Dealing The Joker
A/N: While I get into this oneshot writing business, allow me to present a tale delving into the mind of everyone's favourite jocular helmsman. The story grew into something a little longer than my original scene sketch, but hopefully it's still short enough to be a reasonable oneshot. Critiques sought for, as I'm not too happy with the ending, but can't think of a better, snappier way to resolve it. Hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it.
The glass clinked as the bearded man set it on the table in front of him, letting out a slow breath as the liquor warmed his throat. He huffed, and set his eyes wandering to the large glass window beside him, drinking in the glittering lights of the harbour, watching the reflections dance on the rippling water. Tossing the last of the whiskey down, he leaned back slowly, sinking into the leather cushion.
Outside in the night, a pair of mass effect flyers sped by, their whining thrusters permeating the heavy window glass and inciting a pang of longing in the man sat with his fingers playing over the rim of the empty glass. He watched as the sleek shapes dissolved into the darkness, leaving only the glow of running lights to illuminate their course, as they descended towards a harbour side plaza. More of this city's illustrious wealth, travelling in style, on their way to whatever event was taking place for the benefit of the moneyed elite.
It was not envy for the destination, or the trappings of wealth that Jeff Moreau felt, as his eyes turned from the stunning cityscape and fell back into the empty glass before him, it was merely jealousy of their mode of transport. He had been driven here. The cab had been comfortable, and its driver more than courteous – friendly even – but that engendered little warmth in him, he was simply not a passenger.
The bar he was sat in was on the thirty-third floor of the Bestrebung Plaze, a mammoth titanium and glass tower that reached high into the Hamburg skyline, and was simplistically titled, in English, Bar 33. The tower, whose name translated to Aspiration Plaza, had been built shortly after the resolution of the First Contact War between humanity and the Turian Empire. Hamburg had been one of the first human cities to develop an extensive interstellar tourism organisation, an attempt to make the dazzling city an impressive gateway to earth for visiting aliens. Taking in traffic from the ESA's spaceports in the German heartland, Switzerland and Hungary, it also ran regular shuttles to and from the European orbital terminal.
The increased commerce the arrival of alien tourists had brought had more than paid for the Plaza's expensive construction, its shopping centres, restaurants, mezzanines and gardens proving an appealing attraction to human tourists as well as the alien visitors. With a linking skybridge to the even larger hotel stood next to it, the plush interior of which was equipped to cater for the needs of many alien species, the Plaza had become everything its architects had hoped for. But it was not the ambience, or the available alien company, or even the comfort that had brought Jeff Moreau to Bar 33. It was merely the highest point one could sit and drink in the city, and that served his purposes.
He set his eyes roving across the bar, and its attendant clientele. Two tables over from him, a trio of asari sat gossiping and laughing, their lilting, lyrical words incomprehensible to Moreau's ears, as his automated translator was left switched off. Behind him, he had heard the babble of salarian voices interspersed with thick German, though that conversation appeared to be trailing off with the increasing supply of drinks. Towards the bar, two short, rounded volus were listening intently to a human, whose broad gestures towards the window appeared to represent some spiel on the wonders of the city at night. As his eyes continued to track across the bar, they locked with those of a lone, blonde haired woman leaning casually against the bar, an empty glass between her hands. She smiled, and Moreau returned his eyes to his glass, before they darted back out of the window to resume admiring the cityscape.
It was not discomfort that had made him avert his gaze, Moreau had no real difficulty with strangers – though it was rare for him to actively engage them – contact with another simply did not mesh with his reasons for being there. Even his order at the bar had been curt. The barman, so typically and wonderfully Germanic in his appearance, had picked up on the cold tone in the bearded man's voice with experienced ears and had merely nodded at the order, the only words he used were to announce the damage to Moreau's wallet the overpriced drink would cause. It had been worth it though. The drink was a necessary companion, and Moreau rather like Europe's determined traditionalism in holding on to a physical currency system. The paper note had been unfamiliar to his American hand, but oddly comforting. He looked back up, and saw the blonde woman had turned back to the bar. He sighed as eyes travelled down her back, taking in the shape of her body revealed by a snug fitting blue dress, which cut off just past the point where her legs met her back, pleasantly exposing a pair of long, smooth legs.
