Title: Five Ways Morinth Didn't Get Away With Killing Commander Shepard
Rating: SFW (violence, character death)
Wordcount: 3378
Summary: In retrospect, it would have been better to wait until the ship was less in the middle of nowhere before melding.
Note: The full title doesn't fit in this site's title field, so I had to abbreviate there. I've butted up against the summary limit before, but this is my first brush with too much title.
When she comes fizzing-pulsing-trembling down from the best high of her life, all she can think is, Shit.
She expected better from a brain full of ancient ciphers and bleeding-edge cybernetics; any nervous system that so easily shrugged off her control should have emerged just as unscathed from her meld. Instead the brain's owner is still and empty-eyed on the floor, fingers clawed and spine twisted. Burnt out like any other piece of meat.
Damn shame.
Something stirs in Morinth that she hasn't felt in centuries, something that takes the memory of Shepard's informed consent and scrapes it against the underside of her skin. She resents it. She should at least be able to enjoy the aftershocks of the meld before she has to deal with the consequences.
"Sorry, Shepard," she says, stooping to set her hand on the corpse's chest. A gentle biotic jolt, to help the spirit dissolve back into the universe: she doesn't believe, but an empty gesture feels better than none. The dead flesh quivers for her. "I really thought you were different."
Still, it's a hell of a way to go. If Morinth ever gets bored with life, that's how she wants to make her exit: find another Ardat-Yakshi, see what happens when the wires cross.
Right now she's pretty attached to life, so it's time to find a way off the Normandy before anyone discovers that she's killed the commander.
The surveillance equipment in the observation deck remains disabled. Morinth changes back into her mother's clothes before giving Shepard's body a careful biotic boost onto the cushions of the sofa. A little rearrangement of the limbs, an empty glass on the floor, and there: the commander just had a little too much to drink again. Nothing to worry about.
Through the window, the stars drift in parallax. In retrospect, it would have been better to wait until the ship was less in the middle of nowhere before melding, but, well. Hindsight.
I.
A few decades ago, Morinth stowed away on a ship transporting equipment to a salarian mining colony. The captain she killed without ceremony, as he bored her; the crew she kept in thrall for days, burning one by one through their bright quivering minds. When the ship began to attract suspicion, she took her favorites with her on the shuttle and left the rest to ram the ship into an asteroid. Throbbing deep in a meld, she watched the explosion through the shuttle window.
She's overdue for another round of that, but the Normandy doesn't fit the bill. Too many strong-willed, highly trained killers aboard, for a start. EDI would be a problem, as well; Morinth can't enthrall a synthetic mind.
At least the shuttle part of the plan is still solid enough, so she heads for the elevator, back straight and expression stoic. Pretend you've had a stick up your ass for so long you can't even feel it anymore. Pretend you want to die cold and joyless and drag everything bright and wild down with you. It's not complicated, pretending to be her mother.
The elevator doors open on Yeoman Chambers. "Oh, Samara!" she says, and there's that glint in her eye, that hint of sorrow and suspicion and nervous concern. "Have you seen the commander?"
"Not lately, I'm afraid." Morinth steps aside to make space for Chambers to exit. "You might try Kasumi's bar."
"Okay. Thanks." She isn't leaving the elevator. "You know—"
EDI butts in: "Samara has just left Starboard Observation, which Commander Shepard entered approximately twenty-six minutes ago."
Chambers's eyes are sharper now, right on the edge of accusation. Morinth grits her teeth behind a rueful smile before saying, "Is it an urgent issue? The commander is resting, and surely if anyone deserves—"
"No, no. It's nothing major." Chambers presses her lips together a moment before adding, "So white lies aren't against your Code?"
"Not when I tell them in service to my oath to Shepard."
The suspicion gives way to wistfulness. "I wish we still talked. I'd love to understand you better. I mean, I know that you need a little space after... what happened, but I miss you."
Spying an opportunity, Morinth smiles broadly. "You're right; I have allowed myself to retreat into my grief. Might we talk together later?"
Chambers perks up. "I'd like that. Meet you in Starboard Observation at 1800?"
"I look forward to it."
Suddenly Chambers moves forward, pressing their bodies together, and angles her head for a kiss. Morinth almost laughs—after four hundred years, her mother has finally, posthumously surprised her—but manages to keep her composure. She can't begin to imagine how her mother kissed, can't conceive of any passion in that frigid waste of a body, so she parts her lips and lets Chambers assume control.
