Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Author's note: Random, very random reflection about the results of the Lazarus project. By Lazarus.
Contrary to popular belief, the Commander doesn't find proper rest in her oversized cabin. The place is empty, devoid of life except for a picture which means nothing nowadays, a room to sleep, nothing else. And her body doesn't request sleep much these days. Blood flows through mechanical joints, coupled to wires, meshed with circuits and in between, hidden away, are the parts of her which still remain alive. There are times Shepard wonders if Miranda played as much God as Mordin with its genophage.
So, the Cabin is usually rejected and God protects the idiot who has been stupid enough to place that trice damned picture on her desk. The Deck is ignored, the Observatory bypassed, the laboratory left for someone else to prowl. Her place is different.
Tali'Zorah sees her pass and speaks nothing. She is used to this. Every supposed night, when the half the crew is already fast asleep, Shepard finds her way downstairs and near the core of the ship. It pulses, the Normandy. Blue and powerful, a heartbeat she can feel even when away. Maybe this is also because she is no longer alive, not totally human and yet, Shepard doesn't care. The beat of the ship, the beat of her heart, they died and came alive at the same time. When this is all over and the Collectors lie dead, Shepard will do as Jack once said. Steal it away and fly if they dare take her away. If she dies, well, she's damned sure Normandy won't last much more. Though she wishes she does. For Joker's sake.
Normandy is her heart. Normandy is Joker's. They share that.
In her civilian clothes, none would spare her a glance. Shepard uses them especially for that, remembering a time long before when she was little more than a colony brat. There's the trace of earth in her hands if she looks hard enough. Calluses which aren't from holding weapons. And sitting in that corner, alone and ignored for just that one fucking moment – when no one asks, no one demands, no tells her to save the whole God-forsaken galaxy and she is just Jane – that is when she feels alive.
Shadows move outside her refuge, prowl in silence and, also in silence, a Turian finds its way inside. Shepard contemplates for one second to order him away. It is Garrus though, always having her back, this man. When she returned to life, he had not doubted. Instead, he had taken his place by her side like always, one step back, rifle in hand like before. So she accepts, Shepard does, Jane does.
"Here." He places something by her side. A plate, a small mountain of food she wouldn't consume over a week. "The doctor's worried. So's Tali." So am I, it is implied. "You haven't eaten for a while."
Shepard chuckles, extending her legs carefully until they touch the metal bars which protect them from the Normandy's Core. Her arms, those move too, stretching carefully until her back pops comfortably.
"Not very hungry. Couple of energy bars and I'm good to go."
It isn't the answer he wants. Garrus's eyes narrow just a notch, enough for her to see even with the addition of the several scars on the cheek.
"You used to eat with us, Commander." A pause, a faux-pas and he has noticed. "Shepard. Jane. You used to speak with us instead of just holing up down here. More than listening to our problems and doing your rounds like you're suddenly the ship's shrink."
She doesn't reply to him immediately. Instead, the woman looks at him, the scarred cheek, the blue skin, the destroyed armor, everything that has changed since those days when they were both idealists and Reapers were the sort of thing existing in one's nightmares. When the Normandy was SR1 and human, when she was still flesh and blood not cables and a cloned heart.
Shepard raises an arm in front of him – a vague thought about how much of it is flesh and circuits – hand open outstretched. Five digits. His has less, more talons, alien.
"I used to be different. This." The hand closes and opens, expands to its limit and repeats the movement. "Doesn't feel mine, Garrus. Like a shirt that doesn't fit you. Like. Unnatural. Does it look like that to you?" Do I look like me to you?
More than see, she feels the Turian stare at her in return, pale skin, freckles – Miranda even got those down – the scars from childhood, the one in Virmire that doesn't show and the one in Ilos, the one in the Citadel, the one in Horizon, God and she loses count of them all. His fingers close over hers and push her hand down. Gently, he can still break her. And then, he doesn't quite smile but she's very sure he's on the verge of laughing at her. Of her.
"Shepard would be the only one stupid enough to come for someone named Archangel in the middle of a merc war." There, definitely laughter in his voice. "Or save a quarian who got herself knee-deep into a Geth nest. Or go after a human colony when she's dead sure she's walking into a trap of enormous proportions. Shepard wouldn't shoot Alenko, no matter how much he deserves it. That takes mercy. That takes being alive. So I'll say, doesn't look that much different."
Incredulous, little creases between her eyebrows as she frowns. "And Jane?"
"She would wonder if she was still herself," he answers easily, talons scratching against her skin. You are such an idiot, it's behind his words, goddamned idiot. "So again, not that much."
That's when the woman laughs, all three sides of her do. The colonist, the Commander and whatever she is now, Undead, Survivor or Messiah.
"You're goddamned lame, Garrus," Jane comments, shaking his hand away lightly, shaking her gratitude away from her voice from sheer habit. "And Tali, stop listening in and just get the hell out here. I'm done being mushy and the idiot got us enough food to feed a fucking army. How much do you think I eat anyway?"
The quarian stops pretending she wasn't eavesdropping and enters the small balcony, throwing herself in between Garrus' gigantic armor and the tray, managing not to harm any with her movements.
"What are we talking about?"
There are no straws for Tali to drink but the Turian produces one from God knows where and extends it to her, no questions asked, no answers given. Predictable. Jane had been predictable because they know her and some parts of her – the important ones – haven't changed. She gets it then, what he was trying to say.
"Existential crisis and how socially accepted behaviors will make it all much better," her own voice continues, ignoring her sudden revelation. "By Garrus Vakarian. Buy the book on the way out."
She is still Jane Shepard. Commander of the Alliance, leader of a bunch of misfits while fighting stupidly impossible odds. Just some extra circuits and metal joints to keep her together.
Though, if she could do it all over again?
She would have punched Kaidan.