PATCHWORK GIRL
HEART OF DARKNESS
Jacob Taylor's story
When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history.
The dreams returned in vigor, tormenting Jack the moment she'd let her guard down and slip into R.E.M. For the most part, she managed to keep them at bay, taking light naps every couple of hours between docking planets or missions. Sometimes, though, especially after a particularly trying fight, Jack would forget to focus and mentally drop into a dark, dead sleep.
Her dream self would sit there, sitting cross legged at the door inside the cramped room. She'd just sit there and stare at the luminescent red marking telling of the locked door, a reminder of her safety. And then the door flickered green, sliding open. The blood would rush through her, her heart thumped in sharp, painful rhythms, pounding in her ears. Pounding pounding pounding pounding. Then the darkness. She could taste it, hot metallic copper blood, fist covered in a slush of fluids. She'd pound. Again and again, pound in Subject 1's face. Or Subject 2's. Or Subject 3's. 3... One time she hit 3 so hard, he lost his eye.
Afterwards, they washed her hair and wiped her down, delicately toweling her dry. She was hungry. They never allowed her to eat before bed, and only after the first 'therapy' session. Wires clawed into her skin, belts locked hands and legs tight into the cruel iron throne. Muscle relaxers injected into her veins, her body melting into the cold chair. One of the scientists inserted a bite block, missing baby teeth peeking gaps into her mouth. Snot and tears mingled across her face, a potion contrived from fear. And then the pain came, bracing through her body like a hot knife, splitting her mind into unthinking agony, shitting and pissing, choking and vomiting as the eezo seared through her insides and cut her mind into pieces.
"Hey. Heeeeeeeeyyyy Jackie girl. Heeeyyyyy"
The convict lurched forward, hand balled into a fist encased in blue. Her eyes shot open, but before the fist could make contact, someone redirected the shockwave, the flat the stranger's hand gently pushing Jack's wrist aside. A burst of energy rolled like a tide, trailing towards the stairs before knocking flat into a wall.
"Shiiiit, Shepard..." Another voice interrupted. "Maybe we sho-"
"Nah... Naaaahh itscoool. Hey, Jackie girl. Wanna drink and ink?"
The woman lurched backwards, crouching into a corner. Brown eyes dart left and right, pupils registering shadow figures in the room. Squinting, she slowly recognized the unwelcome company in her den... First, the Cerberus operative - that weapons specialist guy who helped her break out of Purgatory. He looked tense, though tried to disguise it by crossing his arms over his chest and coolly pushing his back into one of the room's bolted supports. Beside him, Commander Shepard. She sat on Jack's dingy mattress, with a bottle of something that was chilled, blue, and smelled clearly of battery acid.
"Wannnna drink, Jackie girl?" Shepard offered, extending the alcohol towards Jack. Jack's response was by cocking her brow, brown eyes darting from bottle to the Cerberus lackey who was trying to look all cool by sinking into bad posture, thumbing his nose offhandedly.
"Come on, Jackie," Shepard tilted her head, motioning for her to join them. "We just got back from watching Jacob's dad shoot himself. So we're celebrating our one true likeness. Orphanhood!"
The Cerberus officer cleared his throat, shifting his weight to the other leg. That statement certainly didn't add comfort to clarity. "Yeah... Yeah thanks, Shepard."
The commander's grey eyes fixed on the man's expression, "I know how you feel, bro. Watched my pa die. Well... I don't really know exactly how you feel. I actually killed him myself and I don't think I cared nearly as much." The woman returned to Jack with a yawn, "Come on, Jackie girl. I'm solidly drunk and want some ink. Here. Here have some of this. It's... It's awesome."
Jack stared at the offered bottle, deep red lips twisted repulsively. She remained hunched, knees bent and knuckles flexed into the ground, guarding the tiny little corner like a feral dog. Her body language lacked nuance, screaming you are not welcome here. Leave or I will kill you.
"You know what?" The officer started, shaking his head. "I think.. I think I'm going to go to bed now. Its been a long day an-"
"Sit the fuck down, Officer Taylor, and shut up."
"I... Wait, what?"