Chambers is eager to take it, tangling her fingers in Morinth's crest and driving her tongue deep into Morinth's mouth. She's not really Morinth's type, but maybe she's worth bringing along; the long shuttle ride would be so dull without a plaything. Morinth flicks her tongue and pulls back, eyes open and ready to entice.
With alarming speed, Chambers's hand slips from Morinth's crest and slams into her jaw. Something cracks between her teeth; she tastes bitterness and falls spasming, hands clawing at her throat.
The last thing she hears clearly, before all sounds falls into a dark hum, is "White lies are against the Code. And the real Samara turned me down."
II.
All she has to do is get to the shuttle, blast out of the hangar bay, and make the jump to FTL. She has her cover story ready—Samara needs a more secluded place to meditate—but would rather deploy it as sparingly as possible on her shipmates, some of whom are far too nosy. After Morinth calls the elevator, she sidles out of sight of any potential passengers.
The door opens on emptiness. Allowing herself a smile, Morinth steps aboard and presses the button for the lowest deck. The door catches on nothing as it closes; no longer smiling, she peers into the deserted hall and tries again. This time the elevator seals and slides down.
She leans against the wall and takes a deep breath to calm herself. There's no sense in paranoia when she has enough real threats to worry about.
If she'd known that Shepard was planning to show up and give in today, she wouldn't have snorted half a gram of Illium gray beforehand. The world is still just a little too sharp and bright, and the harshest lights leave faint, jagged trails when she turns her head. The light in the corner appears almost bulbous.
The elevator opens on the deserted silence of the hangar bay. It's deader than a monastery down here. Add a little guilt and honey, and her sisters would feel right at home.
In the far corner, the shuttle waits unattended. Morinth unlatches and raises the hatch, then pauses to breathe in the scent of sweat and old blood. Her pulse quickens; why is she here alone, when she could creep back up to a populated deck and find someone to keep her entertained on the long jump to the nearest relay? Violence lingers, and being alone with its memory would be as unsatisfying as watching a vid.
Her head snaps up at a faint sound behind her. The hanger is still empty. She needs to get out of here.
If EDI suspects anything, there'll be a very slim window between the opening of the hangar doors and a lockdown, no longer than it takes to stop trying to reach the commander and consult the XO instead. Morinth moves like water, up into the shuttle and—
Her feet have scarcely touched down when a bruising force strikes her midsection. She staggers, breathless, and falls backward to the floor of the hangar. The shuttle hatch slams down.
In her fury she nearly forgets her mother's voice. "What the—what is the meaning of this? Who dares strike a justicar?"
On the other side of the shuttle's window, a shimmer resolves into a solid, hooded figure. That sentimental twit of a thief. Nothing about this makes sense.
Kasumi's voice broadcasts from shuttle's speakers: "Glad I caught you before you left."
Morinth can't believe she was careless enough to let a cloaked human tail her. Clumsy. Stupid. Gone soft after too long away from the hunt. Fighting the urge to snarl, she says, "With the commander's leave, I seek to meditate alone in the shuttle. Do not impede me."
"Mmm." The orange glow of Kasumi's omni-tool lights her lower face. She's not tapping, but her fingers are flexed and ready. "You know, I notice things. It's a professional skill. Shep goes to help Samara kill her brilliant but twisted daughter, Shep comes back with a Samara who doesn't act quite like herself, and I decide it's in everyone's best interests if I do a little snooping."
Clumsy. Sloppy. Morinth swallows a growl. "These are serious and misguided accusations. Moreover, you have assaulted me. I would prefer not to retaliate as my Code will shortly demand. Come out now, and we may still talk."
"We're already talking," Kasumi replies mildly. "Or did you mean face-to-face, so you can try to hypnotize me?"
Morinth moves her gaze methodically over the shuttle. A biotic tug at the right place ought to pop it open, but the trick is figuring out where. "All right," she says in her own voice, shrugging out of her mother's stiff posture, "you got me. Shepard gave me a chance and invited me along. Now that the mission's over, I'm taking off. No hard feelings, just the way I am."
"Just the way you are." Kasumi sounds like she's tasted something sour. "What are you, Morinth?"
"Getting tired of this game." There's a dip where the shuttle hatch seals at the bottom, perhaps space enough for leverage. "What does a thief care if I steal a shuttle?"
