One thing she was never short of was time.
Sure she was taken out on the missions fairly often, but they were brief — too brief. Small periods of athletic joy, of that incomparable adrenaline rush that left new bloodstains on her loose pants and a pleasurable lazy ache of biotic exhaustion — bandits, pirates, gangs, Collectors… none of it mattered. More fodder for her shotgun.
The loot was nice, too. Shepard had a deal with everyone who went planet-side — one-fourth of the takings for every successful mission. Jack's retirement fund was looking pretty damn good.
Jack grinned, imagining what her newfound wealth could provide her. Guns, knives, more tattoos… shit, she could afford the highest-quality narcotics if she wanted to.
But drugs were a waste.
Sure, they were fun before she got snatched—it was just another ride, just another trip—but the time she'd spent in cryo made her realize that they also made you weak. Dependent if you got stupid, yes, but more. Hallucinogens stole your mind, depressants and stims stole your focus. No, better to be clean.
She thought a lot about this kinda shit these days. She had time—she wasn't running from the law, from anyone now—and she had plenty of things to do with it.
Ever since Shepard had talked about Akuze, though, Jack had spent less time thinking about head-hunting. She hadn't so much as touched the datapad in a couple days.
She hadn't gotten soft—fuck no, she was still a powerful, angry bitch and she liked it that way—but if she was gonna get revenge, she'd be smart about it. Going after lackeys would be useless. If she wanted Shepard's help (she was surprised to realize that she did want it), she'd never have a chance to eliminate everyone connected with that death camp…
Still, it was hard to let go.
Jack looked over to the small table (Well, more of a flat sheet of scrap metal shoved between two pipes, but it made a damn serviceable table to her) in the corner on which that innocuous datapad sat. Her fingers twitched.
She'd browsed it at first; a squirmy sickness in her gut had made her set it aside. After Shepard's speech, her righteous crusade concept hadn't seemed so righteous.
Compromise. Those bastards who were responsible still had to pay — but maybe not in blood. At least, not all of them. Jack didn't have a problem bookmarking the odd key figure.
She growled decisively and grabbed it up, fingers flying over familiar data.
Stop.
Tetlin.
She knew that name.
She knew that goddamn fucking name.
The duragel screen hummed gently, its orange glow seeming to intensify, burning the pale letters into Subject Zero's retinas.
The facility.
Her throat closed on the half-forgotten screams of a child and a bloom of biotic blue flame erupted around her form.
Tetlin.
Pain, everywhere pain and blood and masked men. The table was tall and she crawled beneath it, holding on to the sturdy legs when they came to get her.
Tetlin.
Blood ran freely down her arms in the arena, she spat a tooth onto the pitted and scarred floor. Her heart beat fast—too fast, too fast! The Watchers were nodding approvingly, making small notes on clipboards. One detached from the rest, activating a door. Another child stepped onto the arena, eyes wild, stepped over the body of his predecessor.
Tetlin.
There was a sharp pain in her hand, tearing her focus from the past. She looked down, easing her grip on the datapad. She pulled her power into her core, funneling the biotics back within her.
Planet: Pragia. System: Dakka.
Bastards.
Jack started pacing.
"Shepard. SHEPARD!" She started yelling.
There was a thump and a soft cry from the deck above—she'd scared those little engineers.
She didn't give a shit.
"SHEPARD!"
Tetlin.