrought by mutated asari and half-conscious, Javik can feel the ship stutter, sending a thousand alarms bleating in distress. The information they offer is superfluous: anything with even only one of the basic senses would be able to tell that something is wrong. Worse, they exacerbate the tensions already running high on the command deck. Javik grinds his teeth as his senses are flooded with the adrenaline running off the crew. He doesn't need to touch them to know it; though their capacity to impart information is far more limited than bare skin, the sense-pits embedded above his mouth can taste the fear-stink in the air.
At least Shepard's crew is well-trained enough to channel that into something productive. Even as the ship spins out of control, the pilot's grating voice on the comm systems warning them to brace for impact, the humans remain in their positions. They remain attentive to their tasks, doing everything in their power to improve their chances of not simply breaking into pieces upon entry into the atmosphere. Their every action says, loudly, that they refuse to give up life.
Perhaps, Javik finds himself thinking, his people should have chosen a different race to uplift.
Then the Normandy punches through the atmosphere, and all Javik knows is darkness.
Consciousness returns, though after how long Javik cannot say. The Normandy's engine has fallen silent once more, though this time the silence has a more permanent quality. The cabin is lit only by emergency lighting, one bulb perilously close to one of Javik's eyes. It blinks dully, matching the throb of his head, but it only takes him a moment to determine the lack of permanent damage before he forces himself upright, first on hands and knees then his feet.
He can see other bodies crumpled on the floor around him, can scent the blood in the air, but he cannot tell if any of the other crew members are alive or dead. The inability to tell is disconcerting, and makes Javik feel worse than blind.
Mastering one's body is the first lesson any prothean learns, the trick to selectively shutting out sensation in order not to be overwhelmed. Drawing a breath, Javik slowly releases that hard-earned control, expanding his senses outward.
Nothing.
He curses, quietly.
"Javik."
Caught off-guard, he whirls, reaching for a gun that isn't there because he left behind on Earth. The abruptness of the motion makes him dizzy, and too late he remembers the blood he lost earlier, the doctor's efforts to apply medigel to his wounds. Odd, he thinks abstractedly, that the wounds no longer cause him pain. Perhaps he was closer to death than he realized.
"Javik?"
Hands too smooth to be human grasp at his elbows, steadying him, and he hisses at the presumption. He recognizes the voice now that it speaks again: it is the ship's artificial intelligence, the machine that plays at being human. Of course it would remain intact after the crash; as long as the ship is whole, he doubts it will ever truly cease to function. No convenient solution for this. One can hardly throw a ship out of its own airlock.
"I do not require your assistance, machine," his own voice sounds strange to his ears, but he ignores it, even as he wrenches his arms out of the machine's grasp and pushes its (bizarre, unsettling) artificial body away, palms landing flat on its shoulders--
exasperation, concern, anger, confusion; the pilot's touch on her shoulders, recent enough that he must also be alive; the body's left leg is not responding well to her attempts to move it, though she cannot detect any damage to the circuitry; she cannot detect the circuitry at all; and the ship-- the ship
--and stumbles for the second time in less than a minute, fingers yanked back from the machine's body as though it were made of molten metal.
Not once in his life, both remembered and present, has touching a machine ever yielded -- that. Vision as clear as a waking dream, sense-memory sharp and vivid as any organic's. His thoughts are a whirl of confusion, and he sees his own uncertainty reflected back at him in the expression on her--on its--face.
"... Very well." Thankfully, the machine chooses not to indulge its curiousity, its gaze going cool and shuttered as it takes a step back. Javik's hands manage to find the edge of a console and support his weight with it. He doesn't completely understand what has happened, not yet, but he knows he cannot permit himself to show weakness in front of a machine under any circumstances.
"My condition is stable," he manages at last, hating the roughness in his voice. "See to the rest of the crew."
The machine cocks its head, a curiously human gesture, before it nods and moves away, kneeling beside one of the humans on the floor. An ungainly, shuffling noise announces the pilot's arrival before he comes into sight, walking carefully, but without the strain and effort Javik has previously observed him display.
"Well, the drive core's out of commission, but I got the backup generators running, so we should be able to get the doors open. Sensors say the environment outside should be fine for humans, so we don't need-- holy shit!" Joker stops where he is, framed by the curving arch of the ship's corridor, and gapes at Javik.
Being observed so blatantly rankles, and Javik bristles, finding it in himself to snarl. "What now?"
