Shepard emerged from the briefing room, stretching her shoulder wearily. Chakwas had assured her that there was nothing physically wrong with it, but that didn't stop it from aching dully when she was feeling worn out.
Maybe, she mused, giving Mordin a friendly nod as she passed through the tech lab, it's more due to the fact that I'm not quite comfortable with this…body. As much as it looked like hers, it wasn't and it would never be. Her Akuze scars were gone, there was no trace of that burn she'd gotten in the Mindoir raid, and the ugly roping scar around her thigh from when Sovereign's wreckage had nearly crushed her had vanished. Old scars, the ones with meanings and memories and lessons behind them, had disappeared—the skin where they should be was smooth, flawless, while random glowing amber scars crisscrossed her body and face in places where she'd never before had lasting injury.
She didn't like it—didn't like to think of people discussing her as a…specimen to be faithfully replicated. Cells being corrupted, manipulated, into the Shepard ideal. She had trained for years to reach the level of physical prowess and intellectual responsiveness required in a N7 operative, and Cerberus had arbitrarily thrown credits at a corpse and synthetically copied her perimortem conditions—even 'upgrading' traits such as bone density and composition.
Once, just once, she had summoned the courage to ask Chakwas a simple question about her new and 'improved' state.
"Doc, how much of me is synthetic? How much of me is not me?"
The doctor had refused to look her in the eye. "Cerberus files say all the DNA and foundational organic material was purely you, Shepard."
"Please." She'd been unable to mask the fear in her voice, her hands had gripped the cool sides of the medbay cot she sat on, knuckles white.
Chakwas had sighed and looked up, sympathy in her eyes and a sad smile on her lips. She put a comforting hand on Shepard's shoulders, "You're still you, Shepard, it's just…"
The medbay door opened and her pilot limped in, surprise flickering across his face at the sight of Shepard sitting on the edge of a medbay bed, legs swinging slightly, and her feet bare. He'd looked to Chakwas, her gaze fixed on her hands in her lap, then back to Shepard. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"You, um, want me to wait outside?" He asked softly, and Shepard realized how strange—vulnerable, emotional, scared, weak—she must seem.
She'd straightened and, with supreme effort, summoned a smile, "No, you're fine, Joker, I was just leaving."
The empathy, compassion, and good manners vanished promptly, and he grinned rakishly, winking at her. "Great, 'cause I gotta take my physical and I'd hate to blow your mind with the sheer and unfiltered masculinity of my physique."
She snorted, had made no attempt to hide her appreciative grin. She'd stood and started to go, hesitating at the door. Chakwas was an excellent doctor, and sort of a mother figure, but she was always so careful. If you want comfort, go to Chakwas; if you want the ugly truth, Joker would give it without hesitation.
"Joker," she'd turned back to see him pulling his shirt off.
"Mmphflg?" The shirt had seemed to be giving him trouble. Unsurprising, considering he'd stubbornly kept his hat on.
"What do I—I mean…this isn't me. This body…it's fake, isn't it?" What does that mean about me?" She felt a flush of shame sting her neck at her stupid stammering. He'd escaped from his shirt and regarded her seriously, green eyes level. She could see him weighing his words and was grateful for his consideration.
"You want to know if Cerberus 'upgrades' have changed you in a more than physical sense?" He asked slowly. Somehow his cap had managed to stay firmly on his head.
Shepard nodded, suddenly acutely conscious of his shirtless state. She'd caught herself checking him out and, horrified, snapped her gaze to the innocent figure of Chakwas, who had busied herself with complicated looking equipment.
"Well, I guess that I am the person to ask about this sorta thing," he'd adjusted his cap self-consciously, and Shepard remembered him telling her how Cerberus had helped reduce the severity of his condition. She bit her lip-she hadn't meant to make him think—
"Think of it like this," he'd said suddenly, brightly, "You are a present—a gift to the galaxy, if you will (I'm so clever). You get wrapped in some nice pretty paper that gets banged up pretty badly and then got repackaged. It's still the same thing inside—the wrapping's just changed a bit."
