Seven

For almost three days, she doesn't dream and begins to think she might be free. But then, on the shuttle back from Hagalaz, she falls asleep despite the jostling, head and helmet cradled in a corner. She finds herself on Akuze and bites back a scream.

It's the first day, the first few minutes after touchdown. They've landed in a natural basin, hills rolling up the horizon on every side. She takes the opposite end of a crate from Toombs, who teases her about her size, about her new stripe, about the way she blushes aside his compliments.

"Big leagues now, Shepard," he says, close enough to pretend he's examining her visor. "Think you can measure up to us?"

"You don't know me," she replies, pushing against his shoulders. And that's how it started, she used to think, but the dream reminds her it starts a little later, when her back's against that crate and Toombs is kissing his way between her thighs.

She's not superstitious enough to think it was the sex that did them in—but it doesn't help, though, as he pushes her away from the second spray of acid, catching a little on his hands. She's busy screaming, rolling on the sand, trying to peel the melting ceramic from where her skin should be.

He's too scared to think like an officer and so is she, every few seconds assaulted by that unnatural roar and their squad's answering cries. Toombs pulls her out of the sand, dropping his rifle, running for both of them back to the vehicles.

"Stay with me, Jane!" he says sharply. "Don't give up! The Alliance is coming!"

It's the use of her name that hits her, more than the wounds, more than the searing emptiness of all her training as it evaporates into the night—even when she's screaming beneath him, it's always Shepard, always Corporal, teasingly. He got slated for Sergeant, he says, just so he wouldn't think he was talking to himself in bed.

Once again, he takes her as far as the Mako, shoves her on its roof, and she's just leaning down to help when he's snatched away into the dark.

She wakes herself and looks around the shuttle, suspicious, but no one's heard, or no one cares. Garrus is focused on the controls, guiding them unsteadily past the relay, while Tali slouches on the opposite bench.

"On approach, Joker," Garrus says quietly.

"Roger that. Standby for cargo doors."

Garrus wants to talk again—she just knows it, and so stands right at the door to escape as soon as possible. She nods aside the crew's deference, marching quickly through to the elevator, which opens on Miranda's nervous face.

"Commander," she says.

"Don't salute. You're not military."

"I-I apologize, Commander. I didn't mean—"

"What do you want?"

She gives no ground, barreling into the elevator and activating the code for her cabin. Miranda steps away from the wall, ducking Shepard's cold gaze. She concentrates, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed in a further frown than usual. Her hatred might suffocate them.

"It's the Illusive Man, Commander. He wishes to speak to you."

The door opens, and Shepard steps out, stripping off her gloves and gauntlets. She won't invite Miranda but suspects she will follow, and she does, timidly, datapad held before her like a shield.

"To me? He can send a message, if it's that important."

Chest-plate next, and then wriggling from the straps of the shield harness, unlatching her greaves and yanking her feet one by one from her boots. She lets each piece clatter to the floor, a trail from the door to the fish tank to the desk.

"He wants to talk face-to-face."

"About the surveillance, right?"

"I didn't tell him," Miranda says through the bathroom door, louder towards the end as Shepard turns on the faucet and steps beneath the spray. The water escaping into the drain is almost mud. "Shepard, I swear I—"

"Was there anything else, or are you done?"

Shepard works her fingers slowly through her matted hair, coating one palm in soap and massaging her scalp. Her nails are long enough to scratch, and she winces, accidentally finding a few new scrapes and cuts. The water goes briefly pinkish-red, the soap seeking out every hole in her skin and sinking in with little crackles of pain.

She assumes Miranda has left by her silence and is surprised to see her as she leaves the bathroom, still standing near the wall, feet together, eyes respectfully averted.

"Go ahead and look," Shepard snarls, surprising herself. "It's more yours than mine, anyway."

Miranda's face flushes red, eyes quickly darting up Shepard's form, pausing at her knees, her belly, her breasts, and finally meeting her eyes. She swallows and steps forward, but Shepard steps past her, trickling water behind.

"Shepard, I—I want to apologize—"

"I want you to think," Shepard says, tapping out a selection at the dresser's display, "every time you speak to me, how very lucky you are that I haven't cut your throat yet."

That shuts her up—Shepard hears the breath leave Miranda in a panicked rush, and simply carries on getting dressed, stepping carefully into her underwear, squeezing excess water from her hair to the floor. Miranda just as quickly resumes stealing her oxygen, but remains unmoved.

"If you have nothing else to say, get out."

Shepard listens to the door slide open and closed, the elevator descend, and then the quiet gurgle of the fish tank. The fish are dead again—she'll have to say something to Kelly, which means leaving this room, which means she'll need to wear something more.

The dresser's doors swing open, revealing stacks of identical, neatly-arranged fatigues, separated by color and purpose. Kasumi's gift—that awkward leather cocktail dress—has shifted from a bunched pile by her boots to a hanger between pairs of pressed trousers. The heels, blocky, awkward, ugly, are tucked into a corner.

The dresser has a suggestion: automatically pulling a shirt, trousers, boots, some unnecessary buckles and straps. She shakes out the fold, twisting the shirt in her hands, running the fabric between her fingers. A scab on her knuckle catches something, and she turns the sleeve over to see.

Cerberus's logo, the orange arms devouring, a beetle from above. The stitches are raised there, almost thick as twine, synthetic order of needle in and out, looping thread, picking up, looping back. She runs a nail in the seam, slowly.

