Shepard washed her face in the C-Sec public bathroom. She'd used the only available soap—pink, harsh, and antibacterial—to clean the deep gash between her eyes and wash the greasy slick of sweat and dried blood from her skin. It made her feel pinched and dry, but at least she was clean.
Upon returning from the bathroom, Jacob had intercepted her and sat her down. He applied a liberal dose of Medi-Gel with careful, surprisingly precise touches, his mouth turned down in what looked like concentration mingled with distant concern.
She screwed up her nose against the acrid smell, and immediately regretted it. "Ow, Jesus."
"Yeah, it stinks," he said, dipping his gloved fingers back into the sealed packet for another dose of the cold, pungent mixture. She could already feel it tingling, knitting the laceration together, even as the gash still drizzled warm trickles of blood down her nose. He mopped the drip with a paper towel and continued his work. "Better than getting an infection, though. It may not even scar."
He set her nose, and set the cracked bone in her cheek—truly, there was nothing the gel couldn't do if you had an injector, and long as you had something to bite down on. She'd have to inspect the damage later.
"You're pretty good at this." Shepard observed, for conversation's sake. "Were you a doc?"
Jacob smiled, a handsome smirk full of self-satisfaction. "Maybe." He said, then brushed a stray gob of something from her forehead with his towel. "Been a lot of things. Hard to recall them all, by now."
Garrus was uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a faraway look in his eye. Shepard moved to say something to include him in the conversation when Captain Bailey strode back into the office, one hand over an eye in an expression which very clearly said it was much, much Too Early for This Shit. Considering it was four-thirty-seven, any time of the day probably would have been Too Early for This Shit.
"Well," he started, then abruptly halted his train of thought, started patting himself down for a pack of cigarettes. "God damn it."
Jacob regarded him quietly, then tapped Shepard on the shoulder, and told her to turn around by spinning a finger. She did, and he put a hand in her hair, pushed it up off of her neck, started cleaning a wound on the back of her head that she didn't know she had.
Cigarette now perched between his lips and lit, Bailey fell back into his squeaking leather chair and took a long, satisfied drag. "You were on the money about the receptionist, at least. Salarian, shot and shoved in a closet."
"Not something I'm exactly happy to be right about," Shepard replied, just left of a sarcastic mumble.
"The question is, were they here for Shepard, or Udina?" Garrus piped up, voice pitched low; Shepard had only heard that inflection out of him once, when she was attempting to talk him out of shooting a former squad mate named Sidonis, something she had ultimately failed in doing. Any kind of return to that head space worried her, and to Shepard, just this kind of moodiness might have been a sign of backsliding on Garrus' part, as was the relative disinterest in the slaughter of a civilian.
"Both important people," Bailey replied, and one of his officers started waving her hand in front of her face, trying to clear the stink of cigarette smoke from her personal bubble.
"They were after me." Shepard said. "I received a private message telling me to meet Udina in his office on the Presidium ASAP, earlier this morning."
"Seems a little fishy, in hindsight." Garrus admitted, thoughtfully.
"It checked out." Shepard said. "I had my assistant make an appointment with his office, everything cleared. Still not sure what to make of it."
"Good thing we're in a police station." Jacob added, and his subtle barb didn't go unnoticed.
"Well, we're on it," Bailey said, a smidge defensively, and dropped the smoldering remains of his cigarette into a cold cup of coffee. It sizzled out into thin wisps of smoke, and then he lit another.
"Damn glad it was you and not Udina, Shepard, but Jesus Mary and Joseph what a god damned mess."
"They were amateurs," Shepard shrugged, more nonchalantly than she felt. The adrenaline had worn off, and reality set in—she was frightened, but she had years of experience in acting out from under fear. "Udina probably could have taken them, too. Where is he, anyway?"
"Diplomatic mission to Illium," Bailey supplied. "Don't know what for."
"That's odd," Garrus said, voice languid, pondering. "Does Illium have a central governing body?"
"Probably not safe for him to come back right now, in any event." Jacob said, spreading a jolt of cold gel onto Shepard's scalp, right above her bottom hairline.
"Yeah, we've got it taken care of. He's being taken to a safe holding station, anonymous, all that jazz." Bailey had a brief think, then covered his face with his hand again. "Hopefully Talid doesn't get a hold of this information until we find out what actually happened, but that might be asking too much."
"Talid is the last thing that should be on our minds right now." Jacob offered. "Plus, if he's smart as we assume he is, he'll know that attacking the person who saved the Citadel would be comparable to political suicide. Human or no."
