A/N: I clearly know nothing of deserts and ships. In that regard, sorry for the sketchy details. Also, the Logasiri mission was meant to be a side note and turned into a full blown chapter, twice as long as the first one. Apologies for that. Thanks for all the kind reviews and story alerts, everyone! I'm flattered! The upcoming chapters should be (theoretically) shorter. Also, there is pseudo smut in this chapter (at least for my writing). Hope that's okay.
Jack stretches out lazily on the bucket seats of the UT-47 Kodiak drop shuttle. Unlike the Normandy S-2, the UT-47 is not designed for comfort—the seats are made of hard and unforgiving plastic with only minimal padding. It can seat up to twelve, fourteen if you count the pilots, for missions that require greater numbers. The crappy seats are the trade off. The engineers were clearly seeking efficiency and not comfort when they designed the shuttle—a thought that must have been secondhand considering how little time engineers tend to spend inside them. Anyone on the UT-47 Kodiak is usually headed toward danger and this trip is no exception. Miranda muses that the seats may have been designed so as to not allow combatants the opportunity to relax on route to missions but she knows that most likely the reason for their poor design is related to logistics. She suspects very little of the three hundred million credits spent on the UT-47 were spent on the seats.
Jack is in the seats opposite of her, hooking her boots beneath the triangular metal railings meant to provide support should the ride get too unruly. Miranda sits with a PDA in hand reading updated reports on Logasiri.
The shuttle temperature is several degrees higher than usual. Logasiri may have water but it is still a desert. Famous for the slaving trad,e as well as the tyrannical Silparon, it has an unsavory reputation. Not every slaver can say they worked over four hundred slaves to death and then ground their bodies up for compost heap. Nothing was wasted, to be sure. She can't say that Cerberus' work model varies greatly but Cerberus would never engage in anything so diabolical. Jack would disagree. Fortunately her opinion is irrelevant and unfortunately for Silparon, his wife took care of that situation. Shepard can be fickle and on some days, when she isn't blowing people up, she makes it a point to right intergalactic wrongs. Miranda would like to keep their missions related to the Collectors. Jack's side mission is an unfortunate occurrence and Miranda's presence is only another facet of her job. The sooner they get in, the sooner they can get out.
Jack's eyelids are closed. Her dark arched eyebrows suggest that even when miming sleep she's bored. Miranda has been reviewing Logasiri and the sketchy details that Jack has given her for the past several hours. And Jack is napping. "You can't honestly sleep that way." Miranda doesn't lower the PDA.
Jack doesn't respond for over a full minute and then: "I've slept in worse. You ever slept in your own shit and blood? You can get used to anything when you've got no other choice. This is luxury." A particularly hard air current jostles the shuttle and Miranda's fingertips touch to the metal railing for support. Jack's head smacks against the shuttle wall. She half rises on one elbow and pounds on the thick metal wall that separates them from the pilots. "Watch it!"
Miranda doesn't bother telling her that they can't hear her. "Are you prepared for this?"
"They won't know what hit them. Probably never thought that fourteen year old brat they abused and took advantage of would come back to bite them in the ass ten years later. Guess most slaves don't have long life expectancies. You know, I thought that would be a start of a new life for me. Guess it was, but not how I'd planned it." She turns on her side, her back to Miranda. Miranda can count the inked knobs of her spine. "Now shut the fuck up, will you? I may be stuck here with you but it doesn't mean we gotta make nice."
"What will you do?" Miranda asks. Jack's plan so far has consisted of 'we hit 'em'. The schematics of the freighter that Jack deigned to share reveal an average sized vessel. There's nothing extraordinary in that except that a good number of the crew are Blue Suns and likely other Logasiri trash they'd picked up along the way. Miranda doesn't support slavery or slavers but this falls outside the scope of what she oversees. She was made head of the Lazarus Project and the XO of the Normandy-S2 to support Shepard, not babysit psychotic eezo babies. "Do you have any kind of plan?"
"Kill them all."
Great. "That isn't a plan." Not a feasible one, anyway.
"All those fucks I've killed didn't think it was much of a plan either. Turns out my plan was better than theirs."
Miranda waits for more but it doesn't come. So that's what Jack has to offer: bravado. Miranda runs through the diagrams of the Paradise freighter (the name amuses her) and memorizes the layout: where the slaves are kept, the hallways where it's possible to be flanked and every escape route and passage. The last thing they need is to be trapped or be too reliant on an exit that doesn't pan out. She won't count on Jack's inflated ego to get them through the mission. As always, she will have to rely on herself if she wants things to be done the right way.
The calm wakes her. After hours of navigating through turbulent skies the eventual and gentle descent into the desert port is jarring. Jack sits up groggily, rubbing at a sore shoulder that has the indentations of the hard metal she'd slept against. Miranda looks out the large window; her clear blue eyes apparently unbothered by the glaring sunlight that comes in through the fortified glass. Jack involuntarily raises an arm to shield her face—she's still unused to sunlight after all these years. It fucks with her eyes. Maybe that's what happens when it takes fourteen years to see your first real snatch of it. She remembers it now, seeing that light through the cracks of the Pragia facility ceiling. It was like nothing she'd experienced in her cell. It was funny how the sunlight and not artificial light, had seemed unnatural, damn near terrifying with what it promised.
