"Commander, urgent message coming in from the Illusive Man."
"Be right there."
He thought he caught a curse under her breath before she responded.
He needs a shorter nickname. Shepard clearly hated acknowledging his self-claimed title; she called him the puppet master, which had sounded almost poetic until she was three sheets to the wind, explaining at length to Garrus that 'the bastard just wants to stick his hand up your ass and make you twitch, fucker.'
That had a way of taking the poetry right out of it, really.
He didn't remember Shepard being quite so profane in the old days. Maybe she was and you just didn't have the privilege of hearing it. She could certainly turn civility on and off like a switch.
She was cool and professional as the Illusive Man briefed her: intercepted turian intel pointed to a disabled Collector vessel, an unparalleled opportunity to get to know their mysterious enemy. He had the coordinates locked in and their route planned before she issued the command, emerging into the CIC in a wave of determined energy that got everyone's attention.
"You have our destination, Joker."
"Coordinates punched in. Let's go find us a collector ship."
She rattled out a string of orders, the usual pre-mission prep, then he heard her footsteps behind him. She leaned on the back of his chair so she could speak quietly.
"Keep your eyes open. Something about this smells all wrong."
"It's Hotchkins. She has this stuff that makes it impossible to breathe in the crew quarters. It's gardenias or patchouli or rotting varen or something."
"Joker."
"I meant, if a turian patrol could take out a collector ship that easily, we wouldn't be worried about 'em."
"That's what I'm thinking. Keep sharp, I'm going to go get suited up."
–––
Shepard reappeared at his shoulder just as they got their first visual. She was in armor, helmet under her arm.
"That thing's massive. How the hell did the turians take it out?"
She shrugged, eyes locked on the screen.
The monstrous ship looked eerily familiar. The cockpit felt too cold, and he shivered.
"You still planning on going in there?"
"If you have a better plan I'm all ears." Her tension was almost palpable. Not a good way to start a mission.
EDI reported that collector ship's thrusters were cold, drive-core offline, energy signature minimal.
"Dead in the water, or faking it?"
"Either way, it'll take time to fire up a ship that big. Don't let the Normandy get to cozy, Joker. First hint of a power-up and we skedaddle."
This more than smelled bad. It reeked. He talked to cover his nerves.
"Skedaddle? That a technical military term, Commander?"
"We can run like a bat out of hell, if you prefer."
"Jeez, I grew up on a space station and I even I know bats fly."
"High-tail it?"
The tension in the cockpit seeped away as they relaxed into their habitual banter. It's just another job, and we're good at our jobs.
"Rendezvous in thirty seconds, commander. Good luck."
–––
Rhi jumped lightly down from the shuttle, waving out her team. "Mercer, sit tight. We might have to make a quick get-away. Miranda, hold this point with Jacob and Thane – I don't want anything cutting us off. Garrus, Grunt, you're with me."
They started down the dark, undulating corridor.
As EDI's near-monotone relayed information, Rhi found herself wishing it was Joker's voice she was hearing, instead. Stupid. He was busy enough. She always had wondered whether anyone else on the old Normandy had worked at all…
–––
EDI ran a comparison, and informed them that the Collector vessel was the one they'd chased off Horizon.
So of course it's familiar. Nothing spooky.
The vid feed revealed a disturbingly organic ship, floors flowing into walls. Like walking inside someone's intestine. Gross. It was the outside of the looming hulk that filled him with dread, though. We need to get out of here. He shivered again.
"EDI, are we having temperature fluctuations in here?"
"No, Mr. Moreau. The temperature of the Normandy remains at the standard 22 C."
The gooseflesh on his arms didn't agree.
The energy signature was still negligible. No weapons warming up, no core surging with power. And now the shore party was farther in, and still no collectors.
It'll be fine, pull yourself together.
The shore party had reached a terminal, and found their first collector corpse. Grunt and Garrus took look-out positions while Shepard set up a data stream.
He pulled up parts of the feed at random, slowing them down to a speed his eye could follow. Genetics? "EDI…"
The bridge went silent as EDI explained: the collectors were what remained of the protheans, genetically altered and enslaved.