"You are pushing for that promotion, aren't you?" Garrus chided, amused. Jacob rolled his eyes.
"You and your people are free to go, Shepard." Bailey interjected, trying to slide a word in edgewise between the squad chatter. "Just try to stick close to the relays unless we have more questions sometime later. We're going to order some food and hammer these details out."
"Understood. Garrus will be acting as my official liaison to this office while you're investigating." Shepard said. "All my knowledge about laws and cases comes from him, anyway, so if you don't mind, brief him on what you find, then he'll relay it to me in small words. Possibly crayon illustrations. And Jacob," she peered at him over her shoulder, "I'm good for now—I want you to head back to the Normandy and inform Kelly the squad has shore leave for the rest of the day, yourself and Garrus included. She'll file the paperwork and get the message out. You're free after that."
Garrus nodded. "I'll stay here then. Take a look at that crime scene report, see if I can track down any leads on the assassins."
Jacob perked an eyebrow—Shepard was notorious for running a tight ship, and random bursts of undocumented leave was pretty loose. "Any official reason, Shepard?" He asked.
"Chiefly because I need a damned drink," she responded, purposefully veiling the truth, at least a little bit, "and I'm not going to make you guys work while I'm off getting sloshed. You're dismissed—reveille is at oh-seven-hundred, per usual."
"Aye aye, Commander."
She still had an hour and ten minutes before the two-hour window was up, when Thane would act on their agreed-upon rules and return to the Normandy as if no meeting had been arranged. Shepard felt bad for putting him in such a position, waiting for no possible payoff, but she couldn't exactly help it—sometimes things happened... like food poisoning, or being attacked by assassins.
So, like intelligent people, they'd set a few ground rules, this being chief among them, to give them both freedom and minimize chances they'd be caught; others were "never ever aboard the Normandy", and at no time should they use the same rented apartment, hotel room, shoebox, whatever, more than once. Miranda's prying eyes were always watching and Shepard knew it—it was her job, to secure the Illusive Man's greatest money-sink of all time. Shepard didn't personally dislike Miranda, but she felt as if she lived with the youngest Nosy Old Lady ever, constantly peering out of her lace curtains to see what the kids were up to.
Shepard approached the door. The complex was squat and white, lined with multiple apartments that, from the outside, looked to be one-bedroom or smaller. The late afternoon sun threw a wash of orange and purple across the front wall, polished plasteel twinkling against her eyes, making her squint. She reached into the cargo pocket on her greaves, and retrieved a scrap of paper and a swipe-key that Thane had given her earlier in the day, once she informed him where they'd be docking. She was duly impressed with his preparedness, as he'd had little time to orchestrate such a thing. It had to have been done beforehand. He had simply nodded, as if this caliber of preparation was par for the course. Either he took his trysts very seriously, or that apartment held something else, be it safe haven or something less innocent.
As her hand came out of her pocket, the garotte wire she'd stowed in it came away in a loop around the card like a stray hair, glinting in the fading tangerine light. She untangled it and stowed it again, then checked the numbers on the note.
Three hundred and forty seven... yeah, this was the one.
Shepard swiped her card through the reader beside the door jamb. The locking mechanism chimed out a quaint little song, and the door opened with a mechanical, hydraulic hiss.
The apartment was dimly lit, they grey no-color of dust, with a single, thin slant of sunlight pooling on the floor at a shallow angle in the middle of the far visible room. Shepard had to squint to make out the curvature of the furniture; there was a soft, manilla-yellow glow coming from an adjoining room, and she followed it. There, on a sofa set against the opposite wall, sat Thane, leaned industriously over a well-loved paperback book. He looked up as he heard her approach and blinked; smiling at first, an expression which slowly fell, giving way to a look that was mostly confusion. He set the book down, eyes never leaving her, and moved to her, tilting his head in an unspoken question.
"Would you believe me if I said 'you should have seen the other guy'?" She offered, trying for a smile. He didn't look amused.
"A fight, or an attack?" Thane asked, after taking in the angry pink streak across her nose, the slight swelling in her cheek, thin half-moon bruises forming under her eyes. His eyes caught a glint in the dim light—he reached up and picked a piece of glass from her hair, studied it, turned it in his fingers, sparkling flashes on green skin.
"Definitely an attack," Shepard said, "we can talk about it later. For now, I just want to get out of this damn suit and get a shower."
Thane looked up from the piece of glass with a smile, despite himself. "Another trend," he said, "you appear to be a woman of habit, siha."
