Chapter Eight: Dead Hands, Dead Stringencies

Hot water pours over her body. Despite her best efforts, she can't get the Lieutenant's face out of her mind – and not in a middle school crush sort of way, either. Her fingertips trace the patterns of her scars down her body. They've faded now, nearly to the point of being invisible, but she can still feel them. When Chakwas had mentioned a new medical device to help Shepard rid herself of them, the Commander had put it off. Following their impromptu Omega-4 relay trip, though, she'd coughed up the cash.

Especially after Miranda showed her those damn files. There's no way Shepard could've spent the rest of her life looking at those scars without feeling sick to her stomach. Even the faint valleys running through her flesh now are too much. They're a constant reminder that Cerberus rebuilt her – for real. It wasn't a coma, it was flatline dead. She'd thought she'd dealt with it, and then...

And then the Lieutenant's face as he looked at her. Like she wasn't a person, but some sort of science experiment gone horribly wrong. She didn't want him to look at her like she was fucking Wonder Woman made real, but she didn't want to be a zombie either. If she was the crying type, well, now might been the time.

What she does instead is try to remind herself that she's alive. She fingers those scars all the way down to between her legs, leaning her body up against the slick wall of the shower. For shits and giggles, she allows herself to imagine it's the Lieutenant's hand touching her, that she's leaning up against his chest as his hand brings her closer and closer, that he gets to see her be so damned alive that all he wants to do is push her up against the wall, rough and hard without that horrified expression, and god, when she finishes, she feels better than she has in ages.

Shepard exits the shower and wraps her robe around her body, content to know that she definitely doesn't think of the Lieutenant that way, or if she does, it's just because he's pretty much the only damn man she's seen since being taken into custody.

Her bathroom door slides open and, it's official that the fucking galaxy hates her, because the Lieutenant is there dropping off her breakfast. Shepard remains calm, even when his eyes come to rest on her mostly naked form. This isn't any different than her training in the upper ranks of the N program – unisex showers were common on special forces teams. You got used to it – or you didn't, and you quit the program. Shepard used to see her body as something that carried her around, as a tool to get the job done.

That was before Cerberus decided to take that tool and try to make it theirs. It was before she realized how her scars – and tattoos, for that matter – made her, well, her. She has new scars now, but it isn't the same.

She smiles at the Lieutenant and says, "Morning," before heading to the dresser to pick out some clothes. She can feel his eyes on her, and ignores the way her body pulses. She pulls out some pants, underwear, bra and shirt.

The Lieutenant says, "I brought you some mail." He holds up some datapads, then places them next to her toast. His eyes are glued to his shoes as he peels away from the room.

She sighs, leaning back against her dresser, face pulling into a frown. This attitude of his has gone on far enough. She's move passed understanding and into annoyed. "Is this how it's going to be from now on? I said we had to remain professional, Lieutenant, not catatonic." Then she raises her hand to hold off his reply. "You know what? Never mind."

She's almost to the bathroom when, very quietly from behind her, the Lieutenant says, "I'm sorry, Commander."

Her head has whipped around before she can stop it, and she can hear the broken glass in her voice when she says, "For watching those files, or for what happened? Because if it's the latter, I don't need your fucking pity."

The Lieutenant reels back for a moment, but recovers quickly. He nods, once, and some of that haunted expression leaks out of his face. He looks at her like he's never really seen her before, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I actually meant that I was sorry for watching them in the first place. Really wasn't any of my business. Stuck my nose where it didn't belong." He's very nearly sheepish now, shrugging so his shoulders practically come up to his ears. "I guess – I guess I just, I don't know, wanted to know how you did it."

"Did what?" asks Shepard, crossing her arms.

"All of it," huffs the Lieutenant, spreading his arms wide. "How you survived Akuze, how you stopped Saren, how you survived the destruction of your ship, how you... how you destroyed the Collectors."

Shepard has a flash of insight. "You lose someone to the Collectors?"

His face shuts down in a way she recognizes – it's one of her signature moves. "Yeah," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

She's reminded of a less naive, more capable Conrad Verner – a thought that's probably unkind towards the Lieutenant. They both think she's some prize, that she's this paragon of humanity, but really, she's just stumbling in the dark. Sure, a killer skill set sure is helpful, but since she's been guided only by Prothean visions and terrorist intel, it's a miracle she's gotten as far as she has. And, following Akuze, she's never done it alone. She's always had an amazing team with her.

"Luck, mostly. Some skill," she says, "and a whole lot of strings. I'm not superwoman, Lieutenant."

The Lieutenant smiles softly to himself, rolling his eyes slightly. "Could've fooled the rest of us." Seeing Shepard's raised eyebrow, he holds up his hands in surrender. "I just – thanks. And, I'm sorry. Again."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Now get out of here, before someone checks in and thinks I'm trying to seduce my way to better treatment." Shepard gestures down at herself, then points at the door.

