A/N: So I got this idea a while ago and started writing it. I then started over, because I had refined the idea in my head by writing 13 pages of it. So now you're getting the refined version.
The title is a work-in-progress, and may change as the story is written. I'm writing it live, so while I have an idea of where this is going, it's vague and open to changes, I have no idea how long it will be, and I have no idea yet what other characters will show up. I don't even know if the genre will change - it might get darker, it might get lighter, it might get gore all over it. You can bet that there will be lesbian smut, though, because I can. And because that's what I, myself, like to read. But there might also be other kinds of smut! Who knows?!
I don't even know if I'll finish it. But to those who read it, I hope you like this little idea of mine. And if you don't like it, please be kind about it - I have tender sensibilities. ;)
Oh, one last thing. Disclaimer, none of this is mine, all characters belong to Bioware, yada yada (except for the AU parts, of course). Except, of course, Filebar, which is a completely made-up-out-of-my-head place. Random name for a random place that exists nowhere but in my head, because they have to go somewhere.
Jane Shepard didn't like incognito missions. She preferred to run in with guns blazing, wasting no time on diplomacy, or on sneaking around. The fact remained, though, that she was good at incognito missions. She always got shit done, better than anyone else. She took pride in whatever work she did, whether it be spy-type work or the jarhead kind. If all went well, however, this would be the last time she was in disguise; sneaking in and out unseen she might still be doing, but a new identity and back-story? Never again. As she dressed in her civvies and cowboy hat, she vowed to do well, if for no other reason than she could strap a damn gun to her hip on her next mission.
Shepard walked to the transport station, her giant of a dog – actually a highly trained military canine – at her heel and luggage in-hand. Her ship could have dropped her off, but she preferred to do things right, and right was not always easy. She did not want to be traced back to the Alliance – for her story to be as plausible as possible, she started her journey where she said she had. The less you had to lie, the better, she figured; if you start where you say you came from, you wouldn't have to lie, and the less you lied, the less you had to remember. She generally incorporated her real background, and her real hobbies and personality, into her persona if she could. It made her more believable, and it made the things that didn't have to be hard, well, not hard.
She was met at the transport hub by a burly man in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a tight white T-shirt tucked in, true cowboy style. "Hey, Lola," he said in greeting, using their agreed-upon name for her. The man was a fellow marine, placed under her command for many of her missions. He wasn't up for the same promotion as she was, but he was also one of the best, for the same reasons she was – he made it so he lied as little as possible on these missions.
"Hey, Diego," she responded. His name was actually James, but he needed a different name, too. When they'd first met many months before, he had begun calling her Lola, explaining that she reminded him of a Lola he'd known as a teen, and the name had stuck. In return, Shepard had begun calling him Diego, the Spanish word for his own name. The names quickly became their favored special-assignment personas, as well as constant nicknames for each other. The best part was that the alter-egos were simply Shepard and James when on shore-leave – a little loud sometimes, a little inappropriate at others, and most importantly, two colony kids who had a history with animals and a love of backwoods music. He carried a guitar in a battered case in addition to his luggage, and she carried a mandolin.
"Hey there, Baxter," he said, kneeling some so he could give the dog a kiss on the top of his nose, getting a lick to his cheek in exchange. "You ready to go? I'm excited for this job."
"Yeah, we're ready. Don't know what you're excited about, though." They turned, James taking one of her bags for her so she could clip Baxter up to a leash for the duration of the trip. "It's just a routine horse-training gig. Wouldn't have even taken it if I didn't need the money, but someone's gotta fund your poker habits," she said, throwing him a grin. Again, most of that had been true. They'd been on several missions together like this, James playing Shepard's hired hand on fine estates that had need of her abilities as a trainer, as well as her expertise at recon and, sometimes, theft (or re-theft – taking something back that didn't belong to the estate-owner in the first place). He'd also lost a good portion of his "earnings" from her in playing cards with whatever locals or employees were around most evenings. She never knew if he did it on purpose or not – when they played together, he was decent.
"Very funny, boss," he said, keeping up the banter as they boarded their transport and moved to find the small, private cabin they'd booked for the duration of the flight. They'd be at their destination in ten hours, but wanted to spend as many of them in private, and maybe even sleeping, as possible. Plus, most aliens didn't like dogs, and she preferred not to make a scene. He may be highly trained, but he was still a dog, and still did disgusting dog things.
"You know, you stop losing your hard-earned credits in a single night, and you might even be able to strike out on your own instead of 'helping' me," she continued, hauling their luggage into the racks above their seats. He only grunted in response. She took her mandolin from him, looking at the closed case longingly before stowing it, as well. No one liked that kind of music, from that kind of instrument, with the close-quarters of civilian transports. They'd have to wait until they were at their destination to make their sweet, hillbilly music together.
"What do you know about the guy we'll be workin' for?"
"Not much," she said, shrugging. This was untrue. She knew so much that she knew when he usually took a shit – in the morning, after the run he usually took – but the less James knew the better. The less you knew, the less you had to lie, the less you had to remember. He knew she was purposely keeping things from him, too. And he understood its necessity. "He's rich, he likes horses, and bought a few of the prettiest ones he could find. Demon-spawn, apparently, though, hence the need for you and me. Here's an interesting bit, though. He settled on Filebar. Slavery's legal there, one of the few places it is where humans are allowed to settle. So he might be a big ol' scumbag and own slaves." James knew this, too, but nodded nonetheless. "Oh, also, Filebar's day is 30 hours, give or take. So that'll be interesting."
"This mean I'll get paid more than once a week?" He grinned.
Shepard snorted a laugh. "Probably. You get paid automatically, so sometimes it'll probably be less than seven days before you're paid again, yeah."
James put his hands behind his head and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, to the side of Shepard's legs. "Excelente," he murmured in Spanish, pulling his hat down over his eyes in preparation for dozing. Baxter, too, prepared for sleep, curling up on the seat next to James, his head on the giant man's lap. Shepard smirked at them, so charming and hokey, before taking their lead and curling up on the two seats she had to herself, being so much smaller than the two before her, so that she could try to get some sleep before they arrived on Filbar for the transport shuttle.