Once again, his eyes returned to the window - it didn't do to stare - while his mind returned to an oft repeated cycle of thoughts. He absentmindedly scratched at the sleeve of his shirt. It was a strange acknowledgement, but he missed the simplicity of his military uniform. He had worn it so much that civilian clothes seemed perversely uncomfortable, it had become a second skin and the realisation of this irritated him. He had never wanted to become one of the over-disciplined, psychotic fitness freaks he saw soldiers as being, he had just wanted to fly. But years of service in the military were slowly draining him of his individuality, and he was having to fight all the more against it. Still, he thought, that might not be the case much longer.
He was on extended leave and, strictly speaking, he should have been in Colorado in the US. But the United States Aviation and Astronautics Academy located there had provided as little stimulus as the joint efforts of Colorado Springs and Denver; places with which he was intimately familiar. Technically, he could land himself in trouble for leaving the country but he knew that no one cared anymore. As long as he was on Earth, he wasn't causing trouble – he was as far from the Citadel and its Council as the Systems Alliance could keep him. At least they didn't stick me on Mars, he conceded, thoughts falling with some sadness on the one friend he seemed to have left.
As his eyes prepared to give the bar another scan, buying him the time to decide if he wanted another drink, they were halted by a figure slumping into the vacant seat in front of him. Looking up, he saw it was the blonde woman from the bar, her mouth stretched in a broad smile. Up close, she was strikingly pretty, piercing blue eyes taking attention away from what could otherwise have been a rather square jaw and towards curving cheekbones.
"Hi," she offered, placing a glass in front of Moreau containing what appeared to be more of the same whiskey he had drank earlier, "my name's Kari." She said, her accent a pleasant, refined German. "You are Jeff Moreau." It was a statement rather than a question.
"So they tell me," he replied, nonplussed, "but then they start calling me 'Joker'. So I sometimes get a little confused." Her smile broadened.
"Joker? And why would that be?"
"My cunning wit and charming smile, probably."
"So it's irony, then?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Why so serious?" Joker asked rhetorically, keeping the humour in his voice toned down. Kari ignored the question, apparently missing the reference, just as Joker had suspected she would. How typical of a city so self-absorbed in its own haughty culture that it would ignore that of an outsider.
"You know, Mr Moreau," her accent danced around the name, "watching you stare so dismally into your drink, I'd have said Mr Morose was a far more fitting nickname."
"Oh that's good," Joker replied, sounding almost sincere, "we should do stand up together. You open with some winning puns like that and I'll follow with my practised scathing sarcasm." He added.
"Such a sharp tongue, perhaps I can turn it to better uses." She said, a little too flirtatiously for Joker's liking. He decided he had enough.
"As often as it is that pretty women who already know my name come and ply me with drink, the reasons rarely stay the same. So I'm just going to have to ask yours. There something I can help you with?" Joker's reluctant tone hinted that offering a stranger assistance was the last thing he wanted to do.
"Actually, it's really more of a question of us helping you." She replied cryptically, not deigning to offer even a hint of what the 'us' might indicate. Joker's eyes narrowed. "You see, Mr Moreau – Joker – I know more than you might imagine." She took a sip of her own drink. "For example, I already knew your nickname, even if the reason was – and still is – more of a mystery."
"So that question was genuine? I'm shocked." Joker had dropped any pretence of friendliness.
"My curiosity was piqued." She shrugged and took another sip. "I know you worked with Commander Shepard, I know you fought at the Citadel and I know that Sovereign was no geth warship." The smile was gone, and her eyes were suddenly cold, all business. "I know things have been hard since Shepard's death. I know the Alliance wants you swept under the rug, along with any mention of the word 'Reaper'."
