Note/Disclaimer: just a quick Andromeda one-shot, because gosh I love Scott.

Mass Effect belongs to BioWare.

Sara Ryder was breathing slow and evenly, her expression relaxed and peaceful, unaware of the medical staff rushing around her, of the air of panic that had set upon the Hyperion, and of her brother who watched her carefully, looking as though he was seconds away from throwing up.

He shouldn't be here. He knew that. After coming so close to death himself, he should've been resting too - but there hadn't been much time for that. Being Pathfinder didn't do any good for his stress levels, which didn't do any good for his condition, which wouldn't do any good for anything he was trying to do. And on and on it went, until the Initiative itself imploded and a hundred thousand people died horribly, all because the Pathfinder didn't rest when he knew he should've.

Pathfinder.

It didn't sound normal. Part of Scott knew it was never going to sound normal. Not when it was used in reference to him, anyway. It was Dad's job. Dad's responsibility. Now he was gone, and Scott had been left to pick up the pieces, shoved into a position he'd never expected to be in, and never prepared for.

Once more, his eyes flicked to Sara's face. Someone would have to tell her, eventually. Scott's mouth went dry and all he could do was silently beg that it wouldn't have to be him. That was a conversation he could do with never having.

"Hey," Cora's voice called as the woman herself slowly eased herself down next to him.

A small, forced smile flashed across Scott's face as he twisted around to greet her.

"Hi," he murmured hoarsely.

"How are you holding up?"

A sharp, entirely bitter chuckle escaped him as he turned back to his sister. What did she expect him to say? What could he say? His father was dead and his sister was in a coma. And if Sara didn't make it? He'd be the only Ryder left. It was never a possibility he'd considered before. Now it was all too real. Eventually, something would go wrong, and his sister would be lost to him as well. Right now, Scott felt like he was just waiting for it.

"I'm fine," he answered shortly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Great."

Cora's eyes narrowed at his answer, but ultimately, didn't comment on it.

"She'll pull through, Scott," she assured him quietly.

"And if she does?" he asked, wringing his hands. "What happens then? Who's going to tell her?"

It should be him. What happened was his fault, it made sense that he should be the one to break the news. But thinking about it, about what happened, about trying to tell Sara that, about her reaction to it… she wouldn't forgive him. No one would.

"You think you should've died instead," Cora summed up quietly, breaking the silence that had descended upon them.

It wasn't a question.

Scott let out an agitated sigh and glanced away. "It was my helmet that smashed, not his. I was the one at risk. Besides, he was Pathfinder. His life should've taken priority."

It should've, but his father obviously hadn't cared, or hadn't thought about that. Hadn't considered the possibility that Scott very well may have died anyway – as he almost had. And now, here he was. The new Pathfinder. He wasn't ready for it. No one was ready for it. It was all he could do to make it up as he went along as everyone in the Initiative lost their collective minds.

"Scott, if it had been you out there-"

"It was me out there," he interrupted harshly.

Cora's lip curled slightly, but she ploughed on, regardless. "If it had been you out there, and you found your son slowly choking to death in front of you, and you knew that you could save him… don't tell me you wouldn't have made the same choice."

For the longest time, there was silence. Silence as Scott looked down, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, unable to bring himself to look at either Cora or his sister. Silence as he struggled to imagine being in his father's place. Silence as he realised that Cora was right. He would have made the same choice. He hated that. Hated knowing that.

All his life, he just wanted assurance from his father. Something beyond the slightly cold, distant relationship they'd always had. He'd finally gotten that, in such an intense and undeniable way, and all he could do about was wish he'd died there, on that rock, choking on air he couldn't breathe. Like he was supposed to.

"You don't know that," he muttered angrily, after far too long.

"But you do," she replied, her tone soft and gentle now. "You're not that callous, Scott. Your father wasn't."

"Maybe he should've been."

"Scott-"

"Forget it," he sighed, pushing himself to his feet. "We've got a job to do."