"A bit?" She had started smiling, confused but amused.
"Eh," he shrugged, dropping his gaze, "Aside from the scars, you look like you used to. Pretty much exactly the way I—the way you used to. So…maybe just change the texture of the paper and…what the hell? put a ribbon on top or something."
"What's with the extended present metaphor?" She'd felt like she was missing something important, but it felt good to listen to him.
"I told you already, didn't I?" he'd shot back, "Don't ask my advice if ya aren't gonna listen to it." He had the widest grin she'd ever seen. "Plus, my birthday's coming up, so…"
Shepard had blinked. "Really?"
"Yep. Now, shoo or start paying 'cause the pants are coming off and I don't do charity."
She'd laughed but quickly exited the medbay, feeling like the old Shepard again.
Shepard stepped onto the CIC, thinking about her pilot. She'd known him for, what? three or four (or, five or six, depending on whether you counted the time she was dead) years? and he'd always been a good friend. Her shoulder ached and she stretched it again. She should probably get him something.
"You have unread messages at your private terminal, Commander!" Chamber chirruped from her permanent position by the Galaxy Map. Shepard nodded to the redheaded yeoman and, still thinking about Joker, tapped into the duragel display, accessing her message inbox. She snorted at the first two—both spam. She trashed the Enkindler chain message and forwarded the other, a rather offcolor advertisement for genitalia enlargement, to the Illusive man…just to piss him off. Grinning at her small and immature victory, she opened the next message.
Shepard's smile froze, her gut tightened, and all lingering warm thoughts were blown away as she read the text. Someone had escaped Purgatory when she'd broken Jack out—a serial killer and a madman by the sound of it.
Billy. Such a simple, stupid, innocent name. Almost comical when taken in context. She felt a panicked laugh bubbling up her throat and bit fiercely at her tongue to stifle it, hating herself. She knew how it would sound—she'd heard it from the bloody mouths of dying soldiers as they played with their intestines spilled wetly on the ground; she'd heard it echoing roughly from the chests of parents when informed that their child would not be coming home; she'd heard it from herself, alone in the dark on Akuze, surrounded by gory remnants of former squadmates and staring at the surreal slickness of her own bones rupturing the dirty and scarred flesh of her arm. She never wanted to hear that sound again.
"I'm gonna carve your name instead of mine into my next victim as thanks…Look around for your name, I'll make sure you find it before I find you!"
Another fine mess she'd created. All her fault—she should've made sure the dangerous ones were imprisoned or dead. All her fault and it sounded like this Billy had already started killing innocents. All her fault. She gripped the metal rail of the Galaxy Map—her knuckles turning white. This couldn't happen now, not now when the Collectors were already such a big threat and the Reapers were on the way. All her—
She couldn't lose it here—not with so many people around. She should turn around and take the elevator up to her room where she'd stew and escalate and probably break something. No, she thought wearily, she couldn't be alone like this.
Her hands loosed their death-grip on the railing and she turned, her feet striding steadily towards the cockpit. Why was her rude, arrogant, and often shallow pilot the only one aboard the new Normandy that she trusted implicitly? She felt another desperate laugh bubble up and quickened her speed, almost jogging towards him.
No one noticed; of course they didn't—she went to him after every little mission, although she usually tried to sneak up on him. He heard her coming this time, chair turned to face her, a somber expression of genuine concern on his usually guarded features.
"Commander. What happened?"
She slumped against the wall, finally letting out that laugh, that awful, ugly laugh. She saw a flash of fear in his eyes.
"I did, Joker. I—do you remember Purgatory?"
"Hell yeah. Bastard backstabs you, you kick ass, you come back with something feral and sexy, station goes 'boom'." He grinned, trying to get her to return the expression. She couldn't.
"I had to release all the cages to get Jack out. One of the prisoners managed to get out before the station blew."