"You heard me. I'm your commanding officer. Now sit the fuck down and deal with it," Shepard rolled her shoulders, pulling the bottle back and taking a heavy swig of the vile smelling blue shit inside of the crystal vessel. The long drink impresses Jack, assuming the battery acid is probably made for krogans and could kill most non-augmented humans deader than dead. Shepard perked her brow at the man who shifts his weight from the left leg to the right awkwardly. The Cerberus officer regards the captain's sharp glare with a deep sigh before taking a long look around the room for a chair or... anything to sit on. Shepard pats the mattress next to her. Rolling his eyes, the man gives into the suggestion and proceeds to take his place next to Shepard - eyes fixed on the floor and avoiding Jack's frustrated and irritated stare.
"Jack, I think you've already met Officer Jacob Taylor," Shepard sighs, hand weaving the empty space between them in a single motion. Jacob curtly tipped his head as both eyes flick briefly to Jack's face before respectfully returning his gaze downcast. Jack sneers.
"Yeah. The Cerberus jock. I know you."
"Cerberus jock? Points for originality Jackie girl," Shepard whistles. She turns the bottle of liquor nonchalantly in her hands before thrusting it into Jacob's stomach. "Alright, your turn Taylor."
"I don't feel like it," He murmurs, turning the bottle around in his hands and placing it on the ground between his feet.
At that, Shepard rolled her eyes, recollected the half-empty vessel and pushed it right back into Jacob's arms. "Yes you do feel like it. You really don't know how to deal with the hard shit, do you? You just don't get it, huh? Well, lemme teach you Taylor. Hell. Jack and I will both teach you."
At the mention of her name, the convict tensed. She's still trying to make sense of Commander Shepard and Officer Taylor occupying her room, let alone looking at the Cerberus lapdop without whipping towards him, fingers lashed to gut him from the inside out. It's hard dealing with an informational and emotional overload, too many uncontrollable factors flooding in all at once. While Jacob and Shepard may see anger and hatred seething from Jack's expressions, she was actually experiencing a great deal of fear and anxiety. This whole situation wasn't fun at all.
The commander, however, doesn't seem to care. Not in the least. "See, Jack and I've been conditioned to deal with the bad shit. You've been sheltered for waaay too long, Taylor. You gotta loosen up a little, change your philosophy. So, he was your dad. Big deal. He already did his job 30 years ago and you thanked him by handing him a gun to correct his own problems instead of suffering through legality bullshit. You gave him a choice, he had the power to do what he wanted. That's the beautiful thing about free will, you can do just about anything!"
Shepard proceeded to pat the man on the back, her voice ridiculously charming, making her all the more ominous. "Just think of it this way, doing your job will be a helluva lot easier from this day forward. Now drink up." Jack watched Jacob stir the drink by rotating his wrist before a sigh of defeat flew between his lungs and into the air like a big red flag. He unceremoniously raised the bottle, downing the contents in a single drag before nearly coughing up the whole swig.
"JESUS CHRIST, Shepard?! What is in this shit?!"
"Don't be a big baby. It's Ryncol," Shepard rolls her eyes.
"Rync- That shit can kill me!"
"I diluted it!"
"With what?"
"Brandy. Oh you'll be fine," Shepard turned her head this way and that in mock conversation before sliding off the mattress, belly pressed to the floor. One hand searched under the Jack's bed.
Jack did not take that action kindly. "Shepard, get your fucking hands out from under my bed."
"Hmm... No," the commander replied easily, sweeping the floor until a rattle breaks her concentration. She whistles delightfully, both hands clamped around that rusty, beat up old blue box Jack hid under a layer of mattress, blanket, and bed frame. Irritated, the convict stomped directly towards Shepard, swiping the dingy tin box from the woman. The commander, for her part, did not let go.
"Ooo, someone's in a spirited mood," Shepard grins, white ivories glinting in the low light as her brows knit into an exciting and aggressive expression. This was an expression familiar to Jack. Typically a head butt followed.
"Shepard, don't start with me," Jack hissed, teeth grit and eyes shot brown as she clamps her hands securely around that stupid, precious, important box. "I'm really not in the mood right now."
The commander blinks, taken back by Jack's sensitive response. She raised her hands, releasing the heavy, dinged up object, "All right. I got it. We aren't welcome."
"Gee, Shepard," Jack spat back, "What gave that away."
"I didn't say I actually gave a fuck," The woman shrugged and flops right back onto the bed. Jacob Taylor, for his part, was rocking back and forth, eyes half lidded and face flat as a wall. He looked as numb-faced as an elcor. "Shiiit... Damn, Taylor. Are you already out of it?"
"...That's some harsh shit there, Foucault," Jacob groaned, grabbing the bottle and choking on another quick swig.