There was a guard, he'd seen what she did through the monitors at first, clinical like that and then finally in front of him. Splat, wet, sticky sounds. The screaming, the alarms… He had been scared. So had she. It didn't matter that he was much larger than her, it didn't matter that she knew what she could do. Feelings are fucking irrational. She was more desperate than scared and had enough firepower coursing through her to take out a small army. Makes a difference. She had thought that would be the end of it. Take out the guard and then move on to freedom. That lasted a few days in a hunk of a shuttle and then these assholes in the Paradise, ha, ha, had come along…
Jack gets to her feet and touches her hands to the window, leaving a sweaty handprint. It's fucking hot. She hears the shuttle make some kind of mechanical sound, readying for the doors to open but keeps her eyes on the desert expanse in front of her. So much fucking sand. It's been years since she's been back here. Never thought of coming back until Shepard gave her the intel. Maybe she'll thank her later but if not, it isn't like she owes her any favors. Jack said she'd fight for Shepard and that's good enough. That's all she's good for, anyway. Nobody would want her around if they weren't getting something out of it. It's fucked up that all the messed up shit people did to her throughout the years is the only thing that makes her worth a damn to anyone. Not that she blames Shepard; if you don't take advantage of a situation, someone else will. From the looks of things Shepard likes to take advantage.
"Done sightseeing?" Miranda asks from the open shuttle door. Fuck. She hates tuning out like that. Jack leaves the window and walks out of the shuttle. Miranda pulls up a map on her omni-tool. The heat is immediately oppressive; like the burn of a lab lamp on her face, too close for too long. She slaps her forehead to clear the memory. Miranda glances at her but doesn't ask, probably thinks it was a bug or that she's bat shit crazy like everyone else does. The Normandy's spoiled Jack; the humidity of Logasiri is uncomfortable. She focuses on Miranda's map that designates a route. "Our target is near 17,000 meters west. It will be nightfall by the time we arrive. Records indicate the Paradise is 'docked' for the next two sun cycles. The crew numbers at over fifty, of those fifty, fifteen have been aboard for over ten years."
"Good." She rolls her fist and cracks her knuckles. "I'll have time to play catch up."
"Not too much time. Don't drag this out. We do what we need to do, expediently, and then we return to the shuttle and to the Normandy."
"Fuck expedient. I want slow and messy."
"I'm in charge, Jack. You follow my orders."
"You aren't in charge of shit. This isn't Cerberus and you aren't on the Normandy so kiss my ass. Wait in the shuttle if you want. I can do this myself. I'll even keep it from that fag The Illusive Man if it helps make it easier for you." Who the fuck willingly goes by that name? "I don't want you around ruining my celebration." Jack watches Miranda's contemplative face and for a moment she thinks that Miranda will go for it. Then Miranda shakes her head no. Figures.
Miranda throws a satchel at Jack who catches it easily and slings it over her shoulder. "Water canteens. Stay hydrated. I'm not dragging you back to the shuttle if you pass out."
"Back at you, Cheerleader." The desert wind whistles past them. Jack looks to the endless sky of blue while Miranda checks her submachine gun and hand cannon. The shotgun rests against Jack's leg but she isn't worried about it jamming. If all people had to be afraid of with her was a goddamn shotgun she wouldn't be considered such a menace to society. She thinks of all the batarian motherfuckers on the Paradise and licks her lips. It took ten years but payback is finally coming. Most shit isn't worth waiting for but this will help. This will make some of it go quiet.
Miranda is already trudging through the sand. Jack smirks watching after her. If she didn't wear hooker boots she'd have an easier time of it. Jack throws on a sand colored cloak and hood. She may be a bad ass but she can't exactly beat back a sunburn or dehydration. Anyway, she doesn't want her ink to get fucked up.
She moves. Every step she takes toward the Paradise summons a memory, a beating, an abuse, a picture of a girl who could have been something, who could have made something of herself instead of becoming some fucked up convict junky.
She hates these thoughts. She hates the way they make her stomach knot up. She clenches her fists. She'll kill them. She'll kill them all and she will feel better. It will make it better. She kills because it makes her better.
The terrain isn't as treacherous as the heat. Trudging through sand makes for slow journeys. Jack doesn't offer much conversation aside from answering Miranda's questions in the most monosyllabic way possible.
The mining caves where slaves spend their lives are much further inland. It would be stupid to keep the slaves so near port where the ships are. A slave rebellion would be disastrous to the Logasiri 'economy' and too many people, too many slavers would die. They've learned from history and now keep slaves at a distance, deep in the mines. The port is only for slavers seeking new bodies and a place to dump those who've been kidnapped—envoys full of armed soldiers come to collect them and take them to their new 'quarters'. Miranda made sure to have all the appropriate paperwork ready, not that paperwork means much of anything on a planet like Logasiri. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry. The last thing Cerberus needs is to create a diplomatic scandal that could undermine their organization.
On the way to their destination they find spots of clotted, rust colored sand along with the occasional leathery corpse riddled with bullet holes. "Must have tried to run away," Jack comments, "The slavers would offer a decent meal if you ratted out friends who were thinking of rebelling. Better to squash it before it gets out of control; who cares about a lousy meal if you've got your entire 'livelihood' up at stake. After days of not eating a thing or eating bugs any prepared food starts to sound pretty good. Chances are that 'friend' of yours will be dead in a few weeks anyway; there are lots of ways for a slave to die so why not rat them out and at least get some good grub?" She shakes her head passing the body. "Poor bastards. They're better off dead."
Miranda keeps a mental log of the distance they've covered. She's begun to perspire lightly and regrets not having changed her boots. The curiosity that manifests itself into a question is a slip up but she rationalizes that anything she can know about Jack will be a boon to her job. The more she knows about the people she's working with, the better. "Did you ever do it?"
"I can live off roaches. Other people are pickier. Anyway, I wasn't going to help those assholes kill people. Not for some rubbery chicken and weak greens. Steak, maybe. They never had steak. Not for the slaves."
"So instead of coming at you with reason on Purgatory, Shepard should have tied a steak to a string to lure you onto the Normandy?"
