Mess Sergeant Rupert Gardner tears open a few ramen spice packets, dumping them into the bubbling grey sludge in the pot. Gardner's arm strains as he stirs the meal. It looks like a mixture of oatmeal and cement. He dips a finger into the stew, swearing at how it burns. He winces at the preliminary taste; the flavor is worse than the smell, like spicy chalk.
Shepard never got the ingredients he asked for. She was checked out of their initial and only conversation before Gardner even finished his first sentence. Now he's got a ship full of ass-wipes telling him his food stinks. Worse yet, there's a clogged toilet in the men's and a leaking shower faucet in the women's. The damned AI aboard the Normandy never fails to remind him of all the little things that need doing and doesn't leave anything to chance—quickly warning him when there may be female staff in the shower area and barring him from going in to make repairs. He can't remember the last time he saw an actual woman naked.
Gardner sighs inwardly and looks through the pathetic collection of ingredients he has left. Wilted, floppy celery and a can of peaches older than most matriarchs. The matriarch in the observatory isn't bad. Eyes are a bit spooky. No one Cerberus should be working with but he knows what rung he's at on the ladder. Shepard hasn't acknowledged his existence in months and Miranda is as unfeeling a woman as ever. He can't knock the way she fills out her uniform, though.
He scratches the stubble on his face, glancing at Kelly Chambers who's positioned herself at the counter. He gives the stew another few solid stirs, feeling his bicep start to burn. "Come back later. Today's fine cuisine's not done yet."
"We'll be touching down on Zorya at any minute," Kelly tells him, her voice practiced and even. He doesn't turn around. "Zaeed asked that you save him a few servings. He'll be hungry after 'killing that nasty son of a bitch' he said—though his language was a bit more colorful." Gardner smiles. Chambers' duties seem as tedious as his. "And Kasumi asked that you not use her instant noodles." They look at the empty silver packets, several of the dried noodles having fallen to the floor. "She's warned you about it before."
"She'll live," he grouses.
Bunch of no-good spoiled soldiers, as if he doesn't have anything better to do. Now they're acting like he's running a goddamn restaurant. At least they're human. He joined Cerberus because of the batarians. He was expecting to work with humans, to give humanity an edge. He's never seen as many tentacles or frogs as he has recently. He wanted to stand for something. These days, more often than not, he has to settle for standing in front of a stove. He rips open another ramen package in frustration.
X8. It. The clone. She. 'Grace.' She hasn't had as many identities as Hope has. Where Hope uses aliases as a one-way pass to her goals, the clone is fixated on having only one identity: that of an unassuming other. Hope wonders if she pushed the clone too hard too fast. There is so much work to do. If it wouldn't cripple the clone, she'd have her working around the clock. They have to be ready. Hope won't do the clone any favors by taking it easy on her.
The clone's breath is warm along her skin. She guides Hope's shirt up, planting kisses up her stomach. She's rebellious lately. Hope has been letting her get away with too much, but beating down what is surely Shepard's rancorous temperament would be a disservice. If Hope does her job properly, the clone will be no different from Shepard. Hope will be the one taking orders.
Once the clone is secure, confident, commanding, what will she do with Hope? She'll betray her. It won't matter how she helped the clone. It will be forgotten and she'll become expendable, just as she did to Ms. Brooks. The clone has stopped moving and Hope glances down. The clone remains dressed and on all fours, studying the three-inch scar along her abdomen, wider than the ninjato. Kai Leng didn't bother being careful taking it out. Bruising remains along her sides and ribs.
Hope has taken beatings before, but never one as bad as that. She's lucky to have escaped with her life. What happens if Kai Leng comes after them again? What happens if Grace—'Grace'—the clone—isn't prepared? The clone eases her thumb along the raised flesh, causing Hope to hold her breath.
They're in another safe house, this one on Therum. It's smaller than what they're used to. They have little room for privacy. There's a bed, a couch, and a television that doesn't work. The air conditioning is functional and Hope is grateful for small mercies. Gra—the clone asks her what she's thinking of. The question comes more often recently and Hope has been dangerously close to answering on occasion. She blames the exhaustion, the constant moving and traveling. Nearly a year of it will take a toll on any person. Being hunted by Cerberus is a difficult life.
Hope will not tell Gra—the clone of her former life. It isn't her business and anything the clone has on her might compromise everything—her, most importantly. She has spent the majority of her life trusting nobody. What is it like for the sad individuals that think others can be trusted? Are they happy? Do they feel achingly tired as she does at times? When the tables turn, how do they cope? Do they just die?
"I'm thinking of you," Hope says. It elicits a smile from the clone, "and Shepard." A small line marks her brow. "I know how you like to look at me and touch me." The clone moves over her, palming her face, her contact too delicate. "I want you to fuck me the way Jane would." The clone's hand doesn't fall away. It remains. Her hazel eyes shift to green. "I want you to," she repeats softly.
Hope has heard stories of Shepard's sexual prowess. Her fixation on chatty asari women did and didn't do her service. Shepard isn't shy about kissing and telling. The clone does a lovely job. She treats Hope as if she means something, as if it means anything, as if they weren't just tools to one another to get to a mutual destination. It's confusing. Detrimental. Hope curses herself for not investing in a vibrator. Now she has a scar on her body that will never go away. One incurred for the clone. She thinks of the other clones, all of which were malformed in one way or another. None but Grace were viable, though X3 was somewhat close. There was talk of cobbling X3 together with parts from the other clones. Somehow Grace is perfect. She only needs to be led. X8, Hope reminds herself. "I'm going to start calling you Jane."
"No," the clone says, eyes wide, almost fearfully. "No, please." Her hand wraps around Hope's fist. "Do you know what that will do to me?" It will harden her. It will possibly push her away. Only moments ago Hope was determined and now her resolve is waning. "I feel so confused," she confesses softly.
Hope brings a hand to her face. The clone half-closes her eyes, turning her face so her lips brush Hope's palm. "You have an identity. A worthy one. Some people don't have that. Some people have nothing." She's never held on to identities for very long but taking X8 will guarantee that nothing in her life will be constant or stable, safe. "You are Shepard. What you've read… what you've seen…" she doesn't know how to explain it. "You have to trust me."
