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Captain Alenko’s Log: 2216

Sometimes I wonder what it was like for my Dad at my age… the skull-splitting headaches.  Every now and then it feels like my head is cleaved open; on other days it’s more like an icy spike is jammed in the back of my eye socket.  In a bizarre way I’ve become accustomed to it, expect it even.  When I don’t get a headache it makes me wonder if something’s off. 

The nosebleeds are the part that I hide.  I’ve noticed that others react much worse when you’re bleeding than when you’re simply holding your head… wouldn’t do me any good to have a crew concerned about things out of their control, so I’d like to keep it that way.  

But I’m the only surviving L-X7 implant user to date, so maybe that says something.  …Maybe that also says I could die in complete agony someday, but let’s take things one step at a time.  I’d like to think I’m an optimist. 

…Most of the time. 

Then again, I’m not kidding myself either.  I’m no civilian.  I know what the stakes are.  I know what I’ve given up to walk this path.  I chose this arm, I sacrificed my ability to touch and feel with it, to wield this big, biotics-enhancing hunk of durasteel rather than some fleshy replacement.  I push my biotics harder and faster than most, not because I can take it, but because I have to.  I am my Mother’s son.

I have vivid dreams once in a while.  They’re not pleasant.  The doc thinks they may be stress-induced from the headaches, but I’m not sure.  All I know is I die in them, and they are brutal, short, and… very painful.  I don’t believe in precognition, but I have to admit it makes me think.  We’re always going to be facing down something dangerous. 

When I die, I doubt it’ll be in a bed. I guess I’ll have to live with that.

Rem kissed me today.