"A nice big one."
"I'll let her know." Miranda says. Despite being on a slaver planet, on an irrelevant mission, heatstroke on their heels, on course to kill people, she believes this is the first light moment she and Jack have ever shared. It isn't a big deal but it is short lived; she glances at Jack who looks irrationally angry. Miranda makes no further commentary. Jack maintains a sullen silence.
Vultures circle overhead.
The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting a crimson tinge over the desert sands when they spot the freighter hours later. Miranda slips behind a sand dune and retrieves a canteen of water from the bag Jack carries, drinking leisurely as Jack observes the freighter. Her eyes are hard and focused. A sharp wind rises and yanks at the cloak Jack wears, pulling it from her face. She looks too young. Or maybe Miranda only thinks so because she's eleven years her senior. "We'll wait," Miranda says, "until nightfall. Their only advantage is the territory," she sets the canteen aside and pulls up her omni-tool, "but the data we have for the freighter is a perfect match. Even quarians upgrade their flotillas more often than this. The Batarians are cheap."
"And in a few hours time they'll be dead." Jack crashes hard next to her, sending sand in every which direction. Miranda distastefully wipes away at the grains that landed on her legs and thighs. Jack brings her knees to her chest, folding her spindly arms along her knees and lowering her head. The cloak Jack wears looks too large on her. Miranda thinks of the smaller LOKI machines, how they fold up in similar manner to Jack and feels an unfamiliar jerk of emotion. What was that just now? Sadness?
It's night. Fucking finally. No more waiting. Jack stands, ready.
It's cold. She forgot that about deserts. How they empty out at night. She rubs at her arms. The Cheerleader doesn't seem bothered by the temperature but Miranda's got more meat on her bones than she does. Jack thinks of all the runaway slaves that slipped loose in the night. When they died of hypothermia overnight the slavers would laugh. If they were feeling sentimental they'd discuss what a steal they'd gotten when they'd kidnapped them or bought them for a fraction of credits. It was normal talking like that in front of slaves. It made it funnier.
Focus, you stupid shit! Jack shakes her head.
The freighter. Like that Noah's Ark in religion, instead of herding animals they herd anyone they can use and cram them all in like sardines. She talks in spite of herself. "Not as big as I remember. Looks shittier, too." Fuck. Is she nervous? Why now? It's going to be different this time. Is it the years that passed that changed the freighter or was her memory fucked from the get go? She'd been starving and off drugs when they found her. Being off drugs can fuck your head even more than being on them. It was so long ago. Why the hell is she here? Because it fucking matters, no matter how long ago it was. An eye for an eye; Batarians have four of them so they'll get it back more than twofold.
There are several entrances onto the ship, the largest one is to the south where cargo and 'cargo' is loaded. That one is likely to be heavily guarded. Slavers steal from slavers and not only that, there are pirates eager to rob them of any precious metals they might have mined. The batarians have no choice but to increase their fortifications or forego the precious items they've accumulated. There is another point of entry on the left and another on the right. Heading to the right entry means circling around in the darkness. It's worth it. The kitchen entry way is 'guarded' by a batarian cook on his smoke break. He looks tired and slump shouldered, wiping at his face. Miranda slips the silencer over the barrel of her gun and shoots. He begins to topple over but Jack pulls him to them with her biotics. She lets him fall to the sand in front of her. A puff of sand rises. He's dead. Jack tsks. She remembers him. "He was a shitty cook."
They see the pale lemon light seeping out of the ship and make their way to it, pressing their backs to the metal hull wall. They exchange a minute nod and slip inside. All clear. The kitchen is hot; it provides a good contrast to the outside temperature. There is a mess with a bloody butcher knife and unrecognizable meats.
There are three doors in the kitchen. The one on the left leads to outside where they just came from. To the right are the refrigeration rooms. Straight ahead, a long hallway with a myriad of doors and more hallways. Jack remembers where the mess hall is and is hit by memories, sitting at a long table, stuffing her face while the batarian and human crew plied her with questions. She'd been bruised but happy. She'd answered their questions. She'd told them what she could do. They were curious, different than the scientists in the facility. She'd thought it meant they found her interesting.
"I thought it was bigger than this," Jack mutters quietly. That makes no sense. Why had she thought that? She'd looked at the schematics but that's not what she works with, she goes with gut feelings. Is this what had been so goddamn important? Maybe she's used to Purgatory and the Normandy, not exactly standard ships. She moves through the hallways making her way to the captain's quarters, her shotgun raised, ready to blow the head off of anyone who thinks to stand in her way. Then she hears them. "Stop," she says. She hones her listening and turns her head in the direction of the growling.
"Varren," Miranda says. "They're kept—"
"I know where they're fucking kept," Jack snaps. Her muscles are tense, her jaw tight. She sees them in her mind. The creatures are always vicious, always feral, muscular and likely to rip your throat out. Not that she'd known any of that. The crew had taken her to them as if it were a petting zoo. She hadn't known what they really were or their history with batarians and krogans as war animals. Now that she thinks of it, she doesn't know why they didn't rip her to shreds on sight. Maybe they smelled the biotics on her but they came to her, sniffed at her and licked her hand. The crew had laughed and cheered. Or maybe it was jeers she'd heard, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Jack keeps moving. "They let me play with the varren, name them, keep them as pets. Then when I was attached they made me fight them for food."
"What did you do?"
"I'm standing here. What the fuck do you think I did?" She can still hear their whimpers when she fried them with biotics. She had been screaming and crying at the same time. Some of those howls must have come from her. "The conditioning was fucked. Even now when I kill one of those little fuckers in a fight I feel a little fuller."