The words usually pass her lips with little problem. Listening to herself, she can detect no irregularities or hiccups, any catches that give her away. Yet the declaration leaves her feeling as if she's covered in oil. She isn't lying to the clone. And so what if she were? What's she supposed to tell her? That she was created for the Butcher of Torfan? It should be that easy. It will be, Hope tells herself. In time. Once she's ready. She's been delaying it for nearly a year now. If the clone can't handle it, she'll be useless to her.
"I do trust you," the clone says. Hope doesn't know how long she's been holding her breath. It burns in her lungs. The clone says the words naturally, with no sense of irony. What kind of trusting creature is she? "But I'm not Jane." Hope sits up and nods in disagreement, taking hold of the hoodie she wears and unzipping it. Hope slides it off her shoulders. "I don't want to. Not like that."
"You might like it," Hope says. Their faces touch. Her cheek is soft. Her breath is short. "Show me," she starts to peel the tank top away. "You need to get used to it. You may as well start with me."
"Why can't I have anything that's my own?"
"I'm not yours, 'Jane.' And you'll never be mine. One day you'll realize that and you'll be relieved. You'll use it when it's convenient. You'll use it to excuse your actions." Her words halt when the clone takes a hold of her face tightly. Her eyes are narrowed, pulsing green and blue. Hope wants to look away. Before she can think further, before she can blink, she's been flipped onto her stomach, her pants ripped away. Cold air slaps Hope's skin as her shirt is literally torn from her.
Shepard's arm thrusts between her legs, her hand cupping her mound. Another hand wraps angrily around her throat, yanking her up brutally against her body. Hope can't get any air into her lungs. Shepard bites her shoulder, leaves a mark, shoves her digits inside before forcing Hope down on the bed, ass in the air, shoulders touching the pillow.
The clone shifts enough of her clothing down to grind her sex and fingers up to the knuckle forcefully against Hope's. It's so markedly different from what Hope has experienced with her that she cries out. It makes sense. It's Jane Shepard. This is Jane Shepard. The clone is Jane Shepard's shadow—for the time being.
Shepard overpowers her easily. If Hope wanted to fight back she wouldn't stand a chance. She can't engage her in physical combat. Not ever. She makes a note of it. No one has ever been brazen enough to treat her this way in a sexual context. As if she were nothing. Hope breathes Jane's name. It's easier that way. It creates a distinction. Not that there is one, really. It encourages the clone, whose reservations have gone. She fucks her with a rigorous, angry focus. Hope listens to her aching, raspy breaths. The world disappears. The bed shakes. It's like they're other people. People who have vigorous, bruising sex, who bite and scratch until marks are left. Hope's legs are weak and unsteady.
The hot aggression makes her ribs and body ache. Hope realizes she wasn't as recovered as she thought. When she comes it's with a hand tightly wound around her neck, Shepard's hard body pressed to her back. The ensuing flood of ecstasy is like a betrayal. Hope doesn't know why she thinks that. It's the same person with a different approach.
"Sometimes I really fucking hate you," Shepard growls.
Everything is still. Then Shepard releases her neck, a hand sliding down to cup her breast hard. She shoves Hope away but is almost instantly on her, trailing kisses that are more like bites down her back when she arrives at the other end where the ninjato came out. Shepard stops and Grace returns, her fingers careful and stroking where earlier they pumped mercilessly inside of her. A kiss is pressed to the scar tenderly and Hope closes her eyes, unable to stop her maddening heartbeat. Grace rests her forehead on Hope's back and exhales shakily. Hope reaches back, runs her hand along Grace's arm, taut and trembling.
Hope's sorry but she's not sure for whom.
Zorya is sweltering and sticky. Perspiration begins to bead on Shepard's face as soon as her feet hit the ground. Lush vegetation teems with chittering, chirping life, choking the landscape. The whole planet is like this, she's told. Fuck. No wonder it looks green from orbit. Zaeed warns the group to keep an eye out for ambushes, but Shepard's hands are full just trying to avoid tripping over vines. She resists the urge to shoot at the pyjaks. They scamper around them as if looking for opportunities to steal something or throw feces at them. Fucking vermin.
EDI has patched them into the Blue Suns communications channel. They listen to Vido bark out orders to his people as they make their way through the overgrown terrain. The guy sounds like a jerkoff but Zaeed hasn't been forthcoming about why he's after him. Shepard figures she's lost count of the people she's killed. Killing someone for a member of her team seems honorable enough—more so than blowing their brains out for looking at her the wrong way anyway.
She may have initially distrusted Zaeed but the old man's all right. He's with Cerberus for credits. She gets that. And he's working for her. They push forward, seeing the factory in the distance where the Blue Suns have holed up and are holding the workers hostage. She regrets not bringing a water bottle. She's dehydrated and her head is pounding.
Fungal life is as abundant as any other kind here. Oversized mushrooms, many larger than her head, sprout wildly from the ground and trees. Zaeed points out deadly spore sacs as they go, which they warily give a wide berth. Shepard's spent a lot of time in space ships, space stations, but not much time on planets that resemble tropical jungles. Giant palm trees stretch overhead, the giant billowy palm leaves casting shadows that shield them from the grueling, yellow light of the sun. The rare shaft of light that manages to pierce the canopy illuminates air that is thick with spores, insects and dust. The squad comes across abandoned crates and vehicles, rusted and rotting, foliage growing out of them as the jungle lays claim to them. Spiders larger than tarantulas climb the trees lethargically, seemingly unconcerned about the intruders tromping through their territory. Shepard frowns, warning the group. "Wait till you see the snakes," Zaeed tells her. Fucking great.
When they come across two dead bodies, Kasumi tsks, M-9 Tempest held in anticipation of any attack. Zaeed shakes his head. "Shot in the back and left to rot. That's definitely Vido's style."
"An enemy is an enemy. Doesn't matter how you get the job done," Shepard says. Zaeed fixes her with his glassy eye, the lines that cut a permanent scowl into his face burying deeper. "Let's just go take the son of a bitch out." She's tired of Zorya already. All she wants is to remove her helmet and wipe the sweat from her face. No, take a cleansing shower. First they have to get off this rock. "Let's move."