Joker remained impassive, a hand going to scratch his bearded chin as he appraised the woman before him in a new light. He returned his glass momentarily to his lips, his eyes not leaving those of his new drinking companion. The liquor helped slow his accelerating heartbeat.
"That's a lot of knowing you're doing." He said pointedly. "Who's paying you to know so much? The Shadow Broker?" Kari scoffed, a trace of genuine mirth curling her lips.
"Please." She said, sweetly but dismissively. Joker suddenly felt a knot of apprehension form in the pit of his stomach. There were all too few collectives that should have been permitted access to information as sensitive as this, and Joker was beginning to suspect the woman opposite him represented none of them.
"Then who? Who's this 'us'?" His patience was expiring rapidly.
"That's not important at the moment." She dismissed the question. "What if I could promise you the opportunity to fly again?" She said, leaning forward slightly. Her eyes locked on to his, and her mouth curled again in an easy, reassuring smile. "What if I could put you in a position to serve humanity once more from the cockpit of a starship?" That set alarm bells ringing in Joker's head, the emphasis on humanity plucking several strings of memory, and none of them resonated with a particularly soothing timbre. But he could not hide his excitement, at face value it was still and appealing promise.
"Then I might finish this drink and keep listening, rather than getting up and leaving."
"You really think you could outrun me?" She smiled, and her eyes rested on the pair of crutches stowed where the seat met the window.
"And the cripple jokes have started already." He threw his hands up in mock despair. "You know you're a lot quicker than most people that have insulted me in the past. You must really like me, huh?" His sarcasm was relentless. "I believe you had some sort of point you were trying to get across – badly I might add."
"It wouldn't be an empty promise, Joker." She said the name with such convincing warmth, the pilot thought as she drained the last of her drink. "And if I could make you the offer here and now, I would. Let me take you to my boss, and see if the two of you can work something out."
"I see," Joker said, nodding once, "you're just the tease to get me interested."
"Pretty much," she shrugged, "though I was told to drug you if you didn't co-operate." Joker looked at his drink in unconcealed alarm. "Relax," she said sweetly, "you're fine."
"And what's made you so confident you've got me?" He said, relief obscuring his efforts to remain nonchalant. "You wouldn't be telling me about the stick if you weren't sure the carrot had teeth marks in it."
"Oh I've got your interest." she smiled as she stood up. She began to walk off, pausing just pass him to turn her head. Her eyes narrowed, losing their cool, piercing gaze and becoming undeniably alluring. "I know men." She said softly. "I know when they're going to follow. I'll walk slowly."
Joker said nothing. He stared forward for a few moments, at nothing in particular. In a sudden burst of activity, he swallowed the remainder of his whiskey, winced slightly at the alcoholic burn, picked up his crutches and hobbled after Kari.
"How many times, Joker?" He muttered to himself, feeling a suddenly conspicuous absence at his hip. "If you're going to follow a hot girl out of a bar, you bring protection..."
Kari led Joker out of the bar, and into one of the five elevators that run up and down the centre of the tower. She said nothing as she punched in the button for the mid level, and the silence continued as she led the pilot out of the elevator and along the skybridge that linked Bestrebung Plaze with the neighbouring hotel.
"We getting a room?" He asked facetiously, breaking the silence. He received no answer. The two crossed into the hotel building, breezed past the small reception and, to Joker's consternation, Kari made for the stairwell. "Classy." He muttered to himself, though secretly hoping to elicit a reaction. Once again, he got none. Breathing a little more deeply after hobbling up a floor, Joker emerged from the stairwell into a corridor that could have been lifted from any reasonably wealthy hotel on the planet, thick, rich carpet cushioning the sound of footfalls as they passed rows of heavy looking wooden doors. They arrived at a particular door, outwardly identical to the others lining the corridor but apparently significant to Kari.
