PATCHWORK GIRL
WAR OF WORDS
Mordin Solus's Story
When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history. Pre Omega Relay - End
Urz leapt from sandy patch to sandy patch, purple and tan skin shifting over the curves of sinew and muscle tissue. The varren delighted Jack, blue orbed eyes shining and white teeth snapping in the air as he skipped under the woman's legs, attempting to trip her in some playful mischief. The convinct grinned before collecting a long, hollow bone, throwing it outside the camp's circle. Urz snarled then trampled away, knocking into large rucksacks filled with goods or barreling into frustrated, cursing krogan.
Jack slipped on the single lens covered shades, adhesive temple plates using magnets to keep the reflective shield floating across her eyes. She'd kill for a bottle of eye drops. Dry sand, dry weather, dry sun, and dry heat sucked the moisture from her body, skin tissue cracked and lips flaking.
Picking her teeth with a nail, Jack's gaze slid sidelong, peeking back to the salarian scientist. In most situations, the alien's voice would bob up and down in an enthusiastic, lyrical quality. He had a nasty habit of conducting his full thought process out loud, often without a breath. But for whatever reason, Dr. Mordin Solus decided to hum instead. Sometimes his humming would break into patterns, or drift into a long draw that lifted and fell, black eyes darting back and forth, head moving right to left. Sometimes his humming would become a familiar song, before the noisy tune picked into a conversational tone. He never spoke, never insinuated, never interrupted, never added his two-cent chime.
He would just hum.
It was very weird.
"You have an odd salarian friend," A rich voice intoned near the central hearth.
The camp circled a large fire pit, food hissing above the hot embers. Low flames licked pyjack meat, juices dripping across skinned flesh, greasy fat dribbling a trail of sweat across hissing coals. A number of krogan dressed in maroon and deep indigo silks resembled small quivering mounds around the fire, warmed by the hearth and whispering secrets to one another.
Mordin's humming may have weirded Jack out, but the massive assembly of female krogan was even weirder.
Jack was still trying to make sense of the situation. Namely, how the hell Shepard managed to convince the warriors at all that she could march into the female's sanctuary hauling a crazy, sociopathic biotic bitch and a babbling, former STG salarian savant by her side, and proceed to leave both unattended as she rutted around looking for the female camp's shaman.
Needless to say, Jack did not feel welcome. At all.
Playing fetch with Urz helped to ease her mind. Mordin's conversational humming provided a little distraction. Jack threw hollow bones, complained about the heat, and wisely chose not to make eye contact with wary female krogan who were just as large and frightening as their male counterparts, albeit covered head to toe in broad, decorative silks.
So when one of the females pointed out Jack's odd salarian friend, Jack couldn't help but shuffle a foot awkwardly.
"Tell me about it," Jack muttered, casting her gaze outwards to the desert plains where she last saw Urz chasing after that cracked bone. Then, against her better judgement, the convict cocked her head at an angle, leaning her full weight into the sandblock barricade that circled the camp, lifting her head up and down as she regarded the female who spoke to her. "You aren't much like the males, are you?"
All seven bodies turned, a rainbow of gold, black, blue, red, and grey eyes picking across Jack's skin under the golden loops of their woven patterned headdresses. The veils bellowed lightly under their breath, maws hidden under different fabrics. They murmured whispers to one another. Mordin's humming grew just a bit louder, black almond eyes twitching between human and krogan.
"What do you mean, human?" The female inquired, her deep voice a soft rumble.
Jack shrugged, ignoring Mordin's hyper musical head melody. "I mean... We've been standing around here for the past hour, waiting for Shepard to get back and... like... not a single one of you has challenged either of us to a fight."
"Challenge?" The krogan rolled, lifting herself to her feet. "You? No, of course not. You are no challenge."
That caused Jack to bristle, "You wanna bet?" A soft blue glow whistled across Jack's skin, stained red lips twisted into a snarl as she theatrically bobbed her head up and down, regarding the krogan's well-formed physique under the rolls of carpet. "I've easily taken on loads of you. Hell, I've killed tons of fucking biotic-krogans... what do you call them? Battle sages?"