He nods and they move on. The Blue Suns are everywhere, moving in coordinated packs. As her unit dives for cover, Shepard's heart beats with excitement. There is nothing like the thrill of battle—only an exceptional fuck can match it. She hasn't taken Kasumi anywhere before but she thought if they were going to be breaking into a factory, a master on infiltration couldn't hurt. Besides, if Kasumi wants her help getting that graybox, she's going to have to earn it.
Shepard yanks the M-6 Carnifex from its holster and takes a few shots, nailing a Blue Sun in the arm. Kasumi, beside her one instant, is gone the next. She appears behind the injured Blue Sun, taking a dagger from who knows where and burying it in the crevice between armor and helmet. The mercenary collapses lifelessly to the ground and Kasumi's soon back to where she was, grinning. "Nice trick," Shepard says.
"Thanks, Shep," she cloaks with another grin, "but we should probably chat less and kill more."
"Agreed." Shepard doesn't know where she goes. Fancy trick, that. Here one moment. Gone the next. Seems convenient but she's never cared for infiltrators, for subtlety. She likes the visceral violence of a fight. Over the gunfire she can hear Zaeed laughing almost maniacally, screaming about 'sons of bitches.' The accuracy of his shots, the mods on the sniper rifle reduce the Blue Suns shields and heads to nothing. She holsters the Carnifex and removes the M22-Eviscerator from her back. She hones in on a group of Suns, and catapults to them on a biotic wave. The world blurs around her as she shifts forward in space, the moment stretching like a rubber band, knocking the mercs back before blasting them at point blank range with the shotgun.
Blood mists her helmet and she smiles, satisfied. The sandy ground greedily soaks the blood in. There's a Blue Sun trying to crawl away, wheezing for mercy. Kasumi and Zaeed fall in step next to her and Shepard walks slowly behind the mercenary. Some medi-gel could probably patch him up. She has some on hand. She goes to him and puts her foot on his back, pinning him to the ground before aligning the barrel with the back of his head and pulling the trigger.
Meat chunks hit her helmet and hardsuit. Her smile remains gently on her lips. Mercy is for suckers.
Grace takes too long in the scalding water of the shower before toweling off. For some minutes she sits on the toilet, tearing her hands through her hair before standing. She paces the best she can in a space that is only wide enough for her to stretch her arms to her sides but not to the front and back.
Grace wipes the mirror with the side of her curled fist and stares at her reflection. Commander Jane Shepard. Hope called her that and she… She punches the mirror before she can stop herself. The glass crunches, spider-cracks rippling out. Her reflection is distorted and Grace looks down at her bleeding fist. Just a few scratches. She washes her hands, rubbing where they're cut. It isn't enough to leave a scar.
She thinks of her fingers thrusting into Hope, digging into her flesh, curling her hair around her fist, turning Hope's face so she couldn't see as she fucked her senseless. Senselessly, maybe. Shame burns her cheeks, worsening when she feels a familiar throbbing at her center. Once again she crashes to a sitting on the toilet, face in her hands. How could she enjoy something like that? It seemed… hostile, angry, like some self-serving punishment. Degrading and selfish. The only time she turned Hope around was to hold her in place, grind herself against her mouth. She didn't give a fuck about what Hope was feeling, only doing what she wanted. Why would Hope ask her to do that? Maybe she knew what was in store. Maybe she preferred it to their more tender unions. How could she say Shepard's name like that?
It's all right if she's Shepard. She's Shepard. Commander Jane Shepard. Grace dwells on the memory longer, trying to analyze it but is flushed with a hot, physical response instead of any real understanding.
Her face is fire. The insides of her thighs are slick now and she stands, yanks toilet paper free to wipe herself off before quickly dressing. The air outside of the bathroom is immensely cooler but there's nowhere she can be by herself to think. Hope has dressed and made the bed. She sits on the couch, the laptop on the much shorter coffee table ahead of her. Grace twines her fingers nervously and picks up the hoodie from the floor, sitting next to her. She doesn't know what to say and distractedly plays with the material of the hoodie resting on her lap.
"What happened to your hand?" Hope looks at the computer when she asks, her tone impatient, absent.
"The mirror in the bathroom fell."
"I didn't hear it." She takes Grace's hand, looks at it and lets it go.
The lie is pathetic. Too pathetic for Hope to call her out on. "I wanted to say I'm sorry." That's a start anyway and she hopes it allays any ill that Hope may be feeling. Grace is left the same: uncomfortable and gutted, hot.
"For what?" She presses a few keys on the keyboard.
Grace wonders if Hope is so indifferent. "For… for all of it, I guess. For what I said. I didn't mean it. I don't… even know where it came from," she finds her fingers clasping together again and she forces her hands to separate. "I don't feel that way. I could never hate you."
A smirk touches her lips. She looks at Grace then, temporarily forgetting about the computer. "You gave me exactly what I asked for and I enjoyed it. In fact… what we did before paled in comparison." Grace frowns, unsure of how to react to the words. Her chest is beginning to heave. Hope brushes her thumb along her brow. "Don't frown, your face will freeze that way." Her hand falls away and she stands, leaving the couch to look out the blinds of the window. "I think you've watched too many vids. You think what you see in that sentimental garbage is what adults do but it isn't. What you did is who you are. There's no sense in feeling guilty about it."
"I don't think Shepard would do that with Liara T'Soni."
Hope turns sharply, her brown eyes hot and then dampening. "I am not Liara T'Soni. And what do you know? Asari invented kinky sex. A few mind melds and you think you've got it all figured out? If only it were that easy."
"I know what I feel," Grace snaps. Hope turns her back to her and rubs her forehead. She sighs softly. Grace gets to her feet and stands beside her. It's strange that she's afraid to touch her, to be rejected after everything they just did. But that was for Shepard. That wasn't for her. Or was it? "I need some fresh air," she says softly.
"Take the gun," she crosses her arms. "And be careful."
Grace stands beside her. She reaches out to brush the hair back from her face but Hope wrenches away. Grace stares at her. She wonders if she could hate her. Then she takes the Paladin from the coffee table and exits.