"You had no choice."
"Save it. Everyone has a choice." They reach the end of a hallway. There's a door that leads to the upper levels. It starts to open and then jams, groaning loudly. Jack ignores Miranda's sarcastic 'perfect' and rips the motherfucker back with her biotics. She flings the door down the hallway from where they came, sending it tumbling in three violent spins before it crashes clamorously. Might as well use what she's working with. Miranda gives her a shitty look. Probably wasn't subtle enough for her. Fuck subtle. Jack steps into the stairwell and sees the rectangular metal stairs that go up several flights. She keeps her shotgun handy as she begins to climb. "Everyone always picks themselves over someone else." Her voice bounces in the large contained space, ringing hollow. "I did the smart thing. I'm not looking for sympathy, Cheerleader, so save the pep talk. I did what I had to to survive. Always will."
"The way you constantly bitch and moan I'd have thought Cerberus were the only ones to supposedly hurt you."
"There are users everywhere. Doesn't mean Cerberus gets a fucking free pass because of it."
"Let's keep moving."
They keep moving until they're on the third level. This door slides open soundlessly. Miranda looks relieved for small favors. This floor is rusty and dark. Jack can hear something leaking. She's pretty fucking sure they used to take better care of this place. She wouldn't have been so damn impressed even as a kid if it was always this run- down. There are loud scraping noises. Lights flicker uncertainly, shutting off entirely before coming back on. Lawson looks like she just hit the jackpot. Jack knows what she's thinking. She wants something clean and covert. Fuck that. She wants them to know she's coming. She wants them to be scared. She wants them to think they can fucking fight only to die at her hand. She won't give it to them easy. She won't let them die thinking it was okay.
"The area where the slaves are usually kept is empty. They must have already been moved to a nearby facility," Miranda tells her as they move down the hallways. "In case some part of you harbors noble intentions and wants to release them."
"Yeah, a 'facility'. The mines. Live where you work, work where you live, live where you die. After the crew sold me, before the Blue Suns motherfuckers got their hands on me, before they were working with these Freedom assholes, the slavers used me to blast some of the fucking holes in the mines. It was cheaper than buying explosives and equipment. I could pull up some half-assed barriers if I fucked up the blasts but the others couldn't. The slavers didn't give a damn who died, it was about time and money. Slaves can be replaced faster than credits. In some cases you can get a slave cheaper than food. Hell, when you're kidnapping them you're really just giving yourself a five finger discount, on people."
"Then you have an interest in releasing them?"
Jack scoffs. "Where to? We can't take them back to the Normandy and everyone else on this godforsaken planet would do worse. Fuck them. They'll live. I did. Hell, maybe someday they'll follow in my footsteps and take a few."
"You took slaves?"
"I was a pirate not a philanthropist. They gave me credits to corral slaves, I corralled slaves." Her tone is aloof. She focuses on the grime of the hallways, on the sand that's scattered, feeling grainy beneath her boots. She fixates on the empty sound of her footsteps and the pressure that she applies to the trigger of the shotgun.
"After what they did to you? After you were a slave?"
Jack laughs coarsely."You've never been a bottom-feeder, have you? You come from money, from privilege; I can smell it on you. Once you claw your way out of the bottom you'll do anything to stay out of the bottom. Even if it means doing the exact shit someone did to you to someone else. No one thinks they have it in them until it comes time to choose, you versus them. I'm not here to play hero. I'm no better than an animal. That's all someone is when they've lost all ability to have morals."
"And you think Cerberus is bad."
"Cerberus made me," Jack growls, turning suddenly and shoving Miranda hard against a wall. Miranda looks cross and irritated but not afraid. Like she isn't even worth getting upset about. Jack's voice doesn't rise but it is near shrill. "What do you think? Actually, whatever it is you have to say, I'm sure it'll piss me off so don't bother."
Jack regrets that she can't kill her. She runs a hand along her head while Miranda pulls away from the wall as if it had been her choice to rest there to begin with. The light of her omni-tool gets Jack's attention. In the shadowy hallway the glow of the omni-tool mimics that of candlelight on Miranda's face. It accentuates her full lips and long eyelashes.
"Someone's coming," Miranda says.
The words have barely left her lips when Jack turns and sees three Blue Suns guards with their guns pointed at them.
Lovely. If Jack wasn't so insistent on emoting her displeasure they might have been able to take the guards by surprise. Their heat signatures had tracked on Miranda's omni-tool but Jack's little tantrum had given their position away. Now they have inauspicious circumstances to deal with. The guards are on high alert. On one hand she and Jack are clearly not slaves, Miranda isn't anyway. On the other it's likely obvious they aren't members of the ship.
"Who are you?" The batarian that leads the group points his gun at Miranda. The other two have their arms trained on Jack. The rifle and armor that the guards wear easily cost more than any of the other items the freighter houses, more than a roomful of slaves would cost, most likely.
Miranda lowers her gun to her side, giving a show of compliance. "Miranda Lawson: Cerberus. I have business with the captain of this ship. This isn't the reception I was expecting. I doubt he'll take kindly to finding out you had those guns pointed at me."
The batarian, ugly like the others, looks uncertain but he doesn't lower his weapon. "What business do you have with the captain?"
"It's confidential. If you were privy to it you'd already know." Miranda knows, as Jack does, that the triggers of their guns are squeezed halfway. There's no way they can get a shot in without an opening. She only hopes Jack can control her temper long enough for them to get through this. It's her fault they're in this mess.
"Keep your guns ready," the batarian directs the other two human soldiers who look hesitant after hearing Cerberus mentioned. The humans steel their jaws and keep the guns tightly aimed at Jack, inching closer. Jack's nostrils flare. The batarian glances at Jack. "Who's that?"