"It's not the shuttle I care about." A pause. "I'll tell you what: answer one question, honestly, and if you get it right, this shuttle's all yours."
Form a mass effect field under the dip and pry. Morinth hates being toyed with, but she'll turn the tables quickly enough. "Well, don't keep me in suspense."
"What is Thane about to tell me he's found inside Starboard Observation?"
The shuttle's kinetic barriers flare at the same instant Morinth springs her field, which sparks and shatters. Bristling with frustration, she dives behind a fan. No weapons on the shuttle to worry about—the best Kasumi can do is try to crush her—but EDI must be alerted by now. Lockdown eminent.
Morinth gathers power until she can feel her amp burning under her skin, enough to rip through the barrier and slam the shuttle against a wall. Better a dented ride than none at all.
She rises in time to see Kasumi's hand flying over her omni-tool, not the shuttle's controls. Morinth's gut twists as the hangar doors hiss apart.
III.
It's one thing to hurl a boulder through the air or split a molecule in half, but quite another, it turns out, to manipulate a corpse like a marionette. Morinth's biotic training has not prepared her for this.
Shepard's body jerks and hitches in the open doorway, feet coming down at wrong angles and arms dangling absurdly. It's a grotesque display, utterly unconvincing; Morinth can't even simulate a natural human gait, let alone manage such nice details as blinking or not letting the head loll slack-jawed from shoulder to shoulder. Ridiculous. Mission abort.
She raises her hand to pull Shepard's body back into Starboard Observation, then freezes as the elevator opens. She's safely out of sight, but Shepard is impossible to miss, glowing blue and dangling like meat from an invisible hook, feet scarcely touching the floor. Eyes probably facing in different directions. Tongue definitely hanging out.
Grunt steps off the elevator, faces the abomination, and nods. "Shepard," he says on his way to the men's room.
Feeling as if she's fallen through the floor of reality, Morinth gathers herself as best she can before pitching her voice to mimic Shepard's: "Grunt."
Maybe this isn't a failed idea. The commander does enjoy a drink or five, and stranger things happen on the Normandy with alarming regularity. All she needs is an escort to the shuttle. Maybe EDI won't even notice; she's never been certain whether the damn thing can monitor vital signs.
It couldn't hurt to take Shepard's body along, either. Someone's bound to still be offering credits for it, and it's not like Shepard's using it anymore.
Morinth follows behind, keeping her movements small and controlled, as she sends Shepard lurching down the hall. If anyone asks, they're just going on a quick jaunt together on the shuttle, and Samara will be doing the driving. Nothing to worry about.
Aside from a leg-tangle as they round the corner, Shepard's motions are becoming smoother. Morinth always was a quick study. Perhaps she should do this more often, with the dead and the broken. Make them dance for her. Dig deeper and deeper, find a way to keep taking even after she's hollowed them out.
She leaves Shepard loosely upright, shoulders rounded and head tipped forward, as she calls the elevator.
Heavy footsteps alert her to the return of Grunt, who cannot possibly have washed his hands. "You okay, Shepard?" he asks. "You look... flimsy."
Morinth shields her mouth with her hand as casually as she can; her many skills do not include ventriloquism. Shepard's jaw flaps as she flexes her fingers. "I'm fine. Just headed out with Samara."
"Hrmm. Got space in your squad? I'm itching to kill something."
Tempting, if liable to go awry. Grunt's mind is unusual, sprung fully formed from suggestion, and she probably shouldn't be alone in a shuttle with him when she tests its susceptibility. But where's the fun in playing it safe?
And where the hell is the elevator? Morinth hits the call button again before replying in her best Shepard voice, "Sure, I could use you. We've got a merc base to clear out."
Grunt grunts his approval. Morinth twitches her hand to get Shepard standing a little straighter. The elevator still isn't here, and her mind whirs around the likelihood that EDI has caught on. Out of the corner of her eye, she evaluates Grunt as a hostage.
The click of an expanding rifle snaps her attention back. Garrus's head peers from around the edge of the mess, visor lights flickering rapidly. Turians seldom interest Morinth; she can't glean much from his face, beyond that she ought to explain herself quickly.
She keeps her expression smooth around the hand she raises to hide her mouth. "Hey, Garrus. We're—"
It occurs to her, a split-second too late to matter, that even if EDI doesn't monitor vitals, Garrus's visor does.