Grace is sweating the instant she leaves the safe house. At a scorching 59 degrees Celsius, Grace doesn't see the reasoning behind wearing the hoodie, outside of preventing sunburn and shrouding her identity. As far as planets go, Therum doesn't rank in terms of beauty. Home to more than a few volcanoes, the land is mountainous and rocky. Unclaimed Prothean ruins dot the landscape. Grace would like to explore them sometime, try to make sense of the mosaic of destruction that fills her mind. Maybe she should read Liara T'Soni's papers. She's some kind of Prothean expert, isn't she?
Grace tries not to think about her, returning her attention to the landscape. The locations that have been settled are more habitable but it's a mining planet. The air has a sour sort of smell. Factories pump polluting chemicals into the skies. It makes for stunning vistas that burn in all hues.
Hope made some offhanded remarks about mining facilities upon their arrival, the abuses suffered within at some plants, and then moved on to the 'Shepard Nostalgia Tour,' as Grace has taken to calling their travels. Therum was once overrun by the geth, led by Saren to hunt down Matriarch Benezia's daughter, Liara T'Soni. This was the planet where they met. All Grace has is a flash of some containment field with a much younger-looking, panicked Liara being held afloat. It's only a scrap, a splinter of a memory, gleaned from the meld with Sha'ira. It's all she has. That and a warm feeling that can't be attributed to the murderous heat of Therum.
She wipes the sweat from her face and moves through the grated walkways that clank with her every step. Clumps of individuals, miners, maybe, from the Eldfell-Ashland mining facilities, watch her. They have facilities in Zorya too, if she's not mistaken. She's distracted, her thoughts having wandered once more to Hope and Liara to pay them too much attention. She ducks into a small, dilapidated establishment, hoping to find some reprieve from the heat.
The building looks to be a seedy bar. It's dirty with boarded-up windows and a counter lined with worn stools. The bartender is a grizzled man with a mop of brown hair and a stained towel slung over his shoulder. He cuts into a lemon with a butcher knife. Some of the patrons turn to look at her but quickly lose interest. The bar isn't air conditioned. She's parched and moves to the bar. It's riddled with bullet holes, part of the counter shaved off. "Water," she says.
The bartender cuts another lemon in half, squeezing it into a grimy glass with his massive hand. She thinks of Floyd and Volkova and Santos but buries the thought. Hope tells her memories will lead her astray but without them Grace is lost. As long as she remembers all she's ever done is flounder. "You want water? Go somewhere else," he says. "Talk to me when you want a drink."
She tastes salt on her lips. Sweat makes her shirt and hair cling to her. "Then get me a drink." She smiles, but her words are short and enunciated. She doesn't have time for idiots trying to show off.
He stabs the knife into the cutting board, fixing her with a mean smile. "Sure thing, Princess."
"It's Grace. Asshole," she mutters the last under her breath.
Seemingly indifferent to her preferred title, he slinks to the back room. Some of the patrons that previously lined the bar stand and exit. Grace sighs. She wonders how long this kind of life can continue. She doesn't have a home. She's constantly shuffled from spaceship to spaceship, shuttle to shuttle. Shepard grew up a Spacer kid. Is this what it felt like? Maybe, Grace thinks, she grew up with Shepard too. Maybe they know one another. Has Hope met Shepard? Has Hope done those things with her before? Is that why she prefers them? Grace again thinks back to the brutal coupling, to the intense satisfaction she felt, the small waves of pleasure still seeming to course through her, making her body hum.
The bartender returns with a drink, slapping the greasy tumbler down next to her. Grace picks it up. The liquid is a smoky purple and blue. She has a sip, eyes wandering behind the bar. There's trail of red on the floor, snaking around the corner into the other room.
Her drink is sour with a hint of sweetness beneath. A chalky smell fills her nostrils. The confusing amalgam of emotions she experienced before slowly taper off. Her head is fuzzy, her vision shifting from focused to blurry. The bartender's towel is spotted red. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She slams the drink on the counter, wiping her mouth.
Six soldiers in white and gold hardsuits enter, orange crests stamped to their chests. They have the builds of the miners she passed earlier. They're heavily armed. She straightens. The room tilts as if being shifted by the tides. The barrel of a gun touches the back of her head. The vibrations of the contact move through her. Is she hallucinating? Her mouth goes dry.
"The Illusive Man wants her alive," one of them says, his voice electronic and unidentifiable, echoing. Who's the Illusive Man? "But subject is considered armed and—"
Grace acts. She lifts an arm, tendrils of blue flowing around her. Her body bristles as she unleashes an explosive shockwave that tears the floor apart, blowing the soldiers around in all directions. She shifts sharply to the right, anticipating the bullet the bartender fires and leaping onto the counter, snatching the butcher knife from the cutting board. A wave of nausea assaults her and she wavers unsteadily. The soldiers are scrambling to their feet, the bartender lining up his next shot. Grace tries to focus, pulls the gun from him and tackles him to the ground, tumbles, maybe, she isn't sure. The bartender is grappling at her face. She buries the knife into his neck and holds it there, pushing herself to a sitting. He gurgles but he no longer matters. A glance back reveals there's no exit from the small room. A relatively fresh corpse is huddled in the corner.
This was a setup. This was all a setup. Mind racing, she forces herself to stay calm and keep low, shrouding herself in a barrier that pulses erratically. Why didn't she put on a hardsuit? She should have known. She should have learned that there are enemies everywhere.
She decides she'll kill them all. It won't be difficult. It might even be fun.
One of them speaks. "Surrender, Grace. You have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Your accomplice, Hope Lilium, is dead." Grace freezes, her blood running cold, a fresh wintry sweat springing to her skin. She's intensely dizzy, her heart barreling out of her chest. She shakes. "We got her on Bekenstein."
What? She tries to peer out but gets a hail of bullets in response. She can't stop shaking. The blue of her biotics flushes the room. She needs to keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The bartender makes a drowning sound and Grace absently twists the knife, ending him.
She forces slow, steady breaths. She survived the batarian and turian a year ago, without knowing how to fight, without biotic training, in much worse condition than she is now. The drink contained a powerful sedative but she barely had a sip. She can push through it. These men are after her. These … people think Hope is dead. Must have been part of the group that went after her. Part of the group that Grace vowed to tear apart. Cold sweat runs down her face, tapping onto the filthy floor.
She decides she won't kill them all, after all. Not right away. She'll keep one of them alive.