Apparently recovering his senses as well as the facility of his limbs, Joker retreats, hands raised in what humans apparently consider the universal gesture of surrender. "Whoa, grumpy, how about a thank you for landing us in one piece before you bite my head off? I didn't say anything! It's just--" He's tired, Javik can tell, and still carrying the guilt of leaving Shepard at the Citadel; a foolish sentiment, when the pilot well knew the risks when he brought them in.
But Joker is still speaking, his voice filled with uncharacteristic hesitation instead of mockery. "--it's just... what happened to your eyes?"
Miraculously, as it turns the entire crew of the Normandy survives; the odds are significantly improved when Joker pries the door open, and the smoke of half-burnt electronics that filled the cabin clears. Javik is unsure of the difference it makes, uncertain if they -- if anyone, in this altered galaxy -- still truly needs to breathe.
Regardless of his reservations, the humans wake slowly, sluggish with the weight of suddenly ungainly bodies. Once consciousness returns, they exclaim first in shock then in relief to find themselves alive. A few weep, finally overcome with suppressed emotion. Javik watches them, as they each begin to notice the identical green shade of their eyes and the half-unseen circuitry ghosting over their limbs. He feels nothing but numb.
Javik is not a fool. Emotions cloud judgment, but one ignores such things at one's peril; far better to acknowledge passions and excise them than attempt to live in denial of their existence. He probes himself endlessly for his response to the situation he now finds himself in, the implications of a galaxy where organic and synthetic are one. Joker and the machine -- though he supposes he cannot truly call it a machine now, not when it has been rearranged on the molecular level -- are by turns awed and incredulous, unable to believe in the reality before them.
It seems as though it should be impossible. In all his dreams of revenge, Javik never thought this would be the form the end of the Reapers would take. His vengeance is meaningless, now, where the cause he fights for no longer exists. He imagines, had he learned of this outcome before it actually transpired, that he would be furious. Betrayed, certainly, at another example of Shepard carrying out her hopelessly naive ideals to the last. For this is Shepard's doing, of that much he is certain.
Javik searches his soul for the emotion he ought to be feeling, and finds none. There is no outrage, no sense of violation. It is merely a fact: he is now part synthetic. He is no different from the machine -- or, if what he suspects has happened, from anything else in the galaxy. While the crew works on the ship, already wondering at the efficiency of their changed bodies when applied to the task, he chooses to sit outside. Separate. Alone with his thoughts. A world where every living thing is part synthetic is a dangerous one, and he has learned it is far wiser to keep his hands to himself. No amount of water can cleanse him of the circuitry under his skin (he is not so foolish to try to pry it free, not when he can feel it worked into the very fiber of his being). He does not care for how even his senses have been altered; he cannot even pick up his own gun without flinching at the onslaught.
He is glad he gave the memory shard to Shepard. He does not want to think about how this synthesis might have affected his people's technology -- does not want to consider if, for the purposes of this strange new world, a device that holds organic memories might be close enough to life.
When the ship is pronounced spaceworthy, only one thing is left to be done. Javik stands back from the rest who gather at the memorial, arms held tightly behind his back. He nods stiffly at the rest of Shepard's companions, steps back to allow the turian to place the commander's name on the wall. Javik recognizes the grief in the set of his mandibles and the way he hold his shoulders in military stiffness he's never had a use for, in the tightness of the embrace the turian gives the machine. He tries to recall how long turians are expected to live, wonders if it might be different now that they are all different.
It doesn't matter. Javik does not think Garrus will ever find another like Shepard, not even if he had all the years left to the universe stretching out before him.When she releases the turian, the machine turns to Javik, and he lifts his head defiantly, keeping his back taut. He has not touched her since that one, fatal mistake after the Normandy's crash landing; he has not explained the nature of his quandary to anyone else on the ship. He suspects, by the long look she gives him, that she has at least guessed at some of it, but he has given her no reason to think kindly of him, so he does not expect her to inquire. She is still a part of the ship, albeit growing more independent of it by the day, and she sees what the ship sees. Javik imagines she has heard every unkind word he has breathed for synthetics, but he does not care what she does now with that knowledge.
In silence, they return to their places, each to mourn Shepard in their own way -- presumably. Javik uses the time to think, and to pretend he cannot feel the wild ecstasy that shivers through the ship when its engines bear it aloft and towards the stars.
Now that the full meaning of Shepard's choice has finally dawned on Javik, he has made a decision. It is not a pleasant one, but decisions made of necessity so rarely are. This is the way things must be.
He has had time, on that green world, to make good his plan. No member of the crew can be allowed to see him, but no one is looking for him, so it is easy to slip down to the hangar, past the human James and the shuttle pilot, through a side door and into a maintenance shaft. After that, his goal is in sight, and he rests an hand on the keypad, shutting his eyes and letting the memories come to him, even if this technology will never be enough to capture what he wants to say.