Joker shifted his weight, considering. "Yeah, I mean, there were hundreds of prisoners aboard, Commander, it's pretty inevitable that at least one made it out. How'd you find out?"
She closed her eyes. "He sent me a message to thank me. He said he'd carve my name into every person he killed. Called himself Billy."
"Twisted little shit. You'd think he'd want to stay free—lie low. Billy, huh?" He grinned, "I knew an invisible dog named—"
"Joker, I need help, okay?" She lost whatever faltering hold she'd had on her control—grabbing his shirtfront and pulling him up out of his chair.
Instantly his eyes were livid, smoldering. He pushed her back.
"What the hell do you want me to say?" He asked coldly, "You know I'm not a goddamn people person so stop expecting me to play therapist."
"I—I'm sorry, Joker," she said, tears building. She never should have touched him. He sat back and rubbed one shin; his face was closed to her.
"I'm sorry!" She repeated, pleading, "Joker, I shouldn't have—I'm just so damn stressed with everything…"
He snorted, "Why don't you go talk to Garrus, then? I heard he's got ways of relieving stress."
It felt like he'd slapped her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out, Commander, but don't play innocent." He pointed to the glowing orange duragel displays behind him. "I watch you, okay? I hear all your little conversations. Garrus, Jacob, Thane," he shook his head, "It's disgusting. I'm surprised you haven't made a move on Kenneth."
"Screw you," she hissed, anger flaring, "I am not flirting with them—they're misinterpreting everything I say! And so are you. I thought that I could trust you, Joker, but you're just like everyone else."
He jerked back, surprised and hurt. "Shepard—"
She left him, angry tears streaming down her face. She ignored the concerned looks and timid questions, brushing away Kelly's comforting gesture, and took the elevator up to her quarters. The ride was agonizingly slow and she turned her back to the little camera mounted in the corner, refusing to let him see any more of her pain.
"Commander, I—"
"EDI! Block all non-essential com transmissions to this elevator and my quarters," snapped Shepard. It was childish and she knew it, but she couldn't take any more stress.
EDI complied without a word and Joker was cut off. There was something very sad about that—that she could just shut him out so totally and completely—but Shepard growled away any melancholy thoughts. Sadness made you weak, anger gave you strength.
The stupid elevator finally reached her floor and she stormed through the door to her cabin. Her muscles itched and she looked for an outlet for her violent urges. The perfect reflective sphere of her Prothean artifact gleamed darkly and she seized it in both hands, ready to dash it against the floor. But it was cool and smooth and its weight was comforting so, feeling stifled, she put it back on her low table, whirling to face her aquarium.
She imagined how satisfyingly loud the crack would be, how good the flash of pain would feel, and the cold rush of water against her legs. Then, as she cocked a fist back, she imagined all the little fish inside being swept out, cut by fragments of cruel glass, flopping on the floor and dying. She gave up and fell heavily on her bed, clutching her head in her hands.
"I can't even be angry right," her voice cracked and she was suddenly too tired for tears.
There was a firm rap at her door. EDI had said that the 'port was coded exclusively to Shepard's and, at the direction of the Illusive Man, Lawson's and Taylor's touch. Another knock. She ignored it—it was probably the redheaded yeoman and she couldn't handle Kelly's chipper attitude right now.
The knocking came again, insistent.
"Go away, you're starting to piss me off!"
"What, only now?" slightly muffled sarcasm seeped in from the outer chamber, "You seemed pretty pissed back there to me."
She was at the door in an instant, swiping her hand across the duragel scanner. The 'port hissed open to reveal her pilot, smirking superiorly. She scowled darkly at him.
"You came up to my room."
"Imagine the scandal. Yes," he shouldered past her, glancing around this new territory, "I did."
"Why?" she demanded, arms folded across her chest.
He tapped the glass of the aquarium with a curious finger. "Nice fish."
"Moreau." She meant to sound threatening, but it failed.