The factory is on fire. Zaeed is a son of a bitch. A goddamned crazy son of a bitch. Shepard can't stop grinning. He may have forced her hand but the plan is brilliant. Vido's lost his advantage. As pissed as she should be, Shepard can't say she would have waited for approval from a commanding officer to put the plan into motion. The element of surprise is everything.
"Weren't we supposed to rescue the workers from the Blue Suns?" Kasumi asks lightly, but she's audibly annoyed. "I like a challenge as much as anyone else but I don't like to run into fires." She pulls back her cloak some. "It gets hot."
Shepard yanks her helmet off and wipes her face with the palm of her hand before slipping it on again. The heat of before has become unbearable and she is now literally dripping with sweat. Zaeed looks like a mad dog, as if he hasn't noticed that the very air is sizzling. He's already running ahead, looking back at them impatiently. "Are you two going to stand around braiding each other's hair all day? We need to get moving!"
Shepard and Kasumi exchange looks, trotting up to him. He's already emptying clips into approaching Blue Suns, before fixing Kasumi and Shepard with a contemptuous stare. "Watch the attitude, Zaeed," Shepard pulls out the M-6 Carnifex. "You're not the only one who can hit a target between the eyes." Another explosion rattles the factory and they quickly adjust to maintain their balance. Blue Suns bodies litter the walkway into the factory. Shepard rubs her temple.
"I have been working at this for twenty years. And in case you forgot, that was part of the deal for me coming to work with Cerberus," Zaeed gets in her face and Shepard cocks her head, not bothering to step back. "Cerberus bastards may not know the meaning of honor. I don't. But you're supposed to," he taps her chest piece with the M-96 Mattock, "and we're going to go after Vido and if we don't get him I'll have your goddamned head."
Shepard cocks her fist back, slugging him hard with a fist wrapped in biotic energy. He stumbles, nearly falling but catching himself on a rusty crate. Shepard marches over, glaring down at him. "I hear why you want to get Vido. Hell, revenge is one of my favorite pastimes. But in case you forgot, I'm the one in charge. You answer to me, Zaeed. And if you try another crazy stunt without my say so I'll finish what Vido started and blow your fucking brains out. Same goes if you even think of threatening me again. Are we clear?" His gaze is deadly, the man practically shaking with rage. "I asked you a question, Zaeed. Do we go get Vido or are we going to waste more time on this bullshit?"
Zaeed rises menacingly. He checks the chamber of the Mattock, his words tight. "We're goddamned clear. Let's get going. We're about to lose all the advantage we had."
"Let's move," Shepard snarls. They go through the factory, taking out Blue Suns. There's a whole army of them. She wonders how pieces of shit like Vido can command the loyalty of so many men. Is it charisma? Is it ruthlessness? What makes someone follow a leader? What makes a leader? And how does a leader live with themself if they can use their followers as pawns? She dismisses the thoughts, not wanting to form sympathy for the Blue Suns, preferring to shoot them instead. She's starting to have fun, the anger at Zaeed waning as battle lust takes over. Her happy haze is disrupted when they hear shouting overhead. They stop at the entry of the factory building. The sun is blinding, reducing the screaming man on the upper bridge to shadows.
"Help! We're trapped! We can't get to the gas valves to shut them off. The whole place is going to blow!"
"Too bad," Zaeed says, opening the door and striding inside. Shepard looks at him and back at the worker. She can't see his face. She can only see Zaeed's, marred by betrayal, marked by age and a fixation on revenge. "I don't give a damn about them," he says, anticipating her question. "Only took this job to get to Vido. You've seen how I fight, Shepard. Once Vido's taken care of I'll have a clear head. No distractions. I'll put your kill count to shame. Seems to me like something you could use against the Collectors. None of these poor sons of bitches will give you anything but thanks. And what can you do with thanks?"
Shepard nods, decided. "Agreed," she follows him in, holstering the pistol and retrieving the shotgun. "Kasumi!" she's standing outside, looking up at the factory worker who's still shrieking for help. "Move your ass!" Kasumi glides in and moves ahead, noticeably angry but it doesn't matter.
It's remarkable how she can hear the shrill yells of the factory workers as they move through the factory. How's it possible? It shouldn't be possible. Is she imagining it? Hallucinating it? A fresh start. This was meant to be a fresh start. People have called her ruthless before. People don't get a title like the Butcher of Torfan without good cause. She sent a lot of good men and women to their deaths to prove a point. To make sure that the batarians never thought of going after a human colony again. The ends justify the means. Only cowards don't agree.
The inside of the factory is cool but Shepard's sweating. Despite the ferocious activity of battle, she can't get warm. She hears them shrieking. Her trigger finger is tiring. She keeps glancing back but she can't see anything but the darkness. They all dive behind a hard collection of pipes, gunshots ringing all around them. She removes her helmet again to swab away the sweat, breathing anxiously.
"You all right, Shep?" Kasumi asks. "Getting shot at is never fun but you don't usually go pale."
"I'm fine," she says harshly. They left the screaming factory worker minutes ago. Was it minutes ago? Was it longer? Time loses meaning during firefights. She closes her eyes, licking the sweat from her upper lip. "You've gotta go back." She sees the question from the way Kasumi parts her lips. "I have to help Zaeed catch Vido. I need to do this." I need to keep my word, somehow. "But you need to get to those factory workers." A fresh start. A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Maybe with that start comes difficult decisions. The fight will be harder without Kasumi but she doesn't need those factory workers' lives on her conscience. Not if something can be done about it.
Kasumi ducks her head as another shot pokes a hole through her hood. "Are you sure?"
"The area should be clear. Take care of the factory workers and rendezvous with me and Zaeed outside. That's an order, Kasumi. Hustle." Kasumi gives her a firm nod and Shepard can breathe again. She watches her cloak and run into the darkness. She puts the helmet on again and takes an unsteady breath. Satisfied with the air getting into her lungs she snaps forward to a group of Blue Suns with a charge, feeling invigorated again, alive. Her conscience is clear. Now the real fun begins.
The CLOSED sign has been hanging on the bar door for several hours. The floor is sticky and slick with dark puddles of blood. Soldiers lay contorted at awkward angles on the floor. Most are unrecognizable but there are a few who only have missing limbs, rivers of blood have drained out of them leaving their faces pale, eyes wide with fright.