IV.
Morinth has given the medical bay a wide berth since coming aboard. Even if Doctor Chakwas weren't only a DNA sample away from exposing her, she associates physicians with being poked and prodded and told that everyone is so sorry, but she'll have to spend the rest of her life in a cage, withering her way to harmlessness.
But the Normandy's schematics indicate that she'll have to take her chances with either the elevator or the maintenance shaft leading down from the AI core if she wants to reach the hangar, and she'd rather limit her potential for social interaction. She forces her face serene and enters the med bay.
The doctor is dealt with easily enough; Samara doesn't need any treatment and is on her way to speak to the geth, which is just as neatly disposed with, accepting her desire to meditate down in the access shafts as an unremarkable organic quirk. Morinth suppresses her smirk until she's safely inside the shaft.
It's a tight fit; her shoulders nearly brush the rounded walls, and the red emergency lights are too bright, too close. She's stowed away in roomier cargo crates. The segmented ladder is overly smooth and awkwardly spaced, so as a precaution, she wraps herself in a mass effect field. Dying from a fall would just be embarrassing.
Rung by rung, she creeps down to the engineering deck and pauses when the path diverges toward Jack's nest.
Jack is exactly the sort of trouble she doesn't need right now. Which is too bad, really; under better circumstances, they could burn together through clubs and slums for as long it took to burn down to the brittleness under Jack's skin. She shivers at the thought of Jack in ruins, begging to burn out.
Damn shame.
As Morinth continues her descent, a clank alerts her to a fire seal cutting off the shaft just above her. Another, lower clank alarms her into letting go of the ladder for a biotically assisted fall, but her heels strike metal not even a meter down. Her hands scrabble at the walls for a release mechanism.
"Don't panic," says EDI's voice. There's no echo, no space for one to build. "Accelerated respiration will hasten oxygen depletion."
Morinth runs her hand around the lower seal and finds it airtight. She is damn well not going to panic; she keeps her mother's voice steady. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Legion is curious about the effects of meditation on your vital signs, and I have been unable to observe you in Starboard Observation since your return from Omega. However, you are not currently engaging in meditation as indicated. You also misled Doctor Chakwas. It is uncharacteristic of you to lie."
Morinth does not like that tone. Morinth doesn't like that an AI can even have that tone. "Have you imprisoned me over a misunderstanding of my Code?"
EDI's tone persists: "I have examined the Code and found it unusually straightforward by organic standards, but I acknowledge that at least one of us hasn't spent centuries considering its implications."
Talking obviously isn't going to work, but as Morinth begins picking at the seals, desperation compels her to add, "It is not your place on this ship to mete out judgment."
"Correct," EDI replies. "As a member of the crew, I defer to the commander's judgment. That's why you will remain here until Commander Shepard responds to my request for orders."
Biotic pressure isn't budging the seal; whatever holds it in place, Morinth can't find any leverage against it. It's hard to think when every breath comes in hyperfocus. "Is it not against your own code to suffocate your shipmates?"
"Suffocation is not an immediate a concern. While I no longer have surveillance access to Starboard Observation, past data indicates that Commander Shepard will not remain there for long. I will release the seals within a millisecond of receiving a response."
That tone. Morinth rips a segment of the ladder from the wall and slams it against the upper seal. The red lights have begun, impossibly, to feel warm. She cracks one with the ladder and feels no relief. Panting, she shatters each light in turn until there is only darkness.
If this is how she goes out, she will not go quietly.
V.
"On second thought," says Shepard, taking a step back, "let's keep our relationship professional."
Morinth crackles on the edge of something so near and glorious that it takes her a moment to find her voice. She really is an excellent actor; she's sure that Shepard can't sense her frustration. Her smile holds until the door slides shut, leaving her alone again.
"Shit," she mutters, sinking back into the cushions.
All fired up and nowhere to blow. It's not like she can just help herself to one of the crew and dump the body out an airlock undetected, or pretend the neurological devastation was caused by some other Ardat-Yakshi. If Shepard doesn't schedule some shore leave soon, she's going to crawl right out of her skin.
It would have been phenomenal. Life-changing. What would it feel like to meld with the same partner twice?
Scowling, Morinth locks the door, pops a handful of hallex, and puts on a throbbing Varrencage album.
The universe can be so unfair.