"You know, if this was just an elaborate ruse to get me into bed, you don't need to put on the act. I respond positively to directness." She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled as she slid an electronic key into a slot on the door. Joker hefted his crutches. "Just don't expect too much flexibility from me." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I make up for it." He added with a shrug.
"Long reach?" She asked sardonically and opened the door.
"Well, if you want to use euphemisms..." He mumbled as he followed Kari through the doorway.
The room on the other side was unlike any hotel suite Joker had seen before. The bed at the other end of the room was the only item in the room that one might have expected. A large desk ran along the length of one wall, home to a number of workstations and radio units. Across the room was a series of metal equipment lockers, and a complicated piece of apparatus that looked like it terminated in the projector for 3D hologram FTL communications. Seated in a leather armchair beside the desk was a dark haired woman, blonde eyes fixed on the door while her gloved hands rested on the arms, drumming lightly. She wore a form-fitting jumpsuit that accentuated her eye pleasing curves, the faintly visible meshwork of which seemed to suggest light, flexible armouring. It served to emphasise the dangerous chill in her eyes.
"So is everyone in this organisation of yours required to be a hot woman?" Joker incredulously as the dark haired woman stood up.
"I see your nickname is deserved, as is your reputation for being a pain in the ass." She said coldly. "That'll be all, Kari." She added to Joker's escort, who nodded once, smiled at Joker and left the room, closing the door behind her. Joker was surprised at the chagrin that incited in him. He turned back to the dark haired woman and drew an apprehensive breath.
"I'm Operative Lawson." She said, matter-of-factly.
"Your parents must have hated you," Joker said with a smirk, "and I thought Jeff was a terrible name." She responded with a withering glare.
"I'm here with an offer, Mr Moreau." She said plainly. "If you want to continue to live up to your well established reputation, can I suggest you do it on someone else's time?"
"Fine. Serious face on." Joker relented. "Just what are you an 'Operative' for?"
"I work for an organisation dedicated to realising humanity's potential in the galaxy while safeguarding its interests." She stated, as though reading from a manifesto.
"I got that much from your cute little lackey. I also got a creepy secret society vibe, and this Q-branch hotel room isn't helping."
"Q-branch?" Lawson raised an eyebrow.
"Never mind," Joker shook his head, "from the sound of it you people know a hell of a lot more than you should do. I may be down with the mean, scary but beautiful woman recruitment plan this 'organisation' of yours seems to have going – seriously, big fan of women's lib – but I'm not sure I fit the profile, or that I like what I'm hearing."
"You want me to put a name to it?" Lawson queried, taking a few paces to her right. "Alright. I work for a group called Cerberus." Joker felt the knot in his stomach tighten, and a chill ran through him. He fought to keep it inward.
"Cerberus." He sneered. "Intergalactic terrorists. And you're looking to hire an Alliance officer?"
"We're not terrorists, Mr Moreau, despite what your precious Alliance may have told you. And you're hardly an Alliance officer. Not anymore." Her accent was a distinct, but pleasant Australian and it seemed so incongruous with the hard tone of her voice and her pale, stern face. "How long has it been since you were at the helm of an Alliance warship?" She asked, before Joker could object. "Weeks, months?"
"As it happens, I was piloting only two weeks ago." He replied smugly, though his tone was feigned. His interlocutor had a point. A very valid, uncomfortable point.
"Flying a Kodiak?" Lawson laughed, a little cruelly for Joker's taste. "Transport runs from Mars are hardly a fitting assignment for someone of your skills."
"Hey, that was a position of extreme responsibility. I'm sure Rear Admiral Hernandez is very valuable to... someone."
"You're not even fooling yourself. Don't try and fool me."Joker shifted his weight awkwardly on his crutches, but said nothing. "You've been sidelined, Joker. And you know why, all too well."
"The Reapers." Joker stated, all traces of humour purged from his voice.
"Exactly. The Alliance, just likes the Council, finds it too easy to neglect the warnings for the sake of convenience. Any vocal opponents, anyone who knows the truth gets put away to stop them causing damage. You're not the only one." She said cryptically.