"Battle masters," The krogan calmly corrected.
"Yeah. Wiped the floor with them. I could easily take all of you bitches on."
Jack flexed, blue flames licking off her body as the warm, biotic charge kissed dry skin. Mordin shuddered, lifting his hands as his hum broke into a voice, the words spilling crescendo into a hyper rollercoaster of exploding thoughts, "No. No no no no no. Jack, No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I do not recommend engaging in conflict with kroga-"
"The salarian speaks," The krogan rolled, "Heed his recommendation, little human. Do not challenge me. You will lose."
"Yeah?" Jack snapped, ego bruised by an anxious amphibian and a lizard wearing a lamp-shade costume. "Scared you can't take it, lizard lips?"
Golden eyes narrowed under the soft, roped loops that circled the krogan's eyes. "Frightened...? Of you...?" Slowly, the female marched forward, her saunter a silky move that forced her sisters to part from the ground and stand around them in strange pairings. They whispered to one another, though all eyes attached in a slow flickering gaze between their sister and the challenger. She moved closer, leather shoes crunching dry dirt and dust underfoot, leaving a trail of deep foot prints as she trekked the ground closer to Jack. The convict bent low, excited smile bracing over her lips. She had never fought a female krogan before. The thought exhilarated her.
Deep, rum gold pools flickered like a tiger's eye gem, black diamond pupil dilating as it flicked over the girl's body, reading the patterns across her skin and sinking flat across Jack's face. "Female, human... young... mature, child-bearing years. Battlemaster... you do not act like most human females... You seek to hide eye contact, but I can see your eyes skitter, your jaw muscles tense when you look at us in the face... you have problems with your wrists, sore, not exercised correctly, perhaps too much writing or drawing or crafts, likely art... Ambidextrous... hnnn hnn..."
"Uh..." Jack blinked, unfurling her fists as the female continued.
"Biotic levels are unnatural... You are incapable of listening to reason and you have difficulties paying attention to details... anti-social... likely prisoned... solitary confinement, exhibits typical asocial behavior. Ah. There it is. The killing blow..." The female whispered, staring at Jack head on, gold eyes slightly cross-eyed in her close proximity. "Tell me, human. Do you enjoy your loneliness? Or is it easier to be alone than to trust?"
Jack stood there, jaw gaping like a suffocated toad.
The female sighed, shaking her head, "You are no challenge."
"You didn't even put up your fucking fists!" Jack slashed back, spit spraying from her mouth as her stomach took a harsh turn.
"You fight like the males," The female responds. "Our approach is more cutting."
"... War of Words..." Dr. Mordin Solus echoed, stunting his hums as he suddenly decided to take part.
The krogan nodded, "Yes. The War of Words."
"The war of what?" Jack asked, curling and uncurling her fingers into fists, "What the fuck are you talking about? That's not fighting!"
"The males fight with their fists and their weapons," The female said steadily. "They have forgotten the War of Words, when we cut our opponents by mapping their weaknesses with our tongues. You do not have the gift of words. You are weak, human."
"I am not weak," Jack snarled.
The krogan blinked, and sauntered closer - her head rolling, the sound of silk shifting across dry scales, rustling like tumbleweeds and dead grass over sand. She was a good two feet taller than Jack, a small hill of fancy dressings that towered over the convict. Two gold marbled eyes studied her, "Quick to draw your fists... a living weapon, but you do not think before you pull the trigger. You are a wild thresher maw that tears apart everything without thinking about the consequences. Your lack of strategy and planning is befitting of one so naïve."
The words cut her, bit by bit. The convict wanted very much to pummel the female, but whatever the krogan said, drained all the satisfaction and pleasure Jack would get from a physical altercation.
"War of Words, human. The males use shotguns, we prefer detail."
"Krogan are highly efficient predators," Mordin piped, head bobbing as black almond eyes flicked between the two. "Krogan are native to this planet, Tuchanka. Thrive in extreme conditions. Krogan eyes wide-set. 240-degree vision. Greater visual acuity, greater awareness. Also heightened sense of smell..." The salarian sniffed, tapping his lips with one elongated finger. "Able to 'read between the lines'. Evolved to study prey. Evolved to study each other. Evolved to survive. Best means of survival, attention to detail. Physical and psychoanalysis."