"Oh this?" Miranda turns her head in Jack's direction with a condescending smile. "Just a slave I picked up. You wouldn't know it by the looks of her but she's worth a lot of money. Interested?" When the batarian turns, swinging the assault rifle to Jack to get a better look, Miranda whips her gun out, seamlessly expelling a bullet into each of their heads. Their brains splatter onto the walls. They crumple in unison.
"Damn." Jack doesn't have to say she's impressed. She prods at one of the lifeless bodies with her boot, her demeanor relaxing from just several moments ago.
Blood puddles at their feet. Miranda looks at the holes perfectly centered in the middle of their foreheads. "Never much saw the point in wearing armor without a helmet."
"Slaves don't have guns. Helmets cost creds."
"It would have bought them another few seconds," Miranda says dispassionately before she looks sharply at Jack. "Don't let that happen again. I won't have you risking my life. Let's finish this. The captain's quarters are ahead. I'm tracking several heat signatures in that location."
Jack ignores her warning. "He's most likely doing a business deal; they'll be drinking. I'm hoping it won't be too easy. A kill isn't any good unless you have to work for it."
Miranda frowns and readies her weapon. "Don't do anything stupid. Remember, the Collectors come before any of your vendettas. I won't have you jeopardizing the mission or yourself unnecessarily." Jack may be a nuisance but the Illusive Man would like her kept alive. Miranda will see to it that she aids both Cerberus and Shepard, even if that means being stuck with her longer than she'd prefer.
"Stop worrying." Jack draws out the shotgun and swivels it in her hand before taking firm hold of it. "I can handle this. Just sit back and watch."
"No."
"Spoilsport."
They walk down the hallway towards the captain's quarters. Miranda glances at her omni-tool, no heat signatures registered around the corner of the hallway but she doesn't fully trust technology; there are ways of working around it. She takes a look before rounding the corner. Nothing.
They approach the door to the cabin. She hears voices and from the way that Jack's movements shift, slow and predatory, Miranda can tell that Jack's heard them too. Jack presses to the wall beside the door, squeezing her eyes shut, moving her lips, saying something that Miranda can't hear. What's she doing? Praying? They can't trust in a higher power to step in for them. God existed before science took over. If God really existed, she doubts she or Jack would.
Miranda checks her omni-tool. Twelve bodies are inside the doors. It was madness for the Illusive Man to allow this. But she's essential to the mission. Maybe Jack is too. Shepard can't do it without them and so they have no choice but to succeed. She takes a breath and exchanges looks with Jack. On three, Miranda mouths to her.
One. Two. Three.
The room is square and only slightly more impressive than the rest of the freighter. There's a desk immediately upon entering as well as several tables and bookshelves that hold spoils, not books, and a liquor cabinet.
Jack smears two of the guards as soon as she and Miranda enter the room, yanking them violently into the walls. What's left inside of their armor is nothing but liquefied flesh and bone fragments. She remembers this room. She was traded here. Sold like fucking cattle.
From the corner of her eye she can see Miranda pop the heads off two soldiers, their heads detonating like grenades in response to her biotics. Bone hits Jack's face and she blasts her shotgun into the abdomen of an approaching soldier, at range this close armor doesn't work worth a damn. The hole in him is so large he collapses into himself like an accordion before falling over. Jack kicks a large metal table over and takes cover.
A torrent of gunfire has begun but she smells the cigar smoke in the air, the liquor that's been ingested and blown to shit on the floor. Now she smells blood. The heat of ammo shell casings. Everyone's screaming, The captain, Takat, is barking orders. She closes her eyes for a moment and drowns in the shouts. That warm, fuzzy feeling is going through her again.
No hesitation, even waiting seconds to take a shot makes her apprehensive and uncomfortable, like the shocks are going to come again if she doesn't start killing soon. A soldier tries to round the table and she dispatches the shotgun into his face. A blood shower comes down on top of her and she stands, exhilarated. She sees a batarian soldier flung out a window by Miranda. Jack laughs manically. "I'll kill you all!" She jumps onto a desk and kicks a blue sun in the face, snapping his neck back unnaturally.
Miranda has her gun out, taking cover beside a bookshelf. She takes her fucking time firing two shots but they're on the mark and soon two more bodies are on the floor. Now there's only one left: the batarian captain Takat. Jack jumps off the desk, landing cleanly despite the blood and collection of batarian and human tissue on the floor.
Takat's leg was broken somewhere along the way. It must have been Miranda's work. He's dragging himself to the window, no doubt meaning to throw himself out and figure out some escape route in the darkness. He's reaching for a gun but Jack tears it away from him before he can grab hold. Once a piece of shit, always a piece of shit. Jack pulses blue with biotic power. She jerks him to his feet. There are advantages to being a biotic badass—more free hands to kill with. "Remember me, asshole?" When he opens his mouth she shoves the barrel of the shotgun into his mouth. The way his eyes go wide makes her want to fucking skip. If she'd ever learned how to do that.
Miranda looks in their direction but ignores them, choosing instead to rifle calmly through the desk, withdrawing PDAs and other intelligence. Jack turns away from her and focuses on Takat who's drooling on the gun. She pulls it out of his mouth, taking one of his teeth with it. She cocks her fist, pummeling his face. He groans and coughs. Her fist comes away red and she hits him again. Then again. And again.
Miranda comes to stand at Jack's side. She has the PDAs in hand. "Is there a point to this?"
"Who are you crazy bitches?" Takat asks, gurgling on his words. Blood runs from his face and mouth; he's slimy with sweat.
"We're the 'crazy bitches' who took out the top personnel of your pathetic freighter in a manner of minutes," Miranda says.