"Foucault...?" Jack inquired, raising her eyes to meet Shepard who was too pre-occupied being freely entertained by a Cerberus officer drunk off Ryncol. "Wait, is that your name? Foucault?"
"Nah," Jacob smirked, lifting his lips and grinning drunkenly as the pain absolves itself in the form of heavy drinking. "Joker just likes to call her that. You don't seem to mind so much, Commander. He says it's cuz the name 'Foucault' sounds a lot like 'Fuck Off'. Says you're funny that way."
Shepard only shrugged, taking back the drink and placing it aside. The woman watched Jacob calmly as he teetered back and forth, blinking blurry eyed and giggling at the joke. And as the Cerberus jock seemed to get drunker with every passing second, Shepard appeared more sober. Jack stood there, watching as they exchanged a conversation, some stupid small talk involving ship gossip that went straight over the convict's head. Or rather, Jacob gossiped while Shepard merely nodded every once in a while, encouraging him to continue. Still, the Cerberus officer grew drunker, leaning and turning, stupidly grinning, voice slurred, emotionally lifted. Shepard, on the other hand, turned more serious.
"Wait..." Jack interrupted, blinking at the commander stupidly. "Wait. Did you fake it?"
Officer Taylor turned to regard Jack dumbly, swaying like a tree in the breeze, ready to collapse. "Fake whu-?"
"I'm augmented, Jack. Of course I faked it. It takes a lot more than half a bottle of Ryncol to throw me on the ground. I need to drink two bottles. Tested this recently," the woman sniffed, casually crossing one leg over the other as she started to peel off her clothes. Jacob, for his part, just stared. Dumbfounded.
"What are... Wait, what is... What the fuck are you doing?"
"Drink and ink, Jack," Shepard responded, nonplussed. "I want a tattoo. So does Jacob."
"I... I do...?" Officer Taylor blinked, eyes fixated on Shepard's figure as she clipped off the leather suspenders of her off-duty outfit. There, over the sleeve of her entire arm, deep purple ink painted pale flesh, white swirls peeking through the color like wind, emulating Tali's headdress. The tattoo was still scabbing, skin flaking and flesh tender. The rich details tucked just under the long, sinewy flowers - both blooming and dying - that decorated the dog tags etched with Ashley William's name around her wrist. Jacob whistled, nodding, "Damn fine ink. Real beautiful."
"It's all Jack," Shepard states, nodding up to the stunned woman who clutched that dingy blue box as if it was her lifeline.
The Cerberus jock nodded, admiring the details and reading the dog tags, biting a thick lower lip as his nostrils flared, dark eyes really evaluating Jack's work. "Do you mind?" Jacob asked, seeking permission from Shepard to touch her arm and rotate it. The commander paid little attention to the man as he peeked and prodded, reading her arm inch by inch. Jack peeled her attention away from Jacob, only to find Shepard's alarming gaze fixed on her. Shepard watched, unblinking, as if peeling back Jack's thick layers of walls, peering deep into her insecurities. Jack averted her gaze.
"Fine. But only this one time..." Jack snarled, placing the box on the ground, unlatching the top with a satisfying click. She set out her tools. Three tattoo guns were first, one for shading, the other lining, and the last just because. The analog power supply came second, followed by disposable tubes, needles, clips, rubber bands, ink holders, cups, rings, ointment, grommits, and stainless steel tips. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves, peering up at her company. "What would the Cerberus jock want?"
Jacob blinked, his reaction time still slow and blurry from alcohol. A grin split Jack's lips, suddenly taking a new sadistic appreciation for this recent turn of events. Alcohol thins the blood which causes increased bleeding and Jack liked inking when more blood was involved. While most tattoo artists will grimace and claim their art was ruined by an idiot's dumb string of choices, Jack learned to work with the blood. Blood and ink, two of her favorite things.
"I'm... not sure..." Jacob muttered
The commander rolls her bare shoulders, supple skin breathing after discarding her vest and detached sleeves into a pile on the floor, "We'll get a matching set, Jacob. To commemorate your first day as an orphan." She raised a hand to brace the officer's shoulder. "Trust me. It'll make it easier."
"Alright, Foucault. We'll do it your way," Jacob thumbed his nose. "What would you suggest?"
"An elephant tusk," Shepard stated easily, watching the drunk next to her. "One on your right arm, one on my left."
Jack shrugged as tests her tools, adjusting the needles and using duct tape to repair one of the pinched tubes, watching Officer Taylor scratch the soft curls of his hair, fingers fixed nervously on the back of his head. "Why elephant tusks?"