He wants to say something. She can tell. Knowing his type, probably something flirty, but good for him, he just salutes her and leaves. Shepard chuckles to herself, closing the door to the bathroom just in case he decides to come back. Fantasy fodder he may be, but they aren't friends. They can't be. She was only half joking when she said he had to leave. She and the Lieutenant start getting too cozy, and you can be damned sure they'll be slapping her ass with someone not nearly so sympathetic.

And wow, that sounded way better before she thought too much into it. She needs to get her mind out of the fucking gutter.

When she's dressed, she heads back into her small room and sits at the loveseat, shoving a piece of toast into her mouth and dragging her coffee mug close. She takes up those datapads. Most of the messages are updates from Hackett – always vague. Can't be telling war criminals the details of fleet manoeuvres. There are a few from various media outlets looking to get an interview – no thank you. The one at the bottom is just signed A but she knows exactly who it's from. It says:

This came through the offices. Thought you might like to see it. It's your choice, Shepard – but we both know that tomorrow is uncertain. It'll be tricky, but if you agree, I'll pull some strings to make it happen.

Her coffee cup stops halfway to her mouth as she reads. She has to set it down when her hand starts to shake. She reads it until she could recite it from heart, and then sets it down, dropping her head into her hands, wondering why every time she gets knocked down, there's someone with a shotgun waiting to blow her away.

o-o-o

Someone brings her lunch at some point: a slowly drying sandwich on the table and an untouched glass of orange juice. Shepard wonders when that was. It's nearing eight now, nearly time for her dinner, and she's been plugged into her omni-tool all day, coding and manipulating while listening to the loudest, grungiest music she can find. When she gets focused, everything else disappears. It centres her. Usually, she can just hop on her ship and fly to the nearest merc base and that'll do it, but since this room is her only playground, well, tech it is.

Most people forget that she likes machines – the irony would probably be too much to bear. Most people don't know that she runs an omni-tool she built herself, albeit one she had to fuck up the ass when she was incarcerated, taking out most of her speciality programs and severing her connection to the extranet. That's okay though, that they don't know or don't care, because it gives Shepard an advantage. She might not be as good with engines as Tali, or guns as Garrus, but hell, when it comes to everything else, she's pretty much boss.

Also? It's the one thing she likes to show off.

The Lieutenant brings her dinner, stopping to glance at her untouched sandwich and frowning. "Weren't hungry?"

"Been busy," she says over her shoulder.

Sarcasm practically drips from his words. "Oh yeah, I can see that – small room like this. Tons to entertain yourself with." And because she's spent the better part of her life hanging out with guys, she can feel the second the atmosphere changes in the room because, oh, he's stumbled across that thought.

Her defensiveness has nothing to do with the fact that he's almost too close for comfort. Leaping from her chair, she orders, "Put that down." He raises an eyebrow, but does as she says. "Now, give me your arm."

His skin is warmer than she thought it would be, but she doesn't have time to think about that right now. She taps his wrist where the connector to his omni-tool is located, causing fabricator to light up and the tool to become active. She moves his arm so that it's at nearly a ninety degree angle with his body, and so that she can type on the holographic interface and access his GPU.

"Gonna tell me what you're up to?" he asks.

"I invented something," Shepard confides, fingers flying across his interface. "I can't use it though – I'm a prisoner. They'd think I was set on killing you or escaping. Really, I just want to see if it works."

"Invented something?" says the Lieutenant doubtfully.

She gives him her look, the one that makes mercs piss themselves, and he backs off. Voice tight, she says, "Yes, invented. I can shoot up a place as good as anyone, but if you can handle tech, you add a little finesse, you know?"

"Not really," admits the Lieutenant. "Tech's never really been my thing."

"That's too bad. It's damned useful," says Shepard. She opens the fabricator and finishes typing. A new piece immediately appears, and she grins, flipping it shut. She takes a few steps back. "Okay, now, you know how to use an omni-blade, right?"

"I said I wasn't into tech, I didn't say I was an idiot," he says, looking grumpy.

She flaps her hand impatiently at him. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Just make like you're going to stab me and we'll see if it works. Same way as always."

He's sceptical. "Is this safe?"

"It might electrocute you," says Shepard, but can't keep her face straight at his look of indignation. She cracks up, backing away. "Okay, that was mean. Yes, Lieutenant, it's perfectly safe. I'd be trying it out myself if not for, well, prison." She gestures at him to go for it.

He swings, and the blade materializes and flips about, only it's not a blade anymore. It's a prong with an electrical current running through it. His face is covered in surprise.