Shepard was confused, until the memory reassembled itself from the hints in the conversation; after the battle on the Collector station, the first day back on the Normandy, she had been injured, and had complained of being too tired to do much of anything except for wash up and sleep when he had waited for her in her quarters. She smiled; it pulled up one corner of her mouth, sardonic, and she gave him a playful shove. "Out of my way, Krios. You're the only thing standing between me and that couch."
Shepard clomped over to it, sat down hard, and started unbuckling her boots. They came unjawed with a hiss, the seals popping open after a moment or two of tugging and prising the clamps. Thane sat across from her in a chair, making little-to-no sound in comparison to the angry punches of her boots on the floorboards. He placed the shard of glass on the table between them.
"Would you like help?" He asked.
"Yes. And you don't have to ask." Shepard said, patted the couch beside her. He sat, took one of her boots, pulled it off, and set it to the side. She was undressed, in a simple tank top and black shorts that were the unisex under-armor uniform, in a matter of minutes. Immediately, she fell backwards against the sofa, stretching, languid, free of her restraints. Thane lifted her legs and laid them across his lap, placed a hand on one of her bare ankles.
"Will you tell me what happened?" He asked, quietly, voice so low it was almost a croak. "I would hear it."
"I was set up," she said, as if discussing the color of the sky. "I thought I was seeing Udina. They sent me a dummy email to lure me out. Killed his receptionist, took their place, jumped me in his office. A turian and an asari."
"Two assassins?"
"Yeah."
"At once?"
"Yup."
Thane looked at her again.
"Impressive."
"Well, I'm an impressive woman." Thane gave her a look of lighthearted skepticism and made an dry laugh in his throat. Shepard grinned in response, and wriggled, trying to get comfortable. "They didn't seem too experienced, though."
"If you need two assassins for a single target, you should probably not use either."
"Well, not everyone's a legend like present company—you gotta start somewhere." He had no visible reaction to the compliment. "It makes me wonder why I'm that somewhere, though. I'm not exactly the best fighter, but..."
"Both at close proximity—tried to overwhelm you. Brute strength and numbers over skill." Thane pondered. "Mercenaries, perhaps, not professional assassins. Trying to get a foot in the door... a mark."
"A mark?" Shepard repeated, craning her head up to regard him.
"A resume—a work reference." In this light his skin, finely scaled with a dull sheen, seemed to glow. "A job executed quickly and cleanly as evidence you are fit for tougher jobs of the same stripe."
"The turian was a female, though. I've only seen three or four outside of Palaven, and they were all in the Alliance fleet. I don't know any mercenary outfits that have that kind of pull on turian society, besides maybe the Blue Suns. But that doesn't explain the asari."
"Perhaps a new group, trying to make a name for themselves. Dispatch of a big fish, prove your worth in the galactic pecking order."
"Then how were they able to get a message to me under the Ambassador's office's prints? It doesn't add up."
"That sort of favor can be bought," Thane explained, closed his eyes, and sank back against the couch. She liked seeing him relax—truly kick back and rest—as uncommon as it was. "But that caliber of favor would be expensive," he added, "and dangerous. Whoever called it in has considerable influence, and had to be certain the job would get done."
"Well, enough about people trying to kill me. How was your day?"
Thane opened one glossy black eye and peered at her, unsure if this was humor, then closed it again when he decided it was not.
"Pleasant. I found a antique curio that sells the old paper editions of books." Thane said. "I am reading an elcor period drama. It is... curious. Quite dramatic."
"'Dramatic Elcor' sounds like the name of a band." She observed. "A really, really slow band."
"Or a video on the extranet." He added, and she tilted her head when he smiled, obviously trying for a straight-man joke and failing. "Swooping orchestration and all."
"Sometimes I wonder about you." Shepard said, reaching back and grabbing a throw pillow from above her head, then tossed it at him. When the mood struck him, Thane had a dry, subtle sense of humor that could be teasing on occasion, but his jokes always had two things in common—that you had to look very closely to know there was a joke there at all, and that he knew more than he let on. About people, culture, relationships, the works. It drove her crazy, but that was part of the fun. The pillow hit his chest with a harmless whump and he recoiled a moment too late, laughing.
"I am going to go get that shower," Shepard said, pushing off of the couch and heading towards the bathroom, fully aware of the generous view her shorts were probably providing him. She grabbed the bottom seam of her shirt, hands criss-crossed, and yanked it over her head, discarding it to the side in a small white pile. Shepard was small busted at best and rarely needed a bra, but had worn the prettiest one she had, for just this occasion. "As always," she said, walking backwards, "there's room in there for two."
Thane immediately tossed the pillow aside and rose from his seat to follow her. She laughed.