Shepard cursed in surprise. She and Garrus were staring at the dead collector, voices betraying a mix of horror and awe, starting in on a discussion of the relative evils of genocide versus enslavement or something.
Joker interrupted, "Lets chat about the ramifications later, once everyone's off the freaky ship, yeah?"
Look, it's dead, chill out, it's…
…it's too familiar.
Too familiar.
"EDI, do you have access to the logs of the original Normandy?"
"Yes, which –"
"Blackbox. Check this against the ship that took us out."
Took us out.
Killed the Normandy.
Killed Shepard.
You're jumping to conclusions.
"The EM profiles match, Mr. Moreau. They are the same ship."
Is it still paranoia when you're right?
He radioed the commander, trying to keep his voice light, hoping his fear came across as excitement. I'm better now, we're quicker now, it won't happen again. I won't lose her again.
"…that is way beyond coincidence." There was a growl in her voice. Shepard's voice. Alive. Won't happen again.
"Something doesn't add up, Commander. Watch your back!"
A heavy lump of fear had settled in the back of his throat.
His attention was glued to his screens, ready to call them back the moment he saw so much as a blip from the ship and wheel the Normandy away to safety.
He checked in on the base team. "How's our bouncers? Seen anything interesting?"
Miranda sounded irritated. "Not a thing, Moreau. It's safe. The Illusive Man's information is always good."
Yeah, but he's not.
Shepard's team had entered an open space, a huge room that had to stretch the length of the ship. Every wall was lined with the collectors' gruesome pods. Body bags. EDI confirmed the team's suspicions. It wasn't hyperbolic. There were enough pods to contain the population of the earth.
So what? We already knew they were nasty body snatchers, stop being horrified and just get the hell out of there.
Shepard must have had a similar thought. "Keep moving, people."
The team was jogging towards a sunken platform, now, aiming for the glowing console at its center. He heard Garrus remark on the absence of collector bodies, living or dead.
Glad I'm not the only one that caught that. Aside from the corpse on the lab bench, they hadn't seen a one.
"Cover me. We'll have EDI strip the data and then we're out of here." The screens lit up with data, too fast to follow. He didn't even try to track it. Just watch that energy sig. Be ready to run.
The screens went blank.
What?
To his left, the image of a collector flashed, insectile visage demonic red. Oh, shit…
The cockpit went black.
He might hate having the AI onboard, but it was quick. EDI's calm voice explained that there had been a dangerous surge in power even as she rerouted it and stabilized their systems. The black-out was only momentary.
"Shepard!"
Her voice was tense, but not frantic. "Everyone's alright, Joker. What just happened?"
"Major power surge. Everything went dark but we're back up now."
EDI quickly detailed the measures she'd taken to protect the Normandy, adding "Shepard, it was not a malfunction. This was a trap."
Shepard growled. "No fucking shit."
–––
Rhi fired a quick burst as yet another collector body jerked into the air, suffused with light, a sight she'd last seen on Horizon.
Damn, it's going to start to talk.
She gave it a full round and it dropped like a stone, but Harbinger just picked a different body. The transformation was complete before she spotted the new host, and the deep voice rolled out of the possessed drone.
"I am the Harbinger."
She ducked behind a barrier to reload. Could we stop with the fucking melodrama? This is really irritating.
"I know you'll feel this."
The fire whizzed over her head. Not if you keep missing.
She should have been glad the thing was so obsessed with her – as long as it kept talking, she knew where it was. But –
"If I have to tear you apart, Shepard, I will."
– having a mysterious body-swapping alien threaten you by name was still nerve-wracking. Especially when it wouldn't shut up.
–––
Joker could feel sweat at his temples. He couldn't do anything to help them, not now. Garrus's vid swung around, and he could see her, moving, shooting, but it wasn't enough. He desperately wanted her voice to reassure himself that she was alive. He kept silent. Interruptions could kill.
Garrus dropped the last drone just as a light blinked on the console. Shit!
"The collector ship is powering up!" This time the panic did come through. "You need to get out of there before their weapons come online. I'm not losing another Normandy!"