"Because elephant tusks indicated you were better than everyone else in the world," Shepard started, her voice an eerie monotone that lacked emphasis or poetry. "On Earth, there is this giant continent called Africa that comprises many country-states. About 300 years ago before the formation of the Alliance, people native these countries were brutally exploited."
Shepard narrowed her eyes, one hand slicing into the air, impressing a point. "People were chained and killed. Whole kingdoms of men slaughtered so others could wear jewelry carved from the tusks of dead animals."
A silence penetrated the room, all eyes fixate on Commander Shepard. She remains, breathing evenly through her nose, "There is a darkness in all men, Officer Taylor. We have always had greedy, destructive natures. If you deny this, your heart will only be consumed by that darkness. Only by acknowledging the darkness, can you overcome it." And then her gaze turns to Jack. "Do you understand?"
The convict's mouth dried, lips parched and eyes wide as she listened attentively. Jacob turned to regard Jack, brows knit seriously, an expression of pain breaking through the hard facade. He sighed, acknowledging the familiarity between them. "Yeah. I do."
Jack bit her lip, watching tentatively as Jacob unbuttoned and slid his shirt uniform off, revealing the contours of his flat stomach and well muscled figure. This wasn't the body of a soldier, but the body of a man whose intense exercise regime touched a familiar nerve reaching to meditation and comfort. The Cerberus Agent and Subject Zero had a lot more in common than she'd liken to admit.
Wordlessly, Jack trained the tattoo gun over the soft flesh across the back of Jacob's forearm and proceeded to draw the long tusk free hand. She could feel his muscles tense under her fingers, but paid little attention to the man, only the canvas at her fingertips. As she expected, he bled quite a lot, crimson splashing and mixing with the deep black ink, diluting and causing the outline to appear less defined and more faded. She shaded the cracks and the details, referencing the codex when needed - never seeing an elephant herself, but recalling the appearance of ivory from museums she had pirated in her wild youth. When Jack finished working in the minute details, she quickly wiped off the blood and cleaned the artful wound thoroughly with alcohol, before changing into a fresh pair of latex gloves and switching tattoo guns.
Jack is a professional, and professionals are very hygienic.
Shepard came next, the bleeding less profuse and the territory more interesting. The commander's skin was still just as fresh, clean, and perfect as before. The convict freehanded a twin of that same ivory tusk, mirrored to match Officer Jacob Taylor's arm. Symbollically, it fascinated her. One white tusk, one black tusk, carved from the same flesh and tools against the skin of two people who were alike in species but nothing else. Jack chose to shade deep cracks along Shepard's tattoo, a deep contrast to the seamless beauty of Jacob's intact illustration. It worked, adding interest to the matching set.
At some point, the heavy alcohol knocked the Cerberus officer into a deep sleep - collapsed and folded over in Jack's bed. After Jack finished Shepard's tattoo, the commander reaches down to collect the man - unceremoniously throwing him over her shoulder and picking up pieces of clothing that she shoves down her deep trouser pockets. "Tomorrow. Samara meditation. Remember," Shepard reminds.
Jack nodded slowly, taking apart her tools and cleaning them individually as the Commander adjusted Officer Taylor's weight over her shoulder and began to walk out. Biting her lip, the convict's eyes roll to the side as she thinks, arguing with herself whether or not to ask after something. Her internal debate lasts only long, and Jack is quick to call after the woman, "Hey, Shepard..."
The commander stopped, turning to regard Jack fully, lifting a brow, "Yeah, Jack?"
"... About what you said..." Jack pursed her lips, twisting cords nervously between her fingers as the words string together. "Do you believe it? That... by acknowledging your darkness, you can overcome it?"
Shepard paused, then shook her head, "No. I don't."
"... Why did you lie, then? To him...?"
The commander sighed, expelling the air from her lungs to emphasize one point or another. "Because it's what he needed to hear. It's what he wanted to hear. Get some rest, Jack. Don't suffer over the details."
But she did suffer that night. Jack didn't want to sleep. Tossing and turning, the words still whispering in the back of her head. The horror. The horror.
Author's Note ::
Oh. And Jacob Taylor's teeth. What great chompserz. And I LOVED Jacob's loyalty mission. Was I the only one who saw Heart of Darkness written all over that mission?
So yeah. Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness goes to this chapter as well. Doop doop doop