"You don't always need explicit vocal permission, you know."
"I like to hear you say it." He explained, placing his hands on her bare stomach as he approached. He ran them up her sides, and a pleasant little jolt shot down her body from her fingertips to her groin at his touch. "How long is left?" He asked, "Forty minutes?" and raised his arm to peer at the timepiece on his wrist. She caught the arm before he could, pushed it back down. He was in kissing range, but neither moved forward, enjoying the tease of the close proximity.
"The squad is on shore leave." She responded, smiling. "And that includes you. We have all the time in the world."
He leisurely ran his hands back down over the modest, rounded swell of her hips, down to her thighs, and leaned in to kiss her. At the last possible moment when her eyes closed, he crouched and picked her up. Jane immediately clung to him like a scared cat, legs around his waist and arms around his neck, making an undignified sound of gleeful fear at the sudden shift in height.
"Then I intend it to be much longer than forty minutes."
Her giddy laughing and his thrumming chuckle were the final sounds before he hefted her along with him into the bathroom, and slammed the door with a foot. For tonight, leave the mires of political intrigue, assassins, and police tape for the world outside to untangle.
Most of his vital energy stores completely depleted, Thane had shaken off the powerful, initial urge to simply sleep, and had instead stumbled to retrieve two cans of beer from the small kitchenette fridge while Shepard dried her hair. When she returned, there was the faint, warm buzz of alcohol and pillow talk. The two cuddled together on the floor under a simple white bedsheet, she immersed in the intense dry heat of his naked body, and he enjoying the feel of her soft, pliable skin against him, smooth and free of scales. Thane quite enjoyed this part, in a different part of his brain than he enjoyed the other part. Both inspired memories, vivid and revisited often—these scenes however tended to be more powerful, to his occasional chagrin.
Shepard told him about Old Earth—a small planet orbiting a small sun, a planet drowning thanks to overconsumption. The idea of creeping, seemingly limitless water gave him a tangible, albeit repressed quiver.
She was from a sprawling city called Las Vegas that was made of lights and crime, where anything was for sale and gangs roamed the streets. He assumed it club Afterlife made into a city, and she laughed, said it was close enough. Aria probably would have liked Vegas a lot, that is, until she eventually took over.
He admitted to liking human music, or that which he'd heard on his travels and in her chambers when she played it. He liked what she determined was the bass guitar from his explanation, and told her how his parents had started him playing stringed instruments when he was very young, but he wasn't sure he could remember how to. He'd also come to harbor a grudging affection for anything hard and electronic—he once again invoked the name of Afterlife, referring to the music of the downstairs level where the less elite clientele skulked (and she herself had actually been poisoned, once). She could only assume that it was good "working" music for people that dabbled in the stealthier arts, as they did, or at least a common sonic backdrop. She appreciated it for just the same reason.
Thane wasn't an animal lover—in fact, the concept seemed to befuddle him a bit—but he listened when she lamented her nomadic military lifestyle for not being able to have a dog. Jane admitted to not being a huge reader, but all the same, they agreed to share literature from their home worlds since he had such a distinct fondness for it, and wanted to share it with her.
Before she'd had a chance to finish her beer, he'd pulled her into another kiss, and when they parted, she laid her head on his chest. Under his breath, she could hear a subtle noise that was best described as a fluttering, or maybe a bubbling—she tried her best to ignore it, and drifted off into a thin, light sleep.
When a gentle alarm began its beeping song from the pile of armored carapace in the sitting room, she had risen, careful not to wake him. It was four thirty—a point chosen to give her ample time to return to the Normandy's dock, without him, so as to not pique suspicion. Jane leaned down, pulled the bedsheet they had shared to his shoulders, and departed to dress for her work day.
Discretion was the word, for now, but she had to admit—as sexy as it was to sneak around and have affairs, it wouldn't break her heart have it exposed. It would mean getting to share this with other people; the comfortable silences, the budding trust, and the restfulness she felt after being with him, even after only three and a half hours of sleep. It was a far cry from the fluttering, crushing infatuations of youth, and she quite liked it that way.
Shepard made sure the alarm on his time piece was set for five o'clock, and departed, leaving the keycard on a table by the door.
"It has all the hallmarks of a hate crime, surely." The blue-purple of the holographic star before her reflected off of the embossed honeycomb of her bodysuit, lighting her in shades of lavender, sapphire. The woman stood facing it, a hand on her chin in thought. "If the records seized by Vakarian are any indication, it's not an isolated event. It's worrying."