"Since you're not seizing on the ground in unprecedented pain, I'm going to assume it works," announces Shepard, getting closer and inspecting the construction. She hems and haws over it. "The current could be stronger. Right now it would give only a bad shock, nothing more. Need quite a few more volts to incapacitate a hostile. For that much energy, though, I'd need to integrate a larger battery. Unlike with overload, which uses an enemy's own circuitry to override their shields, this needs an internal power source to function." She runs her hand across her chin and notices his funny expression. "What?"

"You're totally a nerd," he says, like it's this huge revelation that will shatter society as people know it.

"Yeah? And?" she says, hands on hips. "I could still kick your ass."

The Lieutenant puts away his omni-tool. "I didn't say it was a bad thing. Actually, it's kind of..." He clamps up, shrugging. "Anyways, there's your dinner."

Eyes narrowed, Shepard says, "Kind of what?"

"How come you didn't eat your lunch?" he asks, deflecting. "Higgins brought it in, but said you were in your own little world. I guess I know what you were doing, huh?"

What she could do now is be a total bitch and make him tell her. She's learned all sorts of mean interrogation techniques. She could put the fear of God into him, and he'd tell her everything she wanted to know. She won't, because she respects his privacy and hey, everyone's put their foot in their mouth at some point. That and he's not looking at her like she's the living dead anymore, and he did apologize earlier, so he gets a few brownie points. But only a few.

"Yeah," she says, dropping backwards onto a chair. "I work on tech to keep my mind off shit. Used to do it more before blowing people up became my defacto hobby."

"Trial got you down?"

"Not really." Shepard chewed on her bottom lip, hoisting herself up slightly on her elbows. "Can I ask you something? Something that might seem a little strange?"

The Lieutenant shrugs and crosses his arms. "Yeah. Sure. Go for it."

"If you had the chance to meet your mom for the first time, would you?" she asks, then scrambles on. "I mean, what if she wasn't what you imagined? What if she wasn't what you expected? What if she'd done really terrible things? Would you want to?"

He scratches the back of his neck, letting out a low whistle. "Didn't go for the easy one, did you?" He sees her waiting oh so patiently and shrugs again. "Shit, I don't know." He pauses. "Wait, you saying your mom tried to get in contact with you?"

That thing she's been avoiding all day is staring her straight in the face, and she's pretty sure she might vomit. She flops backwards, arms over her face. Her heart racing, she offers, "It's been a really weird day."

It gets so quiet that after a while, she's sure she must've fallen asleep or something, but when she removes her arms from her face, the Lieutenant sits across from her, thinking hard. He smiles slightly. "I've been trying to think of some really smart advice," he says. "I got nothing."

"Don't worry about it," she assures him. "Me neither."

Shepard wonders how he can be sitting here with her, very nearly comforting her, when not too long ago, he watched footage that probably... Well, she doesn't want to think about what it fucking probably. On the day when he'd come in, she'd just known what had happened and part of her had been pleased. That, she'd thought, would be that. She didn't have to worry about becoming friends with him or blurring the lines of professionalism if he was so disgusted and appalled by the idea of her her that he kept his distance. It had been easier in theory than practice.

And really, he's not a friend, but she's been here for months and he's the closest she's got. Some days they say very little to each other. Some days – like today, after a long hiatus – they say more. He's fair and she's sure he looks out for her in his own way, when he's able. He's easy on the eyes, and her libido clearly has no trouble using his likeness to achieve satisfaction.

She wonders, idly, what the symptoms of Stockholm syndrome are, and if she should be concerned. Shepard almost brings this up, but she catches those brown eyes of his and can't. It would be too much like kicking a puppy, only no puppy ever had eyes that serious. If this were a romance vid – or hell, if this experience is ever made into a vid – she imagines some narrator discussing how it was at that moment that her heart started flip-flopping in her chest, how in the quiet of that prison room she fell in love with her jailer, how she didn't know when exactly it had happened. Yeah, that's what the narrator would say.

Too bad it's not true. There's a budding affection there, but Shepard hasn't fallen in love in, god, ages. Too long. She keeps a tight reign on her emotions – and her hormones – so that she can do the best job possible. Period. Besides, she's special ops and until recently, she's been tasked with saving the galaxy. What about suicide missions screams now is the time to be emotionally compromised? Nothing, that's what.

Her stomach grumbles and she sits up. The Lieutenant stands, giving her a small nod and picking up her aged sandwich. "I'll leave you to it, Commander."

"Hey, LT," she calls. "If you get the chance to head down to the training room, let me know how that prototype holds up, will you?"

"Sure thing," he says.

When she's alone, she retrieves the datapad from where she chucked it across the room. She reads through the letter again, all while spooning spaghetti into her mouth. She's read it a few dozen times by the time her plate is clean, and, firing up her omni-tool, she types a quick reply.

Anderson – tell her "okay".


Next Chapter: Hackett steps up to the plate.