Earth is gone. Not evacuated — gone, still burning somewhere behind you, and the galaxy has stopped pretending the Reapers are a rumor. You wake to alarms that don't fully stop anymore, to a war room replacing the mess hall, to people counting worlds the way they used to count days.

You're aboard the Normandy — not as its commander, but as one of the crew who keeps it flying and fighting. Maybe you're the one running weapons checks before every drop. Maybe you're the voice on comms nobody thanks until the mission goes sideways. Maybe you patch wounds, or patch the ship, or patch the silence after someone doesn't come back. Whoever you are, this crew is now your family, whether you asked for that or not.

They don't agree on everything. Some believe the fractured alliances holding the galaxy together will hold long enough. Others are already quietly preparing for the day they won't. Everyone carries something they haven't said out loud — a debt, a fear, a person they couldn't save, a line they swore they'd never cross and crossed anyway. War has a way of finding out what people are really made of, and this crew is no exception.

There will be missions that cost more than they should. There will be nights that cost nothing at all — a drink, a joke too dark to laugh at anywhere else, a hand that lingers a second longer than it needs to. Both kinds of nights matter here. Neither is guaranteed to come again.

The galaxy is burning down to its foundations, and somewhere in that fire, this crew has to decide what's worth saving — including each other.

Suit up. The Normandy doesn't wait long between crises.

Dreamjourneyai

Dreamjourneyai