"Wait..." Jack blinked, "So, you're saying, this War of Words shit is just one giant psychoanalysis?"
"... Do not assume," the female muttered. "The War of Words is a battle without bloodshed."
"Compromise," Mordin clarified. "Females compromise. Still, female krogan are susceptible to hierarchy. However, strength not determined by brute force, but by nuanced handle of language and skilled psychoanalysis." He hummed thoughtfully, "Pity the males do not follow these traditions..."
"Do not judge our culture, salarian," The female snapped, tongue clacking across the roof of her mouth as she glared. "And do not speak in generalizations. There are females who do not have the gift of words. There are males who do have the gift. The male clan leader, Urdnot Wrex, can speak the War of Words. Do not assume you understand."
The doctor sniffed, bobbing his head back and forth, black almond eyes pitched between the female and the paired females behind them, arranged loosely near the hearth. Before Mordin could open his mouth, Jack snatched his arm and dragged the salarian away. "Great talking to you ladies, I think we've overspent our welcome... C'mon Frogboy, we've got a commander to find so we can get the fuck off this piece of shit planet."
The females watched, a spectrum of marbled colors peering as the Jack pulled Mordin away from the sticky situation. The krogan's words prickled her, Mordin's assessment more so. Jack did not like that these krogan were psychoanalyzing her. A good punch in the face was not the same as being picked apart inside out by total strangers. She did not want these predators to map out her insecurities more than they already had. The scientist, for his part, complied with the walk - occupying his head with another string of hums.
"Why do you keep doing that?" Jack snapped, her patience rattled. "Fuck knows you babble more than a two year old, but shit - I'd rather you babble then hum like an idiot all day."
"I have difficulty with linear thinking," Mordin explained. "Thoughts run in multiple streams. Hence talking aloud. Easy to keep one train of thought separate from other trains. Difficult childhood, particularly in school. Always thinking in silence, trapped for days... comatose state, snapped out briefly by training self to talk out loud. Need to think out loud. Harmful to self if silent..." He paused thoughtfully. "Suffer from insomnia for these reasons..."
"But you aren't talking. You're humming."
"Still auditory string of ideas. We are in female camp. I doubt our company would... relish my thoughts if I spoke out loud instead of humming. Situation requires..." Mordin licks his lips, tongue darting out briefly. "Compromise..."
Jack perked her brow, "Your ideas are that sensitive?"
"Yes," Mordin says gravely. "They are."
It didn't take a genius to answer the doctor's riddle. In one strain of conversation or another, the salarian had informed Normandy's entire crew that he was involved in STG, a salarian espionage organization often deployed to cap off volcanic situations before they erupted into major problems - especially if those problems involved krogan. More reason why Jack wondered why the hell Shepard pulled the old salarian into the female camp. Either she was taunting the clan, kicking Mordin between the legs, or just experimenting for kicks. Why Shepard left Jack to babysit Mordin was beyond her. It was difficult to make sense of the woman, no matter how hard she tried. While Jack could not figure out the commander's purposes, Foucault's actions remained deliberate. To what end remained a mystery.
Jack was starting to get fed up with Shepard's bullshit mysteries.
Hence why she very deliberately stomped right into the last tent Shepard was seen in, dragging the humming salarian behind her.
Blinking into dim light, Jack's senses adjusted to the sudden change. Inside the tent carved from all matter of leathers and carapaces, the temperature was much, much cooler. Scented smoke permeated, thickening the air with gag inducing spices that cleared Jack's lungs. She blinked uncertainly at two shapes obscured by incense, recognizing Shepard's human form and a strange krogan.
"Where's the Shaman, Najar?"
"I cannot say..."
"Where. Is. She."
"Shepard, I cannot say."
