The pulsing bass of Dark Star isn't enough to burn Joker's thoughts away, and neither is the fifth shot of alien liquor.
Grounded.
It'd taken the court martial less than an hour to remove his wings. Fucking kangaroo court.
So what if he'd stolen the Normandy twice? He'd paid for his sins the first time, and saved the galaxy the second. Gotten a fucking medal for it too. But now he was 'unstable'? A fucking 'liability'? While reg breaking Alenko made Commander?
Well fuck that, and fuck Alenko for going quiet about the Reaper threat. Joker slams another shot, adding the empty glass to his growing graveyard.
After Alchera, Joker had been careful to stay away from alcohol. Because when you'd just killed your CO, one beer was hard to differentiate from twelve, and that shit would get you grounded. Properly drunk now, Joker can appreciate the irony.
The world tilts precariously. Shit. This is why he doesn't drink. He gestures to the bartender for another. Maybe the Turian pouring drinks will just let him sleep here.
If they'd wanted to ground him for killing Shepard, Joker would have understood, hell, he wouldn't have even fought it. But that's not the reason his wings are gone. For fuck's sake, they let him fly for almost two months before it became obvious he wasn't planning to forget the word 'Reaper' as instructed. Only then had the charges been brought.
Of course, they'd had to find a way that didn't incriminate the rest of Shepard's surviving crew. No one liked a government who shamed their war heroes.
There's a thought that deserves a drink. Joker's pretty sure the secrets of the universe are at the bottom of this bottle. Won't be sure until he gets there, of course, so he chugs the beer. Nope. Maybe the next one. Definitely one of the next three, though the bartender is giving him that look like he's one hiccup away from being cut off for the night. Shit.
Fucking stuff doesn't even have a damn label to peel while he waits for the Turian to bring another.
The stool beside him gains an occupant, bar stool squealing a little as it turns to face him.
"Hello," his new neighbor says, voice just the right amount of throaty. He thinks about flirting with the perfect legs (can't be bothered to look any further up), but one night stands aren't really his thing. 'Do be careful not to shatter my pelvis' is a pick-up line with a standard return somewhere between nervous laughter and open-mouthed horror.
"Not my type," he says instead. No, his type is more along the lines of knows condition, knows to be careful, won't leave after snapping my tibia.
The woman snorts, and alright, to be fair, she's probably everyone's type. Joker raises his gaze to take her in. Nice curves, pretty face, tiniest little gap between her front teeth so that all you can think about is her hot, wet mouth.
"The name's Miranda Lawson, Mr. Moreau."
Shit. If she knows his name, that means she's Alliance, and if she's Alliance, that means he's about to be dishonorably discharged. He pulls the brim of his cap lower. It's not a huge surprise, though he'd hoped- What had he hoped? That someone would figure out the Reapers were real? That they'd put him at the helm of a new ship and let him figure out how to do right by Shepard? He's not usually one for blind optimism.
"Fuck off and court martial me in the morning." Joker swings his stool to the other side, and motions to the Turian for another round.
"I'm not Alliance, Mr. Moreau," the woman says, and if she were talking to a wad of gum on the bottom of her patent leather heel, the tone would probably be the same. "I've come to offer you a job."
A job, sure. Anyone come calling after Alchera is a damned idiot, and no one he's interested in hiring on with. "Ah, my mistake. In that case, just fuck off."
The bartender sure is taking his sweet time with the alcohol. Joker's uninvited guest doesn't leave. "Fuck you, lady, can't you see-"
"My sources lead me to believe that you were interested in stopping the Reaper threat. Was I misinformed?"
And he's definitely had too much to drink for this conversation. Or possibly not enough. "Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you know about me?"
Four perfectly manicured nails drum against the bar. "Miranda Lawson, Cerberus. I oversee the Lazarus Project." Cerberus, it sounds familiar, but Joker can't place it, though his brain's fuzzy enough he's not surprised. "You are Jeff Moreau, Alliance. Best helmsman since the invention of FTL technology. Grounded because you won't shut your mouth."