He felt awful as he said it, but it was done, and there was work to do. He radioed Mercer as the base team scrambled back aboard the shuttle, talking her through the route to the new pick-up point.
"Ken, Tali, we're going to need max thruster power here real soon!"
–––
"You cannot resist!"
Watch me, fucker!
She held out her hand, surging with biotic energy, and pulled the glowing drone out of cover. Her squad's combined fire took him down. The last one, for now. They just keep coming.
"EDI, where am I going?"
"Six meters ahead, then turn right."
The turn brought them into a hall where husks were crawling from every crevice. She sent a shock wave in front of her, throwing the moaning bodies against the walls, and ran. Behind her she heard the thud-thud-thud of enemies becoming corpses as they hit the floor.
–––
"Shit, Mercer, not that way! 3.2 x, 1 z, floor it!"
He slipped the Normandy down her own z-axis and rolled her to starboard, trying to clear the dangerous bow of their massive attacker and catch the shuttle at the same time. It wouldn't be a gentle pick-up, but the shuttle would be safe.
Lights flashed, green and red. Shuttle on board; deck impact not fully controlled.
"Shuttle?" he snapped at EDI.
"Safe; surface damage negligible."
"That's it. Strap in, people! We're gonna make 'em work for it this time!"
Freed from waiting, the Normandy surged forward. A beam weapon stabbed out from the Collector vessel, and he rolled her away from its path. They were still so close they didn't even have to factor in light-lag.
"C'mon, baby, we can do this, dance for me…"
His fingers were white, his jaw clenched, but he'd spent the majority of his idle time at the helm developing maneuvers for this exact situation.
For this attack.
For this ship.
His focus was absolute; he didn't notice Shepard's pounding footsteps as she ran to his post, still in armor. The way his heart pounded and his legs quivered at being in this spot, again – that could be dealt with later. For now his hands were steady as he flipped them around the Collectors' path, an obscene dance with destruction, always one step ahead of the more ponderous vessel, zig-zagging unpredictably towards the relative safety of her broadside.
"EDI, find us an FTL path. Anywhere but here!"
–––
Shepard's voice was frosty as she explained their situation. She refused to lie on the Illusive Man's behalf, so she picked her phrasing carefully; 'the Illusive Man believed it was necessary for the completion of the mission that we be genuinely unaware of the trap. ' Emphasis on 'the Illusive Man believed', because I sure don't.
She didn't hear Kelly's inquiry as she left the comm room. She could hear nothing over the rage in her skull.
She passed by the elevator for the maintenance shaft, climbed to her cabin, and cranked the music. It surged through her, but instead of carrying her anger away, it gave it more energy. She tore open the desk drawer, but the only bottle there was empty, drained the last time she talked to her puppet master, and she hadn't restocked on Illium. She'd been being so good.
Rhi pulled her hand back in a fist, hardly conscious of the blue biotic ripples along her body, and slammed it full strength into the cabin wall.
It dented.
Under cover of the music, she screamed through gritted teeth.
–––
Joker saw them safely to a far orbit, and then everything he'd pushed to the back of his mind caught up with him. He had to get somewhere quiet.
The elevator was only a momentary sanctuary, and one glance out the open doors when it stopped told him the crew deck was too active, all shifts awake discussing their near miss. Kelly Chambers was moving among them, too, and the last thing he needed was another damn counselor.
He went all the way down to the hangar, and walked past the makeshift gym to the kodiak's cradle. The shuttle would need a new paint job, but her hull was sound. And if anyone asked, he could say he was checking the damage.
Safe inside the powered-down shuttle he collapsed in the pilot's seat, shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the fear and guilt he'd pushed aside to get them to safety.
He tried to tell himself that he'd done it, that they'd survived, he'd been given a second chance and used it, but the memory of facing the same ship two years ago was more vivid than facing it in the last hour. It had worn its place in his mind. And every time it might, just might, have been laid to rest, there'd been another call from the brass. Tell us what happened when the Normandy crashed. Tell us what happened when Shepard died.
The crew of the first Normandy had been split up, ostensibly to send their skills where they were most needed, but after the first individual debriefing the real reason was clear: It would be easier to cover-up what really happened if none of the crew could back each other up.