"What are you doing?" The machine's voice interrupts his reverie, and he looks up, frowning. He had not thought she would take notice. Instead of answering, he turns his attention to the keypad, omni-tool unnecessary as he uses touch-memory and smell-sense to unravel the technology for the purpose he needs it for.
The door's lock glows green, for a moment, then shades back to a frustrating red. This time, Javik scowls.
"It is not a machine's business what I do with my time," he says, although the words fall stiffly from his tongue.
The machine is evidently unimpressed, and her tone says as much. "Like Dr. T'Soni, I have a name. I would prefer to be addressed by it."
That answers the question of whether or not the machine really does have surveillance on all areas of the ship, but it's a detail Javik cares little enough about. "EDI," he says, as evenly as he can, "This has nothing to do with you. I would suggest that you cease interrupting me and return to your duties."
EDI makes a rude noise that she probably learned from her pilot, and ignores Javik's request utterly, proving further why AIs should never be allowed to exist. "It is my business when someone is attempting to breach the hull of my ship." It's a tone that would be almost possessive on anyone else. "I will not ask you again. What are you doing?"
Javik loses all pretense of patience.
"I am attempting to throw myself out the airlock," he answers, voice flat. "And I would appreciate it if you ceased your efforts to prevent me from doing so." His fingers have not stopped moving on the console, working to override the lock; of course, EDI works faster, and his attempts are futile at best. The machine does not respond for long enough that he almost thinks she will never answer, but when she speaks again, it is a single word.
"Why?"
Failing to secure his victory on a technological front, Javik resigns himself to dealing with the machine's interrogation, though he doubts it will ever understand. "Because there is no longer any reason for me to remain," he says, resting his head against the cool metal of the locked door. "The Reapers have been defeated -- or conquered, it matters not -- and my only purpose was to avenge the deaths of my people. It is done. There is nothing left for the last voice of the Protheans to say."
Perhaps I can no longer call myself Prothean at all.
EDI is blessedly silent, for all of a moment, before she speaks again, carefully. "I believe I understand."
The laughter that tears itself from Javik's throat is harsh and ugly. "How could you?"
He chokes on his laughter when he feels a hand on his shoulder, the deceptively delicate weight enough to be felt through his armor. EDI's voice speaks to him, not out of an unseen terminal, but from the throat of her borrowed body, and it is soft with that most hated of emotions: compassion.
The machine's kindness is more difficult to bear than any amount of cruelty. He snarls and turns on her, uses the edge of his armor to shove her against the wall and pin her there with his weight. She offers no resistance; the pliable material of her body doesn't harden into armor, and if he shuts his eyes and relies on sensation alone she could be nearly indistinguishable from a human. This close, he can see the sparks of green traveling under her artificial skin, and Javik knows the same fine traceries are etched into his own hide. Her eyes are the one thing about her that remain unchanged, but her false pupils dilate when he leans in, almost close enough to touch.
But he doesn't, and that gives her room to speak. "I understand," she says again, lowly, with more conviction.
This time, she is the one who closes the distance between them.
Javik was born and raised a soldier, but the vagaries of love are not something he is a stranger to. His skills in it are limited, and he cannot consider himself artful at it, not when the propagation of his people was such a distant concern in the face of so many dying. He has taken pleasure in the act, when given the opportunity, but he has never entertained the idea of a lover, a family, a home.
Now, he cannot tell how much he can attribute to the length of time since he last touched another -- truly touched -- or merely the strangeness of the situation to begin with. His mind feels like it might be on fire, his touch feeding the pleasure it causes back to him. It is not sex, not truly, but the intimacy of this act is somehow more obscene than any carnal touch could be. EDI has stripped him of his armor, straddled his hips and pressed him to the floor with the same determination with which she once argued for her right to evolve, and he can do nothing but take what she offers.
She twines their hands together, five fingers to three, and he shivers at the sensation that brings. She is slighter than him, but it hardly matters when her touch is all she needs to bring him down. In another world, another time, he'd find it loathesome how easily he's been reduced to nothing, but right now he can't quite bring himself to care. It's easier to let her thoughts override his, to taste the strange half-synthetic enzymes that come from her body and his. She is a machine turned human; he is a relic of a dead race who now only needs to touch the wall to hear the engine sing. They meet halfway.
He learns new tastes and smells for comfort, for friendship; later, he finds out what their arousal tastes like together. She shares, willingly, her memories of love, of companionship, and trust.
Touch by touch, memory by memory, she reminds him what it means to be alive; he wonders how he ever forgot.