"Shut up!" Jack whips him with the butt of her gun this time. "You fucking asshole, you probably never thought you'd see me again, did you? Did you like it? Picking me up, making me think I was part of the crew, part of your fucked up little batarian family before you started your fucked up mind games and sold me off to the highest bidder? Were you bored? Couldn't think of other ways to torture me? Come on, I was a fourteen year old kid, there were other ways or were you too fucking stupid to think of them? Did you think I wouldn't be able to handle it? Did you think I'd let you get away with it?" She's shouting now.
Miranda looks at the omni-tool. "A silent alarm has gone off. There are others headed here. Make this quick."
"You shaved your head, got some tattoos," Takat says with a laugh. "I've heard of you. I've heard of what you've done. They had you on Purgatory. You're a bigger monster than I am. You've killed more people than my entire crew," he laughs again, wheezing, "and you're pissed off because I did some business? Wasn't personal, Jacqueline—"
Her eyes widen and before she knows it she's slammed him to the ground. She hears something snap but is on him before she can process what it might be. Fuck guns. Fuck biotics. Fuck the noise in her head, fuck Takat who treats the shitty hand he dealt her like it was fucking business. She hates that. Business is cold. She prefers personal. She prefers this. She balls her fists and swings viciously, pounding his face repeatedly until she hears another crack, until he's missing eyes, until she's torn her skin open and her fists are filled with pulp and blood. She's gasping, breathing hard, there's shit in her mouth, blood, bones, flesh. "You fuck," she whispers, hunched over him, her face close to his chest. He doesn't have much of a head anymore.
"We have to move," Miranda says. Jack rolls away from him but doesn't get up immediately. Miranda is looking towards the door. Jack sits for a few moments, rocking back and forth, cradling her head in her hands. Her mouth tastes like sweat. Is it sweat? Is it tears? She doesn't know. There's a rasping sound. Jack turns to him, drained. Still alive? She wipes at her face and smears him along her cheeks and eyes. She's on all fours, close. "He's still alive," Miranda explains. "His back is broken and he's suffered substantial brain trauma." She cocks her gun and points it at his heart.
"Leave him." Jack says raspily. She looks up at Miranda whose finger is on the trigger, squeezing lightly. Their eyes meet briefly before Jack quickly looks away. Miranda withdraws her finger from the trigger. Miranda has sided with Jack: Takat can die the slow way. Miranda extends a hand to her and Jack takes it, letting Miranda pull her to her feet. "They're coming." She can hear them now.
Jack reaches into her pants pockets and withdraws a handful of grenades, holding them between her fingers. She pulls the pins and scatters them down the hall before she jumps onto the window sill and looks at the sandy ground below. "Fuck it. We're biotics. We can take the express route."
They jump out the window, a ball of fire and the screams of those who burn following after them.
It rains on the trek back. The shower is heavy but brief. It's enough to wash the blood away. Miranda arranges for the shuttle to pick them up, an easy task that is facilitated in the darkness. The ensuing chaos makes easy work for her and Jack to board the shuttle. They're in the sky before the news breaks in Logasiri.
Miranda tunes into the appropriate frequencies on her omni-tool to pick up on news. So far, so good. There are only hazy details being communicated amongst the slavers and nothing to identify the perpetrators of the attack. Miranda looks at Jack who sits rigidly on the shuttle seat, her skin slick with rain. "How are you doing?" Miranda asks.
"Leave me alone."
Fair enough. Miranda takes the opportunity to look through the PDAs she'd taken from the batarian captain's office. There are details on the kidnappings done throughout the various star systems as well as the going prices of slaves and the credits needed to maintain them. Their budgets are too drastic but she imagines that they don't particularly concern themselves with a standard of living for the slaves. None of the information gleaned is very relevant. The mission was a success but of little value.
They've still a ways to go until they return to the Normandy. Miranda begins to write a composite of notes to form the basis of her report. She isn't inclined to forget details but there's no point in not taking measures right now and getting a bulk of it done and out of the way. Jack may be good in a fight but she isn't very good company. She's hopeless with conversation. Then again, there are few that can keep Miranda actively engaged in talk. That's fine. She isn't on the Normandy to make friends. She and Jack can agree on that.
They arrive at the Normandy in the dead of night. Jack is pacing the small space before they've docked while Miranda continues to monitor the Logasiri lines. It was a small operation but it's good to be cautious with batarians—there's no good reason to give them further incentive to dislike humans. As soon as the doors to the shuttle open, Jack hops out like a cat. Miranda leisurely follows suit. She's surprised to see Commander Shepard in the docking area.
The commander looks to Jack. "How'd it go?"
"Screw off, Shepard." Jack moves past the both of them without another glance back.
Shepard looks at Miranda with an arched eyebrow. Miranda sees where the synthetics are starting to break down. Shepard's skin is beginning to glow lava red. Not exactly reassuring. "That bad, huh?"
Miranda shakes her head. "She's just being petulant. The mission went off without a hitch. Goals were met faster than anticipated."
"Your calculations were off? Are you getting sloppy or is Jack that good at killing?"
"We both have a talent for it." Granted, Miranda prefers her kills clean and efficient. Jack likes the gore and mess, to take her time. It's not how Miranda would choose to do things but as long as Jack directs the frenetic energy to their enemies she sees no sense in complaining.
"Should I be watching my step?"
Miranda smiles somewhat flirtatiously. "Maybe. Now if you'll excuse me, I've a report to write and a long shower to take. It was nice of you to check in on us. I'll see you later, Commander."