The room is beginning to smell of piss and shit.
Grace is drenched in blood. The remaining soldier, the one who offered her an ultimatum earlier, is strapped to a chair, stripped of his armor. Grace shot out his shins so he wouldn't try to run while she tied him down with some rope she found in the back room. She gathers it was intended for her. She's planted a stool in front of him. His face is white as a sheet. He's disoriented but his yowling has stopped. Now he sweats, his arms fastened to the armrests of the chair.
He isn't a pussy, she'll give him that. The CAT6 Academy taught her how to torture. Grace doesn't like it. It seems redundant in a way. It's perverse and ugly. Floyd and Volkova had a talent for it. The most hardened tend to break within an hour. It's been significantly longer for this man. Some of his teeth are at his feet, along with the needle nosed pliers Grace used to extract them. She made sure not to take the ones that would make him incomprehensible. She drove the pliers into his mouth and twisted emotionlessly, smiling at the pain he caused himself when he involuntarily jerked his legs.
She's stuffed his mouth with the bartender's bloody shoulder rag to keep him quiet and set up a few items on the table beside her. She returns the needle nosed pliers, adding it to a collection with a wrench, a hammer and a knife. His eyes are blue but the white in one of them is bloodshot and going red. It weeps constantly. Now and then his eyes dart to the dead soldiers. A scan of the emblem on the uniform reveals that it's Cerberus. Grace nearly forgot about them. Hope's only ever mentioned them in passing and the last time she was asked to do a pickup job for them she and her squad had been ambushed by the Collectors. It slipped her mind. Maybe she blocked it. It seems inexcusable, sloppy. Hope would be ashamed. She's ashamed.
"Tell me what happened to Hope," she asks gently. She's happy to keep her voice steady. What she really wants is to snap his neck. The man rocks in the chair, thrashing futilely. She's been asking the question for hours. "Go on. Don't drag this out any longer than it needs to." He squeezes his eyes shut. Grace picks up the knife, and slides it under his nail. Another stifled scream. Blood pours over his hands and the knife, onto her hands. She draws out the knife and starts on another finger. He bites back his cry this time, his eyes seeming to roll back into his head. Once more she pulls the knife back. She takes his face lightly. "Stay with me," she says. His chest rises and falls rapidly. "Tell me what happened to Hope."
The soldier doesn't respond. "Look at me." He won't look at her. "Look at me while you have eyes to look at me." And still he doesn't look at her. She picks up the hammer and pushes it against the ball of his eye. He's getting desperate again. "Are you ready to talk?" He bows his head, making pathetic sounds. But he doesn't nod in agreement. She pushes the hammer into his eye slowly, the pressure mounting until it eventually erupts. White goo cradles the head of the hammer. Another shriek and then he's choking.
Grace watches him for a few moments before removing the bloody towel. He vomits all over himself. Grace looks at the hole where his clear blue eye used to be and she's afraid she'll vomit too. It would be easy to stop. This is awful. Despicable. But these men tried to kill Hope. Tried to kill her. She has a job to finish. The ends justify the means. When he's finished retching, Grace stuffs the towel back in his mouth. "You still have one eye left. Are you ready to talk or do you want to lose another one?" His eyebrow furrows, blood running down his face. "If I remove the towel will you talk?"
He doesn't respond. Grace gives him the benefit of the doubt. She removes the towel and he starts to scream for help. Grace quickly replaces the towel. She takes the knife and buries it into his thigh. She knows where all the major arteries and veins are. She knows how to miss so that he hurts and bleeds for a long time. She knows where to strike so he doesn't anticipate the pain he'll feel. She knows where to cut so it feels new and painful and fresh again.
"Tell me what happened to Hope." She slices one of his nails off before chopping off another finger altogether. More screaming. "I can do this all night," she tells him softly. "But you don't have to. Are you ready to talk?" She picks up his index finger and sets it next to her tools. "Or should I cut something else off?" she teases the blade along his crotch, sliding it up to his neck. "I can't decide." She draws the blade back down, "but I think I'm getting warmer. I have medi-gel. I can patch you up and start over from scratch for hours." More agonized crying, his giant eye blinks back at her. "If I take the towel away will you scream?" This time he shakes his head.
Grace waits. She removes the towel. For a minute he just pants. She lets him. She hates him but hates herself too. He's sad and small. She is too, maybe. "Kai Leng," he begins, his words wobbly. "Illusive Man. Cerberus." More panting and noises. She gets up and gets him a bottle of water. She uncaps it and takes a long swig, still fighting off the effects of whatever sedative they tried to give her. "Leng caught up to her on Bekenstein," he swallows, then hangs his head and cries.
Grace lifts his head. "Come on, drink." She brings the water bottle carefully to his lips. He takes a few desperate drinks but a lot of the water runs down bloody from his mouth. She keeps encouraging him, patiently holding the bottle until he's had another few gulps. "Keep talking."
"Hope wouldn't give you up," he says stiltedly. "Was running—for too long," he heaves for breath. "Mr. Illusive sent Kai Leng. Kai Leng's his right hand. Takes care of… takes care of the hard jobs. He killed her. In Bekenstein, but that wasn't me. That wasn't me," he's crying again.
Rage floods Grace. It's primal and overpowering. It's the way she feels around Hope. It's that heat that strikes in the center of her. Hope is alive. They think she's dead but she's alive. She has to remind herself of that even as she observes the Cerberus agent who clearly thinks she's dead, who wanted Grace to join her. "Why were they after her?" but her voice is thick and she's beginning to lose her focus.
"She took something. She was with you. I don't know; I'm just a soldier. They don't tell me anything, they just—"
He stops when Grace stabs his shoulder with the knife. She covers his mouth and he moans into her hand. She doesn't like people who won't take responsibility for their actions. "Why are you after me? You called me Grace. How did you know that name? I'm going to remove my hand. Don't scream or I'll cut out your tongue."
"Rolstons," he spits out when she lets go. "From New Canton," he shakes, his words pitching up and down, sounding half-crazed. "You saved them. They called in. Grace. You're Grace. You look like Shepard. Illusive Man wants you but I don't know why. That's all I know. That's all I know, please, please."