The arguments continued to circle. Jack bided her time by shifting her weight from the right leg to the left, brown eyes studying the sanctuary's innards and briefly regarding the salarian, Doctor Mordin, who watched the exchange between human and krogan with rapt curiosity.
Blue incense smoke plumed from a central shrine dedicated to the writhing, silver statue of a thresher maw. Carpets flaked the dusted ground, gorgeous designs illustrating branching trees of krogan silhouettes with golden lettering threaded between the figures. Art, culture, and history permeated within these sacred tents.
This was like no place Jack had ever seen.
Granted, she had met few krogan females in her adventures. Sometimes there would be the occasional female mercenary, and rarer still (though not unheard of) there would be a trader in the Citadel with her wares of traditional carpets, incense, silks, and gifts. Jack was curious why so few lady-krogans ventured outside Tuchanka, but never cared enough to find out why.
"She was here last night, Najar," Shepard's voice murmured evenly. She stood on her tiptoes, gaining some height. "I was here when we prepared the altar for her unborn. Where the hell is she?"
The krogan hushed gently, golden eyes narrowing as they flicked uncertainly from left to right, looking away from Shepard's intense stare. Heavy burgundy and indigo blue silks dressed the krogan's large figure, elaborate gold designs detailed into the fringes. A long veil covered the female's maw, golden loops circling her eyes. Jack had a difficult time deciphering the krogan's expressions, but the female's size was still pretty damn intimidating despite her calm disposition. Jack half wondered what the cultural implications were for the females hiding their faces... maybe she'd ask Shepard later.
"Do not try to intimidate me. You may have fooled Wrex, but do not push me," Najar bristled, tongue clacking and hissing under the veil.
Shepard rolled her eyes, "Jesus... Fucking A... Even the females are idiots. I swear... Hey Najar. Hey." The commander threw her arms in the air, still standing tiptoe in her pathetic attempt to tower over the krogan. "Wake the fuck up. I'm trying to help you. Do we really have to do this the hard way?"
The female krogan narrowed her eyes, deep golden eyes flickering aggressively. "You would threaten me, sister?"
"Don't insult me," Shepard snarls sarcastically. "I follow through."
The commander whistled sharply, bobbing her head up and down before turning on her foot to walk in a circle about the shrine, "You have no wish to tell me where the fuck she is, so I have only to suggest the following..."
Shepard stopped near the thresher maw statue, gingerly collecting a single-stick of incense and rolling it around in the air like a thin conductor's wand. "One, wherever she is, it's somehow beneficial to this clan."
The woman snatched another stick, rotating the long pieces between her fingers, wrist clicking with each turn. "Two, this beneficial bullshit somehow endangers her life."
Collecting a third wand, Jack's eyes followed the ember glow as they moved, tracing smoke across stale air. "Three, she's in enough grief now to endanger her life." Shepard whistled characteristically, peeking up, "Am I close?"
The krogan named Najar said nothing, head bent low and eyes following the smaller human. Shepard clucked her tongue, picking up a fourth incense stick. "Four... Where's the Weyrloc Clan, Najar? Since when does a whole clan of females leave from a neutral zone?" Shepard suddenly thrust one fist out, an incense stick between each knuckle. "The scout probably knows, doesn't he? I have no luck getting anything else out of this camp..."
Najar said nothing, head turned aside. Shepard nodded slowly, placing each incense back into the shrine, "Yeah. I thought so. Excuse me sister, I have to go save our Shaman before she does something stupid. Like get herself killed."
The commander spun on her heel, nodding once to Jack and Mordin, reaffirming her decision to leave. Shepard did not wait for an answer before stepping right out of that tent.
"... Astonishing," Mordin gasped, pulling Jack away from following right after the commander's heels. "... I have never heard of a human victor in the War of Words... simply astonishing..."
The krogan bristled, "It is unheard of for any species. Some asari are capable... this is why many of us are curious yet wary of Shepard... I do not know if she can be trusted."
The salarian narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "Indeed."
Mordin stopped humming at that point on.
