A dozen doctors told her that he'd never live past age two. Birth alone nearly ended his life. Yet, Camila Moreau refused to give up on her baby boy. They mortgaged the farm, took out every loan she could sweet talk the volus bankers into, and rushed two month old Jeff to The Citadel. She spent the next three years running from doctor to doctor, searching for a cure, a treatment, anything that meant her son would live. While her husband worked countless hours trying to keep them above water, she slept on a cot in Huerta's PICU, praying for a miracle.

It came, after years of agonizing tests and countless, ineffectual treatments. It came. And not a moment too soon. Her child was in constant pain. After three failed surgeries to graft cybernetic implants into both femurs, his legs were severely deformed. The way he wailed at the slightest touch almost shattered her resolve.

Hiring this physician cost them nearly everything. They'd partitioned off their land on Tiptree, reducing their three-hundred acre ranch to fifty. But the team he put together was worth every penny. Finally, she felt they were getting somewhere beyond survival.

"Patient Jeff Moreau. Age thirty-seven months. Presented with poor prognosis due to …." The lead physician, Doctor Aenok, a salarian in his late twenties and the foremost expert in molecular genetics, trailed off eyeing his gaggle of students.

"Vrolik Syndrome sir."

"Wrong!" Doctor Aenok retorted. "Yes Elvington in the back. Why is Ulu incorrect?"

"Vrolik Syndrome encompasses a wide range of bone disorders in the Osteogenesis Imperfecta family. It does not describe the specific disorder this patient suffers from."

"Yes. Yes. Student Elvington will give patient presentation."

"Patient was diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta Subtype Seven at birth. History of bronchiolitis, gross motor delay, moderate thoracolumbar scoliosis, and failure to thrive. Currently receiving TPN via PICC line. Has undergone fifteen separate surgeries in an attempt to correct bone structure with cybernetics. All failed. The last left him with severe malformations in both legs."

She watched the morning routine in tedious silence while the medical team hovered over her son's small incubator. Despite reaching his third year, Jeff had scarcely grown. He gained no more than twelve pounds past his birth weight then simply stopped. She swallowed, waiting for the student rounds to end. Seeing her son treated like a guinea pig always made her nervous, but it was his only hope. Doctor Aenok was their last chance. She smiled eagerly when he turned to her.

"He'll never be normal." Doctor Aenok announced. "But with physical therapy and our cutting edge therapeutics, we can get him to functional."

"He'll live? He'll walk?" Camila desperately clawed at the hem of her shirt. Her eyes were dry, far too burned from exhaustion to shed any tears.

"Walk? Maybe. With braces. I can't promise that. But barring complications, yes, he will live."

She sobbed into the doctor's shoulder as they prepped Jeff for what would be his final surgery.

Joker plucked a petal, red and robust, before letting it fall lazily to the ground. His parents sacrificed everything for him. They went from prominent ranchers to piss-poor trailer trash all so he could live. And for what? To become the colony's chauffeur? Driving fat slobs from point A to B constituted his existence now. And only because his father threatened kicking him to the curb if he didn't start contributing. Not like he'd get off his lazy ass of his own volition. He tipped the bottle of Jack Daniels back and drunk deeply, the caustic liquid slithered down his throat, warming his body from tip to toe.

"It shoulda been me ma." Wind blew a handful of leaves across his mother's grave. "Shepard was the galaxy's savior, its only hope. And he died saving my sorry ass. Bet you didn't expect that huh? The kid you worked so hard to save bringing about the end of life as we know it?"

Finishing off the bottle, Joker leaned back in the grass. Despite the groundskeeper mowing just that morning, Tiptree's abundant life flourished to the point of aggravation. Already, the blue-green blades had sprouted several inches past his ankles, and as he was lying down they blotted out his view of the sky. A great trait for those with a herd of constantly grazing cows and goats, not so superb for trailer trash that could scarcely afford a gardening mech.

He groaned and grabbed his braces. The stuttering, half-broken assistance mech extended its arm. Using it to steady himself, Joker stood and limped back to their double wide, the mech supporting him every step of the way. He was barely sober enough to comprehend up from down, but the robot's GPS and firm hand guided him home.

He was in a perfect state of inebriated apathy when his omni-tool began buzzing and chiming away. Probably some fool looking for a ride home from the bar. Well, I'm off the clock ass-hats.

To: YourBigDaddi24
From: Err%^#/35*

Mr. Moreau,

I represent a company with deep pockets who has a vested interest in hiring you. Please respond to this message at your earliest convenience and we can setup a discreet meeting location. This is an offer you won't be able to refuse. And not just for the generous pay.

From: YourBigDaddi24
To: [Encrypted Server]

This sounds like the beginning of a bad horror movie. I meet up with you and wind up in your cellar rubbing lotion all over myself while you sing 'or else it gets the hose again.'

No thanks.

To: YourBigDaddi24
From: Err%^#/35*

Top of your class at Arcturus. Youngest pilot in The Alliance. You made flight lieutenant at nineteen years old, quite the accomplishment given your disability. During The Battle of The Citadel, you flew at the head of the fleet that destroyed Sovereign. In fact, the battle hinged on your maneuvers Mr. Moreau. You've earned quite the reputation. And my notice.

I call the reapers for what they are – fully sentient beings intent on the complete annihilation of advanced galactic life. I heeded Shepard's warnings and have the resources to make a difference.

Now I find myself in need of a talented pilot.

If you're interested in doing something about the looming war, my agent will be at The Blue Stag Lounge for the next two weeks.

Ask for Chelsea with the red ribbon.

You won't be disappointed.

Joker stared open mouthed at his omni-tool for a few moments before the sound of a flimsy, trailer door smacking shut jolted him back to the present. His father's boots clomped down the rickety hallway. "Jeff?! The hell are ya boy?"

"In here dad."

The man's ruddy, exhausted face poked in the room. "Thought I told ya to clean this up." He motioned to the collection of beer bottles and MRE wrappers littering his bedroom floor.

"I'm getting to it!"

"The hell have you been doin' all day? Sittin' on your ass? I'm gettin' real sick of this Jeff. The drinking. The sulking around. What kind of example are you setting for your sister? I want this shit taken care of and you need to pick up more hours with the..."

"I'll have you know I just got an interview."

"That so?" The man crossed his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "This better not be more bullshit."

"It's a piloting gig."

"The Alliance?"

"I…" Joker hesitated, chewing over his words. "I don't really know the details but it sounds like a subsidiary for the human military. My interview is in the morning."

"Well then, you better sober up. I'm throwin' a lasagna in the oven. Your sister will be back from Stacy's in an hour. I want you to be less." His hands careened the length of his disheveled son. "Less… well... just try and smell less like a brewery before she gets back alright? Take a shower, clean up your crap."

With his father's departure, Joker inched to the floor using his mech for assistance. He bagged the garbage, mind spinning. There was no turning back now. Tomorrow, he'd have to see what this was all about - not that he could shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap. Then again, who'd bother? He was a nobody now, thanks to The Alliance brass.