Jack is restless. Logasiri wasn't what she'd expected, it was wrong, it was all wrong. It was too easy; the freighter was too small, the guards fucking jokes. Takat had barely remembered her. What the fuck had she been to him, a blip in his existence? Is that what had held her back years ago? Had she been that pathetic? That naïve? How could something that had haunted her for so long, that had forged so much of who she is be so goddamn forgettable to him?
She kicks at one of the crates near her and sends it sliding in the direction of Shepard. Jack scowls. "What the fuck do you want, Shepard? I don't want to talk so take a hike."
"Guess that answers my first question." Shepard comes closer. Jack withdraws further into the engine room, slipping into the shadows and taking a seat on the railing. "You're going to explode if you keep all that anger pent up."
"Nah, I'll just blow up someone else. Thanks for playing, though."
"I'm trying, Jack."
"No one asked you to."
"You really don't want to talk about it? I like to know what's going on with my team."
"I'm not part of your 'team' Shepard. I'm just here biding my time. If you want to think I'm part of your team, whatever." She slides off the railing and paces some more until she becomes aware of her footsteps and stops. "It just pisses me off," she says. "It was too easy. It was too fucking easy. I was held back by that? I've spent ten shitty years thinking about that time. It was so goddamn anti-climatic. So now all those bastards are dead. So what? I'm still here, I'm still me, I'm still… just, this."
"No closure then, I take it."
"Fuck closure." Who the hell ever gets that? When has she ever? Is that what she was expecting? Maybe she got it and she doesn't know. Or maybe it doesn't feel real. Maybe she doesn't understand what it is.
"You can let it go. Put it behind you."
"I'll get right on that, Shepard. Fuck off, I'm done talking." She takes a seat on her cot and faces in the other direction. Eventually Shepard gets a fucking clue and leaves. They always leave.
The report is finished and has been sent to the Illusive Man. More importantly, she's taken a shower and washed away the blood and grime of the battle. She doesn't often remember her father fondly and aside from kidnapping her sister and making her escape, she can't ever say she had any years of teenage rebellion; however she always takes a moment to meditate on the conniption her father would have to think that the fantasy daughter he'd created- his legacy- ran around with convicts fighting batarians. That's only when she's feeling petty and small. Usually she just resents him. She'd wanted to be more for him. Sometimes she still wonders what he'd think of her and the world she was helping to create. Would he find reason to complain still?
Probably. She tries not to dwell on it. She wants to leave that part of her life behind her and she dislikes feeling melancholy. To say that her curse is to be blessed with perfection isn't a very compelling argument. History and memories can be damning. They can wreck a person, destroy them until they're so mangled they can't ever be normal again. Like Jack.
She takes the PDA with her and makes her way to engineering. What she has for Jack to see isn't the full report; she's carefully omitted her analysis of the woman. There's no reason to antagonize her. Nor does she want to have to deflect any other temper tantrum she may feel the need to have. She's at the stairs when she hears the end piece of the conversation with Jack and Shepard. She waits at the head until Shepard climbs up. Shepard shakes her head at Miranda. "Don't know if I'd risk her right now," Shepard says.
"It's my job to take risks," Miranda says brushing a wet lock of hair from her eyes. "Doesn't mean I have to like it, though. I was going to share the report with her—would you like a copy?"
Shepard shakes her head. "I can deal just fine avoiding more bureaucratic crap. It didn't end in the Alliance and it doesn't end with Cerberus."
"What can I say, Shepard? Humans love bureaucracy. Think of it as a necessary evil—the price of efficiency."
"Efficient bureaucracy? Isn't that an oxymoron?" She smiles and shakes her head. "Good luck, Miranda. If you're still alive, I'll see you later."
"If I'm not then the trust placed in me by you and the Illusive Man is misplaced."
"Who said I trusted you?"
Miranda grins and then nods to her. Shepard's a pain in the ass. "Goodnight, Commander." She moves down the stairs slowly. She doesn't know why she's doing this now. She could do it later but she's never believed in leaving for later what could be done in the present. She arrives at the foot of the stairs and lingers there a moment. Jack is sitting in her cot, hunched over staring at the wall.
Jack turns to her. "Hey."
Miranda doesn't try to engage her in conversation. Jack isn't in the mood (is she ever?) and Miranda doesn't want to waste the effort. "I've brought a copy of the Logasiri report that I wrote for the Illusive Man. Interested?"
"No. You'll show me one thing and give him something else. I know how this works, Cheerleader. Don't bother. Fuck reports. All anyone ever does is write reports on me. And then I kill them." So much for the olive branch. Miranda can't say she's surprised. She turns to go. "Hey." Miranda stops. "You're not bad in a fight."
"You already knew that." She's not bad at anything. Except, some would suggest, being humble.
"Right." Jack says. Miranda waits. Jack continues. "It wasn't supposed to go down that way."
"What 'way' were you expecting it to 'go down'?" Miranda asks. Jack shrugs. "We went to Logasiri to put you at ease. I can't say I've ever seen you be that way but I wager this isn't what it looks like." She rests against the table across from Jack. "We're not going to keep going on these wild goose chases for you, Jack. We don't have the time. If anything, you're more uneasy than before.
"Stop psychoanalyzing me, Lawson."
"Stop making it so easy." Miranda thinks of Yeoman Kelly Chambers. The girl thought she knew a lot for someone with only an undergraduate degree in psychology. She'd read her report on Jack, labeling her as unstable. Rocket science. She leaves the table and sits next to Jack.
Jack stiffens. "What the fuck?"
"You'll likely not hear this again but you're right. The report I was going to give you was falsified." She punches a few buttons on the PDA and recalls the finalized report that has already been sent to the Illusive Man. "Go ahead and read it."
"Pass."
"Fine." She's ready to leave.