Jack did not enjoy inking bruised bodies. Purpled skin distracted from the art, and added extra difficulties to the healing process. Still, Shepard rolled her eyes before the convict could voice her complaint, waving her hand aside and demanding the drawn cluster of molecules, DNA illustrations, and mathematical modules be illustrated with steady hand across her belly, just above her pelvic bone.
"So what the fuck am I suppose to tattoo exactly? You are speaking in a different language here, commander ma'am. I'm not a fucking scientist," Jack complained, tying the rubber bands around her tattoo gun and preparing the black-grey inks.
Shepard proceeded to roll her shoulders, thrusting a hand in Jack's face. "Pen."
Grumbling a curse word under her breath, the ex-convict dug into a utility pocket before rifling out a ballpoint. It was old-fashioned and stupid, but Jack held onto the pen for when she had to sketch out ideas across her skin for creative reasons. Shepard snatched the thing in rough hands, point grasped between her ring and middle finger as she drew long lines across her belly fervently.
True to Shepard's form, the woman proceeded to take Jack off guard by drawing out the details of her tattoo by using a cheap ballpoint pen upside down over the bruised flesh. The symbols, letters, and equations. Jack's jaw unhinged, staring unblinking as the woman fixed each scientific diagram across her skin. She turned the pen between digits before placing it on the table nearby, flattening her body across Jack's bed. "I will be glad to leave Tuchanka," Shepard stated finally.
Jack narrowed her eyes, snapping latex gloves over her hands and laying a clean, cotton towel plucked white across her seated thigh as she studied the language fixed in pen ink across Shepard's flesh. "So... just like that."
The commander grumbled, running one hand across her nose. "Yeah, Jack. Just like that."
"How," the artist stated, lips opened, eyes fixed on the design, head shaking slightly, "How do you... draw it so accurately without a refer-"
"Goddammit, Jack," Shepard groaned, slapping both hands over her face in frustration. "Stop trying to fucking figure me out and do what I'm asking you to do."
Jack narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly, stepping her foot on pump fixed to the ground. The tattoo gun whirred to life, pumping and moving in a steady vibration that numbed her fingers and wrist. She dipped the tip into a cup of grey ink and leaned over Shepard's bare belly, ready to trace.
Straight lines were difficult, as were geometrical figures. Clean writing that didn't curve or swirl was also very difficult to ink. For many artists, it was easier to hide mistakes by moving your wrist in a circular motion, allowing the vibrations of the gun to move your fingers and joints across soft flesh. Clean, straight, organized shapes required a steady hand and steady concentration. Jack sucked her lower lip in as she traced the modules, rhythmically tapping her foot against the pedal - gun turning on and off as she dipped the tip into a vat of grey or black ink.
Jack preferred free forming her work. The organized structure of Shepard's illustration made her feel mechanical and inexpressive. Jack was less an artist in this situation and more a tool, some factory setting on a sewing machine that just printed the art thoughtlessly across flesh - but with an added perfection and nuance unseen in most programs. Jack was human, after all.
Jack was only half way finished when the sound of feet flying down the stairs behind disturbed her concentration. She slipped her foot off the pedal, wiped the excess blood and ink from Shepard's shallow wound and turned to regard the interruption.
Framing the exit, Mordin's shape slumped over. Arms braced to his knees, panting slightly and eyes boggled to the ground as the whispering of his breath expanded his chest and thumped the silent room. Jack narrowed her eyes at the intrusion, head turning to regard Shepard briefly. The commander remained in a strange meditative state, eyes closed and lips pursed as she breathed through her nose, relaxed. The woman didn't even bother to open her eyes. Jack's gaze turned perplex before sliding back to the salarian scientist, lips puckered and brow raised, "... Uh... Hey Mordin."
"Commander Shepard," The scientist panted, three slender fingers braced over his chest as he gathered himself. "... Pardon the intrusion... But... I was wondering... Well, I suppose I thought it possible that... I don't know if you..."
"Spit it out, Mordin," Shepard sighed, barely stirring from her frozen state.
Mordin licked his lips, eyes darting left to right before switching between Jack and the commander behind her. "I... I changed my mind."