He sighed and turned to face her, green eyes sober. "Look, I don't want you getting angry—at me or at anyone else. Partly because it upsets the crew and sorta derails the whole 'gung-ho-bravely-run-towards-our-death' thing we got goin', but mainly because when you're pissed, you slip up and…" he looked uncomfortably down at his feet, "I don't want you dying again."
She blinked, taken aback. She'd expected to hear a lecture for pushing him, or an apology for before, but…
His eyes snapped back up to hers, glinting defiantly, "But if you touch me again, I'll fly the Normandy straight into the nearest sun."
"I'm really sorry about that, Joker," it was her turn to look down in discomfort. "If it helps, I promise not to lay a hand on you again."
"Hm, amend that to 'touch in anger' and I'll take it." He grinned suggestively and Shepard laughed, feeling the rift between them shrink.
"Um," his gaze flickered guiltily from her to her bed and back again, "I'm, ah, sorry for saying those things earlier…about your squaddies. I should know better than to listen to scuttlebutt."
She flushed, refusing to glance at her bed—she knew she hadn't made it when she woke before. What would he be thinking about her twisted sheets? In light of their previous argument, she doubted 'insomnia' would spring readily to mind. She remembered something.
"Before…you said you listened to my conversations. All of them?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, "Yeah, I probably shouldn't have said that, huh? No, not all of them, but most. I appreciated your toast, by the way, I am an ornery bastard."
"You heard that?" She blushed, "I don't remember much from about the fourth glass on. Did I…?"
"Do anything embarrassing?" He finished, grinning, "No more so than usual. You're a remarkably controlled drunk. It was kinda disappointing in a cute way."
She raised an eyebrow, "Cute?"
He rolled his eyes, "In a deadly, badass, independent, savior-of-the-galaxy way."
She smiled, "Cute?"
He blushed. "Let's go back to making nice, okay?"
She let it go. For now. "I'm sorry for getting so emotional with you. I just…"
"Yeah, stress, got it," he smiled, "That's about the point when I put my foot in my mouth."
She snorted, "An impressive feat, considering how far your head is stuck up your ass."
"Hey now, that hurts," he smirked and a wince of pain crossed his face, "Speaking of which, d'ya mind if I sit down?"
"Yeah, go ahead." She felt guilty for not thinking of his legs earlier. Seeing him walk without the crutches or braces made her think he was…well, normal. And he never would be.
He groaned slightly as he lowered himself down on one of the stooped couches. He rubbed a thigh, grimacing. He'd been hurting for a while—he was just too proud to say so.
"Here," she hovered uncertainly beside him, reaching out, "I've um, had a little training in massage therapy."
"You?" He snorted in disbelief. "Why?"
She sat next to him and looked at her empty hands in her lap, "After Akuze. As part of my…psychological therapy. Sort of an empathy thing—I feel better by making others feel better."
He searched her face, his dark green eyes inscrutable. "Okay."
She scooted closer, put her hands—so used to the cold solidity of armor and weapons—gently on his leg. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."
Shepard worked slowly, carefully, trying to move with the 'grain' of the muscle as she'd been taught. He lay back and let out a long breath.
"Feels good, Commander. It won't do anything though—my problem's with the bones."
"Yeah," she nodded, "But it'll make you feel less achy and maybe it'll encourage some more development. You've probably atrophied over—"
"My whole life, yeah, Chakwas has been telling me about that," he closed his eyes, "She said if I encourage a 'normal' level of muscle development, I might straighten out a little. Look, I don't really want to talk about my problems. Are you ready to go over the Billy thing?"
She was quiet for a moment, her hands working in long slow strokes. "Yeah. Sorry for snapping at you over your reference, by the way. I just needed some serious counsel, you know?"
He shifted his weight, "Oh, you got it? I was wondering if it went over your head. Yeah, in case you haven't noticed, I don't like being serious. Shit is too scary and depressing to be serious."
"Only a small part of the galaxy is like that," she felt compelled to protest, "It's just that in our particular calling, we're forced to see and deal with the dark stuff every day."