He'd refused to change his report, of course, refused to tarnish Shepard's memory by suggesting she might be delusional. Fuck them all. He'd flown the ship that took down a goddamn reaper.
He'd heard it talk, on Virmire, by way of the helmet cam. Of course, that footage hadn't been blackboxed; it went down with the Normandy. And "No one is suggesting you were suffering hallucinations, Mr. Moreau, but convincing digital projections are unfortunately easy to create. Saren Arterius was clearly a deep planner, and the 'entity' on the Virmire was most likely an act of psychological warfare."
Therapy had been psychological warfare.
He'd written to Chakwas and Alenko. Their replies were so heavily censored they might as well have written about the weather, and he could only assume his messages had received the same treatment.
He hadn't been grounded. Not then. Just stuck running simple shuttle flights to and from Arcturus, in easy reach whenever the brass wanted him to 'see if he remembered anything new', which was the English translation for 'remember things the way we want you to remember them.'
Then they held Shepard's funeral.
He should have kept sober, faked normal, healthy grief, and used the opportunity to compare notes with his old crew-mates, allowed for once to be in contact on this most somber occasion. Obvious, in retrospect.
Up to that point, anger had kept him going. Rage at the clumsy cover-up operation, at the ham-handed efforts to deny a very real threat, had almost drowned out the guilt and loss. Anger was the reason he drank before the service, afraid that if he were actually paying attention he'd scream as the brass damned Shepard with faint praise. Maybe throw a crutch at them. Damn him, he'd been worried about their words.
He didn't even hear the solemn pompous speeches. From the moment he saw Shepard's image projected over the empty coffin, he hadn't heard anything at all.
Without her, he couldn't save her.
He was alone in the life pod.
She was drifting away.
In space, no one can hear you scream.
He was screaming her name.
The explosion rocked the husk of the Normandy, blasting the Commander's body into space. Killing her.
It hadn't killed her. She died cold and alone.
Her fist came down on the pod launch. She was on the outside.
He'd looked into her eyes as she remembered dying.
Her hand on his arm, pulling him out of his chair, supporting his weight across her shoulders.
It was the only time she'd touched him.
The hull was ripped open, the CIC open to the black.
The commander told him to evacuate.
He wasn't going to let her die.
The commander told him to evacuate.
He spun them into evasives, but the first blast had done too much damage. She was a crippled bird trying to fly.
He heard the order to evacuate, but he couldn't let the Normandy die.
Without her, he couldn't save her.
He didn't remember leaving the memorial service. He did remember the first bar, and Kaidan's worn face when he showed up at the clinic the next morning to bail him out.
They could have talked, then, but Kaidan received urgent commands the moment they'd gotten back to his apartment. Couldn't allow too much buddy time for the crew of the Normandy.
This time the shrinks had more ammunition.
Grief. Feelings of guilt. It wasn't your fault while we slyly hint yes it was, yes it was. Guilt is why you can't let go of this fairytale. Fairies wear boots and you've got to believe me. You want to believe in the cosmic threat so her death had more meaning. I saw it, I saw it, I tell you no lies. These things happen; soldiers die of ordinary causes every day, it doesn't make their death meaningless. It was just the geth. Just the geth. Just a death.
He tried to explain why he had to save the Normandy. Save her to save her. He was useless without the ship; useless to everyone, useless to himself, useless to Shepard. Saving the Normandy was the most important thing he could do.
Let's talk about your relationship with the ship, Mr. Moreau…
I failed her. I watched her end and couldn't do anything. It was my fault.
Placing a higher value on the vessel than the lives within… recommend he be removed from duty…
–––
Rhi slumped against the wall, cool metal against her scarred cheek, fighting back tears of frustration.
She had to be able to think. People relied on her; she was no good to anyone like this.
But all she felt was blind anger.
She hadn't felt like this since she was a teen, hormones raging, a street kid locked in a fancy school. She'd broken shit and picked fights, and she would have been thrown out if not for the alliance marine who showed up to knock sense into her, giving her a direction for her energy.
