The last piece slides home into the reassembled Spectre pistol with a sharp click, and Shepard drops her eyes to her omni. Fifty five seconds to field strip and reassemble, two more than it took her onboard the Normandy SR-1. She chokes back a curse. She'd thought scrounging up this old pre-heat sync gun would put some of her demons to rest, but it's only stirred up more.
Her memories are all there, from her time on the streets to the explosion. The strangling hand of open space stands clearest among them. But the muscle memory is either gone or lacking, and whether that's because of the muscle weaves or because they're completely different muscles on a completely different body, Shepard can't be sure.
The skin is all new too- and what else is there to expect from a body that fell through atmo- so the birthmark hiding in the cleft of one elbow is gone, as is the tattoo declaring her membership in the Reds. There were spider veins on the back of one calf, and an old scar on her scalp that had left a few strands of her hair bright white. It's the scar on her thumb, a burn from so long ago she barely remembers (a stove, she thinks), that she misses the most, afraid that with it will go the faint memory of loving arms embracing her.
Her omni beeps, declaring the end of her allotted ten minutes of sulking. She cases the gun and slides it under the bed. There are things to be done and a war to be won.
The elevator deposits her in front of the CIC, and this body has enough new muscle memory that she's halfway to the cockpit before she catches herself.
She ought to go clear the air. It's been fine over comms, but there's tension between them in person that-
Mordin's lab is spotless as always. He doesn't look up from the haptic display, fingers tapping in time to the tune he's humming. It takes her a moment, but Shepard eventually places the song. "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess if she's not mistaken.
They used to sell drugs out back of the Bezos Opera House, and on nights when business was slow and there was enough cash for food for the week, they used to sneak in and watch the shows from the empty boxes.
Shepard doesn't realize she's humming along until Mordin glances up at her. "Did not intend to duet, Shepard. Would have started in a higher key."
She can feel the flush burning on her cheeks, but chooses to ignore it. "How's the Seeker research coming?"
"Very exciting. Believe culprit to be glutamate analogue. Produces similar symptoms to Oxalyldiaminopropionic acid. Very rapid." The word has more syllables than Shepard has fingers, but Mordin spits it out without the slightest stutter. She wonders if he slurs when he's drunk. Wonders if Salarians get drunk.
"Can you create an immunization?" Shepard asks, bending to peer at the Seeker bug. Its tiny body slams again and again into the glass cage.
"Attempting to eliminate Seeker ability to track. Create Seeker specific invisibility cloak." Mordin never stops moving, bobbing and twitching as though he's being electrocuted. "Will wire into armor sets. Provide protection."
"Why can't the armor protect us from the Seeker stings in the first place?"
"Toxin transmission very advanced. 'Sting' inappropriate description."
"What about the rest of the crew? Those without armor?"
Mordin looks up, large eyes blinking. "Did not think them a priority, Shepard."
In her mind, Shepard replays the footage from Freedom's Progress, only this time it's not strangers falling victims to the swarms. It's Chakwas' body that goes rigid, Joker who is carried away by those strange aliens. "Right." She drags her fingers through her hair. "Of course. It's good work, Mordin, thank you."
The doctor cocks his head to one side. "Alliance scientists doing work on Seeker vaccine. Perhaps research could be shared? Vaccine not outside the realm of possibility."
She really needs to get it together if even the Salarian is trying to comfort her, feeble attempt though it is. There's no way to get access to the Alliance scientists, not for a known terrorist organization, not when even Anderson won't tell her anything. "I'll leave you to it," she says.
Everyone's heard the rumors. Newly implanted biotics breaking their lovers necks in the throes of passion, or enraged skycar drivers tearing terminals apart with spatial distortions. That's the reason the Alliance doesn't implant biotics with substantial eezo nodules outside prefrontal cortex.
This Jack Cerberus has joined them up with is an amygdalic biotic if Shepard's ever seen one, not truly surprising, as nearly all the truly powerful humans biotics are miggys.
Jack's really a class of her own, though. Every mass effect field, every kinetic barrier, every twitch of Jack's fingers has Shepard's own biotics flaring in response, eezo nodules spiking in pain from one end of her skull to the other.
Purgatory's warden is dead somewhere in the room behind them, and Shepard's breath is coming short as she chases after the woman in flickering blue. For the amount of intel they had going in, this mission's turned into a cock-up in record time.
The corridor reeks of blood and death. They're gaining on the girl, though, and her last shockwave didn't even kill the Turian she sent it towards. Garrus put the man out of his misery with a single shotgun shell.
Jack is definitely slowing now. Too little food and too much power expenditure (Jack folded one of the station's walls like an accordion rather than look for the damned door) have left the biotic running on empty.
Shepard rounds the corner to see Jack frozen before a bay of windows, the docked Normandy clearly visible.
She's barely more than a girl, really. And if Shepard hadn't just witnessed the last ten minutes of massacre, she'd be tempted to write Jack of as little more. The biotic's covered head to toe in a whirl of ink, like some half-baked musician trying to make a past out of bad decisions. Most of it's ink anyway, though Shepard ran with the Reds long enough to recognize the tell-tale puckering of a red sand tattoo curling over Jack's ribcage, a rather beautiful portrait of a girl.
There's not enough time to inspect them all- though some are certainly gang insignia- before Jack startles from her stupor. "Cerberus!" Jack spits. She swings her arms and clenches her fists as though unsure which biotic power to summon. All the clear hallmarks of a woman teetering towards extremis. Shepard wonders if Jack was still dusting up when they imprisoned her here, and if the cryo was deep enough to freeze the withdrawals.
There's a flicker of movement from the other side of the room, and Shepard downs the merc. The noise draws Jack's attention, and if the stirring at the base of Shepard's neck is any indication, her biotics too.
"You're in a bad situation, and I'm here to get you out of it," Shepard says.
"Oh Fuck, Shepard, you have got to lay off the Blasto movies," Joker complains in her ear piece, just as Jack says, "Shit, you sound like a pussy."
Joker's guffaw of laughter comes through the comms unstiffled.
Shepard would tell her erstwhile pilot to shut up, but surprise, her Cerberus insignia is causing yet another problem. Jack's eyes are already back on the ship.
"I'm not going anywhere with you; you're Cerberus."
Honest to God it would be easier to complete this mission still dead than it is decked out in black and gold. "I'm here to ask for your help with something a lot bigger than Cerberus."
"Not to rush you, Commander, but I'm reading t-60 seconds before the oxygen in your sector is gone," Joker says, and he must think he's hilarious, because a timer flickers to life in the lower quadrant of her HUD, cheerfully labeled Death Clock.
"We could knock her out and take her," Garrus suggests helpfully, and Shepard's hard pressed to remember why she was glad to be reunited with either of these boys.
"I'd like to see you try." Jack glowers at Garrus, not cowed by the shotgun leveled towards her face.
Shepard fights back a sigh. "We're not attacking her."
"Good move."
A lesser woman would roll her eyes. Shepard most certainly doesn't, and even if she did, it's not like anyone could see it behind her helmet. "There's three of us and one of you. If we were the same Cerberus you knew before you'd be dead or captured by now. The station is burning, you need to come with us."
"I want access to Cerberus databases; I want to see what they have on me."
"Make it quick, Commander. T-30 and counting." The clock changes font to a cheery Comic Sans. It's a shame her helmet won't cover for flipping someone off. Though really, who would Joker report her to?
"Done," Shepard says. "Full access."
"So why the hell are we standing here?"
They run.