"Is this the point where you tell me Shepard's death was all the Alliance's fault?" Joker asked, the sarcasm returned to his voice. "Because I love a good conspiracy theory as much as the next person."
"Don't be ridiculous," Lawson derided, "you know better than anyone that the Normandy's fate couldn't possibly have been engineered by the Alliance." Joker had to concede she was right. That ship, the monster that had destroyed his beloved Normandy with such ease... It was beyond anything possessed by any of the Council races, let alone the Alliance. "You may have heard a lot of negative things about Cerberus. I will admit, some of our members have been... misguided in the past." Lawson continued, a sense of pride tingeing her face with some sudden warmth. "But we know our responsibilities. We know the Reapers are a terrible threat, and we intend to do something about it."
"You don't need me," Joker said glumly, "I'm one pilot. There's nothing I can do against the Reapers. You need Shepard. Shame he was selfish enough to go and get himself killed, huh?" He added, bitterly.
"Your relevance to that role aside, we have a more immediate concern." Lawson resumed, apparently ignoring the sarcasm. "It relates to the Normandy's last mission. Over the past few months, human-proto colonies in the Terminus Systems have started to drop out of contact. We believe this is related to the missing ships you were investigating. Two weeks ago, a whole initial settlement vanished. Two thousand people just disappeared. Whatever the reason for these attacks is, they're accelerating. Both in frequency and scale. The Alliance wants to ignore this, but Cerberus are dedicating all their resources to investigating, and more importantly, stopping this threat."
"What has this got to do with the Reapers?" Joker asked in growing despair.
"We don't know. Yet." He shivered at the woman's cold delivery,
"So why me?"
"You're a talented pilot. Cerberus looks for talent; they make the best of it. My superior thinks you're too valuable to sitting around doing nothing. If the Alliance isn't going to put your talent to use protecting human colonies, we will." Joker fought to resist a smile, as unfriendly as this Lawson was, she was persuasive. "And we might even go some way to fixing that." She pointed, to Joker's surprise, at his crutches.
"Bullshit." He said simply. Lawson smiled, the first genuine emotion she seemed to have shown.
"Cerberus has excellent healthcare. We're very well funded. We'll get you some high end treatments, we might not be able to completely cure you, but I'm sure we could get you off those crutches."
"I gotta say, you're getting more and more convincing." Joker replied, relinquishing a smile this time.
"You haven't heard the best of it yet. I'm in charge of a Cerberus cell. We're scientific in nature, medical I suppose. We have a very special patient." For reasons Joker could not fathom, he was gripped by anticipation. "Commander Shepard."
"Bullshit." Joker repeated breathlessly. "I saw the Commander die. No way you could bring -"
"We've re-established higher end brain function." Lawson said triumphantly. "Our first obstacle is removed. Shepard's on heavy life support, but if my project is successful that won't be for long." Joker was speechless, he was overwhelmed by emotions. Uncontainable joy, revulsion, shock and relief flooded through him in a confused mess of feelings.
"That's one hell of a sales pitch." He said finally, weakly.
"Isn't it?" Lawson smiled again, the expression appearing remarkably odd on her previously stern face. "That's all I have to say. The way I see it, when you leave this room, you have two options. Either you let Kari take you to one of her safehouses and get you in touch with my superior, let him put you back on humanity's front lines. Or you walk off by yourself, and fade into obscurity." She sat back into her chair.
"I'll have to be think about it." He muttered, fighting for time as a mass of thoughts collided with each other in his mind.
"No you don't." Lawson stated, as she turned back to face a computer screen.
As Joker took his leave and hobbled back outside, where Kari greeted him with a smile, he realised Lawson was right.
"So," Kari beamed, "am I taking you home with me?"
"How could I turn down an offer like that?" Joker replied, resolute and smiling. "Who'd have thought defecting could be so glamourous?"