Those aren't many answers for the mess she's made but it's a start. Grace stands up and picks up a comm-piece from one of the other soldiers. She carries it to the soldier who looks at her. The gaping hole in his face is disturbing. "Report back in. Tell them you sighted the wrong target. Go on." He looks at her skeptically. "Look at your men. Look at you. Do you think I'm bluffing? Call them."
She punches the button on the communicator for him. There's static and then a tinny voice comes over the small earpiece. The tortured agent clears his throat. "This is Geneva Unit. False positive. The target was a negative." Grace nods, impressed at how even his voice sounds. "Roger that." His head falls forward, crying into his chest. Grace crushes the communicator under her boot. "I did what you wanted. Let me go. I'll disappear. I'm done with Cerberus. You won't hear from me again."
Grace touches the back of his neck and pulls him to her like an embrace. The butcher knife plummets into his stomach. He makes a sharp sound, as if he were submerged under water. His hot tears and sweat press to her shoulder. She feels ill. This is déjà vu. Is this Commander Shepard? Or is this who she is? Who Hope made her to be? Maybe she's only practical. She can't allow someone who celebrates Hope's death to live. She can't risk them going after her again. Hope would think it was sentimental. Maybe this is her way of being romantic.
"I won't hear from you again," Grace agrees. "Don't worry. I'll send Kai Leng to keep you company, you son of a bitch." She yanks the blade up, his stomach and chest coming open like a zipper.
The factory is a landmine. Each step they take is rife with danger as the factory continues to erupt. Flames burst through the floor and walls like hell beckoning. They leap over open gaps, quickly twisting to the side when the factory begins to collapse. Shepard anticipated fighting for their lives—not literally running for them.
Still, she and Zaeed make a good team. They both have a fondness for killing mercenaries. Zaeed keeps close to her, awed by the bloodbath she leaves in her wake. "You really are a butcher," he says, his eyes gleaming with approval.
"I haven't had this much fun since Torfan," she says as she jumps over a small barricade. Shepard isn't sure if she means it. She's always liked combat. There's nothing like it to make her feel alive. It's a gamble with life and death but she doesn't believe in luck. She believes in playing her cards right—cheating when necessary. All that matters is getting the job done, all that matters is the adrenaline pumping through her. She craves it more than she used to, needs it to make her calm.
They finish off the remainder of the Blue Suns, both swearing as a YMIR heavy mech seems to come from nowhere. They work at shaving away its shields, trying not to get blown up in the process as it shoots a barrage of missiles at them. The missiles bury into walls and the floor, metal screeching around them, fire springing from what the YMIR destroys. The flames lick and reach for Shepard and Zaeed. She can still hear screaming. How can she still hear screaming? How long ago did she send Kasumi?
"Do you hear that, Zaeed?" she shouts.
He ignores her, focusing on the YMIR. It doesn't matter if she hears them. Zaeed doesn't give a damn. They spend the rest of the time outrunning the spray of gunfire, finding cover and flanking the mech, pumping it full of bullets, until the thing finally goes down. They sprint past it towards the exit. When the mech explodes, Shepard isn't far enough away. Her shields fry as she's blasted forward onto her hands and knees.
For a minute she can't hear anything but a ringing in her ears. The room spins. Zaeed stops to look back at her but she waves him forward. The helmet is cracked. She tears it off and chucks it to the side. She gets to her feet, feeling disoriented and dizzy, rubbing her eyes until the shadows go away. She hurries after him, swearing inwardly at her sloppiness.
There's a shuttle outside with a dead pilot slumped over the controls. Vido's not so tough anymore. Shepard feels heat at her back. She's pretty sure the hardsuit is partially melted. Vido's on his knees, crying and begging. Zaeed goes over, kicking him hard in the face until he topples to the ground. "Thought you'd get away, did you? You ran the Blue Suns into the ground, Vido, now it's time for you to join them."
Shepard smiles. "Want me to hold him down while you blow his brains out?"
Zaeed returns the smile. "Thanks for the offer, Shepard, but I want him to burn," he discharges a heated slug into the pool of gasoline the idiot dragged himself into. They watch him flail and scream as he burns alive.
Shepard's riveted. His screams are the only ones she can hear now. Kasumi must have gotten to the factory workers. It's a relief. Vido's hardsuit is melting onto him. She hears a sizzling that isn't Vido's suit or skin and rips her chest piece off. Her own suit is still burning. She wonders if the combined force of the heavy mech explosion along with the fried shields caused the anomaly. She throws the worthless piece to the ground in frustration.
The cool air on her skin is welcome and Shepard takes a deep breath. She isn't troubled by the thick plumes of smoke shooting from the factory. "Looks like he's dead," Shepard says but he isn't really, he's on the ground twitching, his arms in spasms. "And you thought I'd let him get away."
"Guess I was wrong about you. You're all right," he says with a laugh. Vido finally stops moving. What's left is a smoldering husk. Zaeed looks different, at ease. This is his fresh start. Shepard mentally congratulates herself on a job well done. "Let's get the girl and get out of here."
"Negative. I told her to get the factory workers and rendezvous at this point. We can't go back the way we came." Zaeed is indifferent to the news. Vido's dead. He's no longer in a hurry. "She's clever. She'll find us." Shepard folds her arms on the railing, taking a slow breath, happy the mission is over but unsatisfied. After such a chase she was expecting a gunfight. She was expecting something brutal. Instead she didn't lay a hand on Vido. The whole thing was a tease. She looks at Zaeed. For a man his age he's in exceptional shape, his arms heavily muscled, and his ass could give Jacob a run for his money. "Up for a celebration while we wait?"
He cocks an eyebrow but as soon as she touches his arm he's caught her meaning. He crushes her to him, his mouth bruising against hers. Shepard finds his belt, undoing it before jerking it free. Zaeed unbuckles the remaining latches to her hardsuit before taking a fistful of her hair to look at her. Shepard smiles. "Didn't think you played with boys, Shepard."
"I want what I want. Right now that's you. You going to complain?" She takes his hands snaking beneath her undershirt as a no. His fingers are rough and callused, scratching along her breasts, rough, but exactly what she's looking for. Their mouths are hot on each other's again and she shoves him to the ground, mounting him. They're both ready. She brings her hands to his neck, squeezing as she rides him. He grabs her wrists but she isn't sure if he wants to stop her or simply hold on.