"What are you doing? Here? Talking to me? Don't tell me you feel sorry for me."
"I feel sorry for your victims, Jack. Not you." Miranda sees Jack noticeably flinch and then look away. It may be true that Jack terrifies countless of people, for good reason, but Miranda sees glimpses of who she is. Jack's been unraveling before her for the past several months. Her files make for interesting reading but the files miss a lot of the history. Having only data to go on to analyze Jack would be a blatant misrepresentation. You don't know Jack unless you know Jack. And even now Miranda knows that she really only has a fraction of the whole. She touches her fingers to the side of Jack's face: a test.
Jack reacts. Miranda dodges the first swing easily. The second doesn't even come close. Jack's on edge; she's had a long day which makes her vulnerable (sloppy, Miranda corrects). Miranda shoves her down on the cot. Jack is furious. It looks like they're fighting but Miranda's only playing. Jack's strikes miss their target again. Miranda catches Jack's thin arm and slams it into the wall. She retaliates with a kiss to the crook of Jack's neck. Jack's skin is hot. Miranda pulls away long enough to look at her but stays close. Jack's thin chest is heaving frantically. Miranda can count the bones of her sternum. Jack hadn't looked so upset on Logasiri. Miranda reasons that she should stop but she doesn't. She clambers over the woman, straddling her and drops again, her lips hovering over Jack's.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Jack demands.
"You're complaining?"
"Get off me."
"You don't want that."
Jack shoots her arm out. Her fingers wrap tightly around Miranda's throat and squeeze. Miranda winces only for a moment. Jack jerks to a sitting position; her eyes narrow hatefully. "I should snap your neck."
"Go ahead." Miranda's face is flushed, her words thin. "No one's stopping you." Jack hadn't expected that response. Her grip weakens. "Or you can let me go and I'll give you what you want."
"You don't know what the fuck I want." She lets her go.
Miranda breathes. Jack glowers at a wall. Miranda touches Jack's head, the short bristle of her buzzed hair is surprisingly soft beneath her fingers. Miranda's touch comes to rest at the nape of Jack's neck. Jack is still as Miranda's full lips brush along her temple, then her eyelids before finally grazing her lips. Jack clenches her hands. They shake. Miranda covers them and carefully guides them to her legs, up her thighs, where they tentatively slide upwards. Miranda draws a slow breath as Jack digs her fingers into her hips.
This is a challenge. Miranda is waiting.
Jack angles her head up and seizes Miranda's mouth, parting her lips forcibly with her tongue. Miranda allows Jack's abusive, bruising kiss and reciprocates in kind, feeling the sharps of Jack's incisors tugging on her lips, and the harsh, violent stab of her tongue. Of course Jack kisses this way. She probably doesn't know any alternative. Miranda can't say that she's never known this kind of kiss; she has, though not in this extreme. Miranda shifts the tempo, slowing it down, making it gentle. Not because she has any affection for Jack, she doesn't. She feels sorry for her even if she dislikes her greatly. Miranda wants to understand her but Jack is resistant. This is just another way of understanding. They are free of emotion so it won't interfere with the mission.
Looks are deceiving. Their kiss would suggest to any spectator that they hold fondness for one another. It's foolish to trust with your eyes.
Jack is a caged animal; she lashes out, aggressively backhanding Miranda. The loud clap of the hit echoes. Miranda turns back to Jack, calmly touching a hand to her lip, her throbbing face. She looks at the blood on her finger emotionlessly. "Don't do that," Jack threatens. She is a pyre of fury and indignation and then: a flicker of guilt.
Miranda kisses her in the same gentle way again. Jack groans in protest. Miranda eases the tight leather strap from Jack's bony shoulder and then the other. Jack breaks the kiss but Miranda presses her down to the cot. Jack is a tapestry of tattoos, her history blatant and carved upon her.
Jack growls as if she's being punished or taunted. She is. Miranda slips her hand down Jack's pants, an easy task given how loose they are. Jack sucks her breath in when Miranda attends to her breasts with her lips, biting her nipples lightly, flicking at them with her tongue. Jack arches into Miranda, hissing. Miranda keeps a palm to Jack's abs, pinning her. Her eyes don't leave Jack's face, watching her react. "Fuck," Jack closes her eyes. When Miranda's hands inch along the inside of her thighs, drawing her nails lightly along her skin before sliding her fingers carefully into her, Jack bangs her head into the small regulation pillow and swears again. Jack's gasp pierces the night air.
Miranda allows a small smile. She's in control. Maybe Jack isn't entirely predictable after all.
They part ways wordlessly without so much as an exchange of glances. Miranda hasn't gotten anything out of it asides from sated curiosity and leverage on Jack. The convict can give Shepard and the rest of the crew attitude if she wants to but Miranda knows that she isn't everything that she pretends.
Jack is horribly lonely. She must be to do something like that with a woman that she despises. The same could be said of Miranda, she supposes. Miranda hates playing the devil's advocate. It isn't the same. This was mere curiosity. Science. It's important to know what will push someone's buttons.
She returns to her quarters and showers again. Jack hadn't touched her in any way but Miranda is uncharacteristically warm. She ought to cool off if she intends on resting. She slips into a robe and takes a seat in front of her computer terminal. It's a bad habit she can't stop: checking any messages to make sure there aren't any last minute emergencies that need immediate attention.
There's a message from Lanteia. Miranda hurriedly clicks on the message. It cheerfully pops open to inform her that Oriana is in danger. Miranda feels nauseous. She rises from her chair unsteadily and tries to process the flood of fear that goes through her. Her father might know where Oriana is.
There will be no sleep tonight. She must begin preparation. In the morning, she'll have to go to Shepard. She'd rather not but she's all out of options.