To her great relief, the first thing she heard after a gasp for breath wasn't a Jack-like torrent of invective. Neither was it a scream, either of rage or pain. It was coughing, which meant she got the first word in. Keeping a crew in line was similar to training dogs, though she knew many of her crew would resent that analogy. If you were calm, they would be calm. If you panic, they would panic. So, she was calm. But she also wasn't stupid - her rifle was already aimed towards the movement in the shadows.
"I'm Commander Shepard. You're aboard the Normandy SR-2. I've been informed that Cerberus has made some changes to your cybernetics - if you need some medical assistance adjusting, we have a well-stocked medbay. And if it's a technical problem, I'm sure Tali can figure it out. I'm not with Cerberus. Not really. Believe me, I'm just as annoyed with their tendency to go in and make little adjustments. I used to be a B-cup, you know? Damned inconvenient," she said wryly, gesturing at her chest.
The coughing finally became gasping silence, and from the darkness, she could feel the heat of a frustrated glare.
"Okay, not the funny type. I get it." She took a breath in, about to say something, though it ended in a gag. Although it seemed as if she was being lifted up, a hand crushing her throat. To her credit, she didn't shoot. Instead she just gripped the rifle more tightly.
"Engaging biotic countermeasures -"
A voice finally came from the darkness, barely above a rasp, interrupting the AI's worried chatter. "My helm. Where is it?"
"Can't - when - goddamn choking -" Her nostrils flared. Finally, her rifle spat out a burst of gunfire - too wide a shot, merely a warning instead of a threat. The message was apparently clear, and she gasped as her feet finally hit the ground. "It's over here with the rest of your belongings. If you need it, I'll toss it over." Although her rifle was leveled, she paused to glance at the helm. It was an impressive piece of work - black, menacing, skull-like. "Crap visibility, though. If you need one, we can outfit you from the Normandy's stock."
Another rasp that turned into a fit of coughing. There was an odd cadence to the breaths coming from the darkness, as if the man was trying to remember even how to breathe. That had to be just her imagination, though - surely nobody forgot to breathe. It was natural instinct...
"Listen. Whoever you are. I know you were after that same Collector ship. Right now the Normandy's the only ship that's going to be able to go chase them down. We've got our one-way ticket, and we're the only ones that do."
More fumbling. The sound of cloth ripping. He was doing something in the shadows, she just couldn't tell what. It was likely better that Shepard not see his blind panic at suddenly being without a mask, after he had lived underneath one for so long. It was also better that she not see how he fumbled to touch his own face in amazement, or how he pursed his lips to enjoy the simple act of being able to control how air flowed between them.
"I'll be straight with you. We probably won't be coming back. But if you're with us, we could use all the help we can get." She shrugged, her armor making small noises as it rubbed against itself like the carapace of a beetle. "I don't care where you've come from or your reasons for being here, just as long as you can follow orders and help fight."
The figure in the shadows slowly stood, and she tensed. 'Approximately two meters' did not prepare her how the older man was built - broad-shouldered and imposing. What had once been a cape had now become a makeshift mask and hood, the torn edge wrapped around his shoulders. It blurred into the shadows too easily - except for a strip of white. He only let his eyes show, and they were as eerily pale as his skin.
"I give orders," he said bluntly. "I don't follow them."
"Then we might have a problem, since this is my ship."
They locked eyes for a long moment. He was the first one to blink. Shepard flattered herself by thinking that meant she, in some sense, had won. It probably just meant he was distracted looking at her gun.
"Listen. It wouldn't surprise me to hear that Cerberus has cut you some raw deal, and you've got a right to be angry with them. But we both know you're interested in going after the Collectors. I'll settle for not-about-to-shoot-me-in-the-back if you can't do outright loyal - on a few conditions. You give me some information about yourself. You don't go after my crew. You let Yeoman Chambers talk to you every once and awhile." She watched his eyes narrow. "In return, you'll get access to the dossiers of my crew and other information you need." Gingerly, she shifted the rifle in her hands, adjusting her aim. "If you say no, you get dumped at the nearest space-station. I'm not saying I'll hand you back over to Cerberus, but once you're off my ship, you're not my problem anymore. Understood?"
A long moment as he paused to consider. "Understood. Those terms are... acceptable." There was a slight snarl to the last word, letting her know that he fully recognized the friendly threat she had used, and that he deeply resented it. As he stepped forward out of the shadows, she slowly let her gun drop until it hung limp by her thigh, her free hand extending outwards for a handshake.
"Commander Delia Shepard." After another pause, he seemed to recognize the gesture, meeting her in the handshake. His grip was near-crushing, and she had to supply all the movement for the handshake. Up close, she finally appreciated how unnervingly large he was. "And you?"
Shepard wasn't used to waiting for a response to that question. Usually even an incompetent spy gave a stutter. But he was well-composed, his deep voice echoing somewhat in the small cargo hold.
"Vader."