He grunted in a noncommittal sort of way, then jumped when she accidentally brushed the inside of his leg, "Whoa there, Shepard! Hands in new places!"
"Sorry!" She pulled away, blushing, "I slipped."
He worked his left leg. "Um…that did kinda help. Thanks, Commander. Could you, uh, do the other one too?"
"Yeah, sure." Shepard stood and slid awkwardly around him.
"About the reference," she started massaging his other leg his other leg, trying to block the memories of the V.A. hospital she'd been sent to after Akuze, "I took an Ancient Culture class in American pop culture of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries as an elective in college. I really liked The A-Team."
He laughed, "Wow, Commander, I didn't figure you for the 80's type. Who was your favorite?"
"Murdock," she grinned, "Although by now the whole 'crazy pilot with a cap' sounds pretty worn out by now."
"Hey," He smiled lazily, "If I start talking in to a sock puppet in multiple accents, then you can call me crazy. 'Til then, I'm just lovably eccentric."
"Sure," she snorted, "That's you in two words."
"So," his tone changed, sober, "What are you gonna do about Billy?"
She sighed wearily, good mood dimming, "I don't know. We already have so much to do—building the team and solving their personal issues, figuring out how to get through the Omega Relay in one piece, the Collectors…it's hard to imagine finding the time to track this bastard down and end him."
"Okay, so you can't. Not yet." He shifted to face her and Shepard narrowly avoided another awkward contact. She pulled back, looking at the fish in her aquarium.
"I need to stop him, Joker. It's my fault he's out. Anyone he kills will be because I let him escape."
"You wanna play the blame game? Fine," he touched her chin, gently pulling her to face him, "Blame the turian on a power trip for playing dirty. Blame Jack for being psychotic enough to land in Purgatory. Blame the Illusive Man for wanting you to recruit her, blame me for flying you there, blame Cerberus for bringing you back, blame me for—" He blinked and turned away from her, face suddenly tight.
She put a hand on his tense shoulder, "Blame you for what?" She knew.
He looked back to her, mouth a grim slash of a bitter smile. "For killing you."
"You really think you're to blame for that?" Green eyes glittered, challenged her to argue.
"Joker, everyone dies—the only thing that changes is the time, place, and manner."
"That doesn't change the fact that I killed you." He folded his arms stubbornly.
"You didn't. I chose to stay back, I tried to talk you out of that chair instead of hauling your stubborn ass out—it was me who killed me."
"But if I didn't—" He protested, but Shepard cut him off.
"You wanna play the blame game?" she asked, smirking slightly, "Blame me. Blame the Collectors for attacking, blame our superiors for sending us on that stupid patrol in the first place."
"That's not fair," he grumbled, but the traces of a smile hinted at the corners of his mouth.
"Anyway," she sat back, arms crossed over her chest, staring up at the 'ceiling'. "As far as deaths go, it wasn't a bad way to go out."
He arched an eyebrow skeptically, "Because who wants to go in their sleep after hitting triple digits surrounded by friends and family, right? That would suck."
She grinned, "C'mon, flyboy, that's not realistic for people like us. I got to save someone I…cared about with my final actions. Is that holo material or what?"
He moved closer. "Did you say 'cared about'? In, ah, what capacity are we talking here?"
Shepard looked at him innocently, "Did you say 'cute' earlier?"
"Hmph." He backed off and, deep inside, she was disappointed.
"Anyway," he said, after a brief but strained pause, "We've established that this Billy guy can't be stamped out before the Collector mission, right?"
"I guess so."
"So, logically, we kill the little bastard after we save the day again."
Shepard smiled, oddly reassured to hear the obvious and simple course of action in her pilot's tone.
"Are you still mad at me?...Not that I actually give a shit, mind."
"I can't stay mad at you for long, Lieutenant. Are you still mad at me?"
He adopted a pensive expression. "That depends."
"On what?"
He grinned. "On what you get me for my birthday."