He sighs. "So you have extranet access. Should I be impressed?" He is, though, despite himself. Chick must be a journalist. He'd give her an interview if it didn't come with a side helping of treason (the Alliance had been really fucking clear about that). Knowing his luck she works for the Universal Enquirer or some shit. The thought of "Reaper Force Threatens Galaxy" running beside "Star of 'Blasto' Admitted for Rehab" is one part hilarious and two parts nauseating.
Lawson ignores his comment and hands over a datapad, flicking through the screens faster than his blurry vision can keep up. "The Alliance will have you flying again in sixth months, so long as you meet behavioral requirements. These are the orders you're set to receive when you get your wings back."
"You hacked the Alliance?" Joker asks, though he can't bring himself to feel the outrage he probably ought. He scans the document. They're planning to lift his suspension, he'll get to fly again. He can wait six months-
It takes a couple tries, but eventually the words before him process. Shuttle duty. On the Citadel cargo route. Automated flights, pilots on board only in case of emergency. Maybe he'll see if the Turian will pour him a couple shots of Ryncol.
Lawson watches as his face falls, then changes screens. "These are your most recent medical charts, and this," another swipe, "is the medical plan our physicians have come up with. We'll replace or adjust your IM rods as necessary, then start you on a regimen of biophosphonates. You'll have access to Project Lazarus' top of the line physical therapists. In addition, we'd like to break, reset, and repair the fracture on your left femur with a cloned bone graft."
The woman rattles this off like a grocery list, but to Joker it's a world of possibility he's never let himself consider. The rods in his bones haven't been touched since they went in at age fifteen, and they've not grown with his bones, so now every step is a sort of burning torture. They're his third set, though, and by the time the doctors stitched him up after the procedure, he'd burned through his parents' retirement fund twice over. And everyone knows IM rods are an 'elective procedure' under Alliance insurance, even if they're the only things that allow him to walk.
Lawson's speaking again, "The frigate currently in construction for your use surpasses the Normandy on all technical fronts." She rattles off a list of specs, and the drive core alone is enough to make his head spin.
To fly again, to walk unaided, it's unthinkable. It's a dream. It's-
"Cerberus," Joker spits. He remembers now. Remembers Kahoku, remembers the Rachni, remembers Toombs.
Lawson turns half a smile his way, completely confident he won't be able to resist the offer in front of him. "Cerberus indeed, Mr. Moreau. Do we have our helmsman?"
"Let me get this straight," Joker says. "You look at me and see a broken man with authority issues. And you think that because I'm verbal about my disagreement with the brass I'll sign on with the first terrorist group with a fucking ship. You think that my disease makes me morally bankrupt, and that I'll sell my soul for some metal rods."
Rage burns through him, white-hot, until he's shaking. Joker presses both palms flat against the bar, struggling not to clench them into fists.
"Let me tell you something, Cerberus. Those marines you experimented on? They were my brothers. The soldiers slaughtered on Akuze? They were my sisters. I would rather die than betray them. I may just fly the damn ship, but it's an Alliance ship."
The Cerberus operative pinches her mouth into an unpleasant moue before responding. "Very noble, I'm sure." She pulls up another screen on the pad held in Joker's white-knuckled grip. "This," she says, "is project Lazarus. Our plan to destroy the Reaper threat."
More than half the document has been redacted, but what remains tells one clear story. Cerberus believes Shepard. Cerberus is taking the fight to the Reapers.
Cerberus.
Joker went to one counseling session after Akuze. He hadn't slept for four days, and he thought he was ready to hear 'survivor's guilt' and 'PTSD' like such common terms could describe the hell inside his head. He hadn't gotten the peace he was after, but he did remember the look in the woman's eyes when she'd told him, "When you kill someone, Mr. Moreau, it becomes incumbent upon you to live for two instead of one."
He's fucking fine watching the Universe burn if no one will heed the warnings. Hell, right now he might light a match. But Shepard wouldn't.
The silence stretches. Maybe if he's quiet long enough, the woman will leave and take the choice with her.
Would Shepard sign on with demons if it meant saving the universe?
"I'm listening," Joker says at last.
Lawson smirks. "Excellent. I never settle for anything less than the best." One more swipe at the screen reveals an address, date, and time. "There's quite a bit more to tell, Mr. Moreau. I hope to see you there."