Jack blinked. What? The ex-convict spun to regard Shepard who only rolled her shoulders pointedly, "Funny. I thought you would..."
Mordin narrowed his eyes, "You... You knew. All along. The cure, Shepard. It didn't matter if I destroyed all traces of Maelon's work and... and killed him." The scientist panted, shaking his head, exasperated. "You memorized the cure."
Shepard sighed and finally moved. She was naked, but her nudity did not bother her in front of a scientist and an artist. Jack watched as the woman sat up, feet touching cool tiles as flashing grey eyes leveled Mordin's conflicted stare. "It wasn't up to me to make your choice, Mordin. You had to do that yourself. I'm pleased to see you changed your mind."
The old salarian's lips thinned, pulling back his weight to the soles of his feet as he watched Shepard with what Jack could only assume was salarian awe. "A human with an eidetic memory. I should have guessed... Not just after your victory in the War of Words.. no no no... No, you'd have to have an eidetic memory to be able to assume and borrow physical cultural cues from other species seamlessly..."
Shepard watched Mordin as the scientist tapped his chin hesitantly. "Perhaps side effect of Cerberus augmentation though brain alteration unlikely and too advanced, even for STG laboratories. Mmm.. No, perhaps autistic? You do not like physical contact, forces mimicry of physical language such as human, turian, krogan, asari, even salarian... Seamless mimicry..."
Shepard knit her fingers together, crossing one leg over the other as she studied Mordin from afar. "You told me before you killed Maelon and wiped his findings from that computer that it is vain to do with more what can be done with fewer. That there is always just a simple answer to the problem, and that too much complexity disturbs sound decisions," Shepard smiled cruelly as she mocked Mordin's voice, "'Unfortunate. Had to be done.'"
Mordin's gaze flinched.
Shepard continued, "The variety of beings should not rashly be diminished. I don't believe in simple answers to complex situations."
Mordin paused, almond eyes flicked and twitched, wrinkled lips flat as he studied Shepard with an eerie awareness, "... Kantian. Fascinating."
"And you are still an idiot, which is hardly interesting at all."
"You tested me," Mordin states.
Shepard shrugged, "You make for a shitty detective, Mordin. I thought I was being overt when I started to mimic your own cues..." The commander started to hum in an eerily familiar tune Jack had grown accustomed to on Tuchanka when in Mordin's company, one eyelid twitching slightly with her head jutted to the side. Blink once, and Shepard's impression of Mordin was eerie and spot on. A brief lapse before she relaxed back to that statuesque persona.
Jack blinked, staring wide-eyed as her gaze flecked between Mordin and Shepard. "What the fuck happened on Tuchanka?"
The commander sighed before fully standing up, framing her fingers over the half etched skin of her belly, half red and swollen from the tattoo ink - black and grey flecks scabbing across wounded skin, the other half ballpoint ink. Both illustrating a cryptic scientific language above her pelvic bone, across the skin of her womb - under the spiraling tail of a thresher maw painted across her chest. "Mordin changed his mind."
Mordin's eyes stayed on the diagrams etched across her belly, lips pursed. "I am sorry."
"Shut up, Mordin," Shepard growls. "Actions speak louder than words. So get to work."
Mordin nodded solemnly, before stepping out of the room - leaving a confused Jack and a smug Shepard. The tattoo artist turned to regard Shepard, gaze twitching between half formed tattoo and the Commander's satisfied face. "What exactly.. is this, Shepard? What am I inking to your skin?"
Shepard smiled, languidly sliding back on the bed as she stretched out like an overgrown cat, smiling dangerously at Jack, "Oh. It's just a cure to a thousand years of pain, humiliation, and bad decisions is all."
The artist narrowed her eyes as the revelation dawned on her. Sighing, the woman pressed her foot to the pump and returned to etching those long, geometrical details across Shepard's pale flesh. All the while the commander breathed evenly through her nose, relaxed, calm, and eerily genteel through the lengthy, painful process.
Author's Notes::
This took a while. For whatever reason, this was a very challenging chapter to write. ermagerd.
Song -
Crystal Castles - Wrath of God and Archive - Bullets