"We will look closer at the records when Shepard returns—until then, no official action is to be taken." He sat behind her in a simple swiveling chair, posture unbowed, tone even. "It has to appear as if she's the one spearheading this investigation, so the integrity of it remains intact. Even she has to be kept in the dark on this one." He rolled the end of his cigar in its tray, peeling off the dead ashes that threatened to smother the cherry at the end.
Miranda understood—if anyone on the Citadel got wind of a human-interested organization like Cerberus being involved in the racial SNAFU in the Wards, even looking in its direction funny, it would fan the flames of discontent, and make the conflict they feared was bubbling beneath the surface erupt. "As worrying as the situation on the Citadel is, that's not the reason for our meeting, Lawson. Is there a reason why the Commander has ignored my request for an audience since her little stunt at the Collector base, or am I to believe she's simply forgotten?"
"Aside from the incident on the Citadel, not that I know of." Miranda responded, pacing. The muted click of her kitten heels was the only sound in the room, besides the soft smoldering of cigar ashes. She looked at her reflection in the wall, all black glass, shining her lithe form back at her, dark hair blotted out. The lines under her eyes that had popped up in the last month or so worried her.
"Her private message inbox details quite a few requests for her time. She's a busy woman—people want a piece of her. She can't help that."
"It sounds suspiciously like you're making excuses, Miranda. It's not like you." Miranda swallowed at the admonishment, head down. "Our causes should be the foremost concern, especially considering she still takes up residence on a Cerberus frigate. Please emphasize that." He took a leisurely drag from a glass of expensive bourbon. Miranda could smell it from where she stood, some paces away.
"Understood... but I'd like to indicate that our approval rating has climbed since bringing her on board." She pointed out. "Our crew members are happier—re-enlistment is up. Even public opinion of Cerberus is the highest its been in years. Decades, even."
He stared at her, unnaturally piecing blue-green eyes glowing, lighting the lines around his mouth, deep as canyons. "I admit to being unfamiliar with your new habit of arguing direct orders."
Miranda took a deep breath. "Not arguing, sir. Suggesting—perhaps giving her a few days to do some face work is necessary. Leverage the victory of the Omega-four relay mission. Shepard's a hero... if people start associating her with Cerberus, they'll associate the victory with Cerberus. Put us over the top."
"As nice as that would be, " he replied, "the Reapers care surprisingly little for who or what is associated with who. I would like to give you time, considering the work you've done, but it's not mine to give, Lawson."
Miranda sighed. "Understood."
"You're an intelligent woman. One of the most intelligent I've had the pleasure of working with," he pointed out, "I'm sure you understand my reasoning, Miranda."
She nodded. "I do, and I agree. Doctor Chakwas has yet to affirm Operative Taylor's reports of her physical integrity—I've set up an examination for when she returns. I'll direct her here."
"Directing is fine, but you're her second in command... a position I put you in for a reason. If necessary, club her and drag her here. I want her in my sights by the end of today."
"Aye aye, sir."
"That's all. You're dismissed, Lawson."
A door slid open on the far side of the room, a tiny white rectangle against the dark glass box, and Miranda strode purposefully towards it. He didn't watch her go, gaze intent on the star before him, staring but not seeing, expression blank and oddly sharp all at once, his cigar held aloft between two fingers.
There was no immediate, impending danger to report. The Reapers had not started moving again, at least to his knowledge—and if something hadn't happened to his knowledge, it hadn't happened. With no impossible heroic mission to entice her, with no romantic crusade, no victims, no villains, Shepard was as good as out the door; she was a frustratingly obtuse woman whose talents lay chiefly in persuasion, and perhaps combat, if the stars were aligned correctly. But above all, luck—pure, ass-backwards luck of the god damned draw was Shepard's strongest suit. If the woman walked to the store, or picked her nose, or even went to the bathroom, there would be a squad of people waiting there with the skills to do it for her, and she would talk them into it. It was maddening, because it meant at any one time she had a small, completely loyal army at her disposal, and she only recruited the best. She had good taste, that much could be admitted. It also meant that he had to tread lightly. Retaining Shepard's services with no mutual enemy while still giving her the illusion of the headstrong, swaggering freedom that was so inherent in her nature would be a thin line to walk indeed, one that meant that the game was no longer in his favor. With Shepard having the hardy loyalty of almost twenty of the galaxy's best and brightest, including his second-in-command, her hand would win should she call.
Plainly, the Illusive Man did not take well to losing, and as current events went, this was a set-up for a Big Fucking Loss.
That only meant one thing: at this point, there was nothing left to do but re-shuffle the deck, even if he had to bluff to do it.