She feels a little cheated. Time did not bring relief, and neither did empathy—she feels their eyes more than ever, with the Illusive Man's gouged out. Garrus wants to talk, always, about everything. She almost wishes she'd let him take the shot—if Sidonis was dead, if he was busy blaming himself, she'd be free of his attention.

There's a sudden noise, a cold quick sound of ripping. She looks down and sees she's torn the sleeve clean off. She keeps going, stomach clenching, separating each panel, arranging the pieces by size on her bed. These aren't her clothes, so she works through the whole, pulling every one apart as her skin and hair slowly dry. She creates a snowstorm of loose threads and lint until all that's left is Kasumi's dress.

It creaks and groans over her hips, but it's loose at the shoulders and tight across her heavy breasts. They're larger than she remembers, and as she studies her profile, she can see now how they sit a little lower as well. She closes the metal clasp at her neck and slips into those ugly shoes. Her skin is almost ghost-white, the edges of each sleeve a stark line of demarcation, the borders of unknown regions on a map. Like a doll, ball-jointed, waiting to pose.

"The Illusive Man is waiting for you in the debriefing room, Commander," Kelly says without a glance, the second Shepard steps off the elevator. The crewman on watch stares, wide-eyed, as Shepard combs her fingers through her hair, arranging the ends along her chin.

"Understood. What's our course?"

"Drifting, ma'am. We're scanning Erinle at the moment."

"Wrap it up. When I'm done with the Illusive Man, we're moving on."

She seems surprised at the direction, and even more so at Shepard's attire.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Alert the helmsman. I shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

The Illusive Man's sitting, one foot balanced on opposite knee, hand rubbing his brow, a collection of five cigarettes already wilting in the ash tray.

"I don't appreciate being kept waiting, Commander."

"Then leave a message next time. I was busy."

"You dropped off-grid."

"Helping a friend," she says shortly. "So, do you need something specific, or is this about the cameras?"

She can almost relish in the tiniest bit of shock that twitches across his mouth, and steps forward.

"Let's be honest with each other, for once. You don't need to know what color Kasumi's pajamas are, or how many times Zaeed takes a piss after a mission, or what cards Tali's hiding in her suit during poker. You don't need eyes on my ship, and I don't need to be watched."

The blood rushing past her ears drowns his reply, and she turns and marches off the pad, fists clenched. Mordin gives her a little smile as she exits, barreled along by the adrenaline. Joker's leaning against her terminal, talking quietly with Kelly.

"Nice threads, Commander," he says. "Really compliments the whole hermit thing you've been brewing."

"Get back to work. We're heading for Omega. Chambers, call Samara up."

Murdering Morinth is almost liberating. A night of pretending to be someone else, working the crowd and the asari and herself. The idea of letting go? Intoxicating—she slides into Morinth's lap, happy to relinquish, happy not to think of the plan or what's waiting back on the ship.

Here is someone who never knew her, who hasn't been enamored with an archived avatar or an overly perfected memory—who doesn't see where the dents and scratches are supposed to be, who touches skin that was never smooth and doesn't flinch, whose hand works its way up her thigh slowly.

She's never kissed a woman—hadn't considered it, hadn't been presented the opportunity, and Morinth tastes familiar, like alcohol and metal. They're both after more than the kill, so it goes on longer than either had intended.

The snap of Morinth's neck ricochets through Shepard's arm, ending at her bare, heaving shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she says to Samara. "I couldn't wait for you any longer."

Samara understands, but would rather be alone with the corpse, so Shepard stumbles back onto the street and hails a cab.

"Where to?" the driver says, already bored, and she has to think about it. Aria will want a report, maybe, or a chance to show inappropriate gratitude.

Blood still buzzing, tongue thick in her mouth, Shepard hears herself say, "Afterlife."

She's not ready to not be someone else, not ready to go back and be something less. The floor and her uneven shoes tilt her towards the bar, where she accepts a drink from a man leaning against the far end.

"That means he's going to come talk to you," the bartender warns, but she shrugs, running her finger around the rim of the glass. She doesn't look up again, because she doesn't want to see more of him than she has to: dark hair, dark brows, square jaw, and mouth pulled into a slight frown. Close. Close enough. The heat of him assaults her, his sleeve sliding against her bare arm.

She muffles him with her lips, allowing him to lead her into a back room, pull her onto his lap in a dark corner. The couch is sticky—she grimaces into his slimy kiss, redirecting his hands to her hips. He pulls his face away with a triumphant whine.

"Fuck, baby, I've never seen a woman like you here."

Shepard goes completely still.

"Don't talk," she says, filled with furious calm. His voice is too high-pitched, too breathy. In the dark, in silence, he could be exactly who she wants, exactly where she wants and when. The calluses of his hands could be from console repair and weapon maintenance—the roughness of his sleeves starched to military stiffness. She could be curling into Kaidan's lap, ducking discovery at some boring Alliance function, stealing just a few more minutes to themselves.

"Aw, c'mon, what's a hook-up without a few dirty words between strangers?"

Until he opens his mouth and removes all doubt.

"I said don't talk," Shepard snarls, making to stand, but one hand closes over her wrist.

"I'm not done yet," he says, cold, flexing his grip, until the barrel of her pistol is resting between his eyes.

"I am."

She walks back to the Normandy in carefully measured steps, eyes averted, dodging any deference. Kelly works her station, even this late, barely glancing up to deliver her news.

"Commander, you have a new message at your private terminal."

A pointedly polite directive, straight from the Illusive Man.

"Project Overlord," Shepard reads aloud, bemused.