She stared at the dent she'd left in the wall. Sparring was out of the question, now. How could she trust herself not to hurt someone?
She thought of the husks raining down dead behind her as she ran. Hell, even her enemies didn't stay alive long enough for her to vent her anger.
It was an uncharacteristically bloody thought, and it terrified her.
I can't be like this.
Even without a partner, she could still wear herself out. She picked up a water bottle and headed to the hangar.
–––
Get out of there before their weapons come online. I'm not losing another Normandy.
Why had he said that? Why, when Shepard was still fighting on an enemy ship?
Placing a higher value on the vessel than the lives within… recommend he be removed from duty…
His eyes were tight shut, nails digging into his palms. That isn't me. They were wrong.
They were wrong.
Wrong.
You spent all that time reliving it, wishing to do it differently, and you can. You did. They're safe, the commander and the ship.
He took a deep breath, centering himself on the sharp pain where his nails had dug into his hand, and opened his eyes. The interior of the kodiak was still and dim, but he could see movement in the hangar through the forward screen. He froze, then remembered it was impossible to see into the shuttle from outside. He leaned forward, searching for what had startled him.
Shepard was near the gym mats, aft by the elevator, arm outstretched, lofting the heavy crates of supplies. Building a barrier between herself and the windows of the engineering deck. A castle. From the shift in the cargo, she'd been there awhile.
The last building block settled.
She knelt on one knee, took a brushed-metal box from her pocket, and laid it open on a box.
What is she doing?
She closed her eyes and reached both hands behind her head. They came away with a tiny object that flashed metallic when the light hit it. Shepard opened her eyes and nestled the amp into the box.
Joker wished desperately that he'd realized when she first shown up, so he could have left. He couldn't explain why, but he wouldn't have felt more intrusive if she'd stripped naked.
–––
The spot at the base of her skull felt cool, as if she could feel the air flowing where her amp usually rested. She'd been assured it was just her imagination, but she always thought she could sense the hole. She almost always left it in, for the same reason she always had ration bars in her pocket, but now she needed to exhaust herself, and the amp would just make it take longer.
Rhi stripped down to her tank top, wrapped her hands, and turned to the heavy bag. She had no need to warm up; she hadn't stopped moving since she stepped of the shuttle into the collector ship.
Her blows were fast and hard, even without biotic amplification. She didn't let herself pretend it was the illusive man's face; she wanted to work out her rage, not fuel it. Fueling it wouldn't do her crew any good. Let it go, let it go, let it all go.
When the sweat started to pour she peeled off another layer. When her shoulders tired she switched to kicks, then back to punches, until her muscles started to quiver in exhaustion.
–––
He watched her. He couldn't help it.
Shepard's alive. She's as safe as any of us, and we're both safe in the Normandy.
It should be like it never happened. Of course, it wasn't. Still, most people didn't get this kind of second chance.
Sweat was dripping under her black sports bra, shining on her back. He closed his eyes and willed that image to stay with him. Not a disembodied voice in armor; a woman, warm, alive. Alive. He remembered holding her, feeling her warm weight on his shoulder. Alive.
We survived today, and we'll do it again.
He could see the subtle play of muscles in her taut belly when she kicked, the lines of muscle along her back when she turned.
The ship isn't more important than you. It never was.
She was leaning over, hands on her knees, exhausted.
Can you forgive me, Shepard?
Author's note: Normally I avoid using in-game dialogue, but the first half of this chapter is full of it, so let it not be forgotten: bioware owns the game and characters (except for poor Mercer, and that ditz Hotchkins). Fairies Wear Boots lyrics are by Black Sabbath.
If you enjoyed today's combination of action and angst, thank my beta TeraDanielle, who wanted to know more of Joker's lost years and gently reminded me that sometimes, we have to advance the plot.
Also! I seem to have put the gym in an area that should regularly get depressurized. Imagine, if you will, that either A) the ship's mass-effect generated artificial gravity is enough to hold everything in place while the atmosphere gets sucked out to let the shuttle leave, or B) they've got a protective energy field set up between the aft section and the forward bit where the shuttle davits are. It's magic mass-effect science!