Shepard wonders why Liara hasn't responded to her emails. Maybe she should bring her the Shadow Broker information. Maybe she should tell her to fuck off. She closes her eyes, fumbling, reaching for something that eventually manifests at some undetermined point in time. The orgasm shakes her, wakes her, makes her alert, gives her a sliver of satisfaction. But it isn't Liara. She's filled with a tired sort of regret for their situation. She waits for him to finish and then rolls off him. She dresses and considers thanking him, like with Jack, but doesn't. It would be crude. She should stop fucking her crew. But it helped. It helped the restlessness. Shepard smiles awkwardly at him and rubs her arms. It's starting to get cold.
After he dresses he returns to the railing. "The girl's taking her time," he says.
Shepard does a visual scan of the perimeter but can't find her. Doubt furrows her brow. "Yeah."
The quarian and the turian have been talking in the battery for hours. Dinner is slop but nobody complains. The air is thick and heavy. Commander Shepard went into a debriefing in Miranda's office not long after returning with Zaeed and exited shortly, taking quick, long strides to the elevator and punching the button.
It isn't long before Kelly Chambers arrives, datapad in hand, a carefully arranged expression of concern on her face. Gardner notices spice from the ramen packet earlier and sweeps it into his hand from the counter, dumping it into the trash, washing his hands of it.
"I am taking the opportunity to talk to all crew members about what has happened," she tells him in a slow, lulling way. "It may not always be easy but talking can be cathartic, healing." He makes a face at her and she moves around the counter to stand closer to him. Gardner can't figure if she's coming on to him or only wants to flex the psychology degree.
"Go talk to Shepard," he dries his hands on the towel hanging off the stove. "She was nice but I'm not going to boohoo about it." He shrugs.
Kelly touches his shoulder, her fingers grasping gently. "Feelings of denial are normal. I'll be around if you change your mind."
She slips away and none too soon. Had she held his shoulder longer he would have become nervous from either the touch of a woman or the creepy, crawly feeling of not knowing what it was that she wanted. He wipes the kitchen down for the third time in an hour before heading to the closet they call a pantry. The door slides shut behind him and he moves around the small crates of paste and beans to find the QEC communicator.
It's state of the art. The trade-off for the small size and portability is that it can only send simple text messages. Smuggling it aboard had been nerve-wracking, but Rasa had assured him it was necessary. It was why she had chosen him. Anytime he uses it he nearly pisses his pants but this seems like as good a time as any. The ship is in chaos. The mood is grim. He types the note out quickly.
Vido Santiago eliminated on Zorya. Casualties: Kasumi Goto. Will update later with progress.
Fingers shaking, he stashes the QEC communicator behind the canned beans, outdated by thirty years or so. He runs his sweaty palms over his bald head, takes a breath and exits the pantry. Maybe he shouldn't have used her ramen. The thought is so stupid that he nearly chuckles. He quickly acclimates himself to the mood, his face somber. The last thing he needs to do is get someone's attention. Getting compromised by the Normandy crew is not half so terrifying as earning Rasa's anger.
Hope is hunched over on the couch as she reads the words on her handheld device. She reads them again to make sure there was no mistake.
Cold rage has settled into her, along with another distant, empty feeling. She tells herself they were just partners, never friends. They knew each other. They worked together. That's all. Hope created a dossier for Kasumi Goto because her talents should have been a boon to Commander Shepard.
Shepard is a bigger disaster than Hope thought. Before she lost her way she was sacrificing human lives for aliens. Now she isn't competent enough to lead an exemplary team through a routine mission. Cerberus wanted the best and Hope drafted dossiers for the best. The Collectors are a threat to humanity. Shepard never got anywhere on her own and Kasumi was looking for someone to help her with the graybox.
Hope realizes Kasumi will never get the graybox now. She should have killed Hock on Bekenstein. How many more will Shepard go through? How many more will she lose? What will it mean for humanity? What will it mean for the war against the Reapers? She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.
She doesn't recognize the shadowed figure that enters. Grace is a bloodied ghoul when she steps into the light. Hope stands. There's so much blood. Her throat is dry. She can't move. Grace comes to her. The hoodie is wet with blood but her face is caked in it, her pants and her boots, her hands look like they were dipped in red mud that is only partially dried over.
Grace cocks her head. "Are you all right?"
Her voice is soft. A ripple passes through Hope, pulling her out of her fugue. "What happened?" she can barely hear herself. She can smell the blood on her. Even butchers don't get quantities of blood like that on them. Hope isn't sure if she's dismayed, awed or blank. Mostly the last. The future of the galaxy is dire if Shepard's actions today are any indication. A small current of what may be fear punctures her sharply. She bites her lip to not draw breath.
"Cerberus. I took care of it." Grace brushes the hair back from her face. The contact is calming despite the alarm that seems so far away. Grace lifts Hope's chin, leaving a red mark on her face. Grace's eyes are flint. Determined. Reassuring. "I know who hurt you. I won't let them hurt you again."
Hope says nothing. Her bottom lip quivers and then stills, eyes glazing over. She tells herself she's angry. She's angry at Shepard for her incompetence. She's angry at Kasumi for letting herself be killed. She's angry at Miranda for not controlling Shepard. She's angry at herself for too many reasons. Her fingers grasp tenuously at Grace's hoodie. As if prompted, Grace slides her arms around her waist, draws her close.
Hope closes her eyes and rests against her shoulder. She smells filthy. She smells like a murderer. It is oddly comforting. "Commander Shepard isn't fit," she says quietly, battling the shakiness that threatens to enter her voice. "Letting her live endangers everyone," she clutches Grace more tightly. Grace's fingers stroke her hair. She wonders what Grace did to get into the state she's in. No doubt it required some finesse and skill, violence. "You'll have to kill her."
She waits for Grace to tense. She waits for her protest but Grace's chest keeps rising and falling calmly as it did before. She doesn't know how much time passes with Grace's fingers threading through her hair. She's nearly falling asleep when Grace brings her lips to her ear, hovering and warm in a way that makes her drowsy and hyper-aware in one. "Okay."