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The battle wasn’t much different than the others in the grand scheme of things. No husks, which was nice; Jacob hated those monsters with their clicking, uneven joints and luminescent eyes. The expendable barrage of Blue Sun operatives was mildly concerning, as it always was—someone’s son or daughter, someone’s spouse, he was more likely to think when his opponent was identifiably human—but they all position themselves neatly behind convenient retractable barriers and waist-high walls and his bullet, or (more often) Shepard’s bullet, always found that sweet spot between their eyes, cracking the graffitied helmet in two.
The scattering of tank-bred krogan was more worrying. They had been briefed on their pick-up, of course, and Shepard has chosen Massani for his Blue Suns connection and Jacob himself for his matching set of biotic ability and tactical expertise; secretly, he thought Miranda was better at both, and knew that she thought similarly, but he had no delusions about his position on the totem pole and never argued. Miranda was his boss—in the sense that it was her reports and briefings that convinced The Illusive Man to keep sending Jacob his stipends each month—but her orders, for the time being, came from Jane Shepard. A complicated hierarchical tangle, perhaps, but one he didn’t feel the need to disrupt.
Dropping one of the aforementioned tank-bred krogan on Shepard’s head? That was an accident.
Shepard pushed herself behind a barricade, exhaling half a breath, all she was allowed to catch, and kept her fingers poised deliberately on the trigger of her gun. The camifex didn’t have an intricate in-built targeting solution mechanism like Tali preferred, and she lacked the razor eyesight of Mordin who could, on a clear day, see in about a hundred feet what she could in about a tenth of that and name the colours of heat and vibration, but the impact of a single shot could send an armored foe staggering right into her next shot before they knew what happened. It was worth the tingling in the heel of her hand from the recoil and the chafing around her fingertips from the friction.
The planet was too warm, though, and the infrastructure reduced to rubble and smoke. Not a place she would ever want to retire to. She could feel the collar of her underclothes stiffening with sweat, beads of perspiration rolling down her back. The armor was heavy enough; why had she felt the need to bring a missile launcher with her? A follow-up question popped, unwelcome, into her adrenaline-fueled thoughts: If she palmed it off on Zaeed for the duration of the mission, would she ever get it back?
The thought was set aside, gratefully, when they exited the sun and duck into the shade. The refinery’s shaky catwalks were a little concerning but she saw a few krogan in the middle distance, less friendly looking than the one they encountered outside—and all but bouncing across the sheet-metal platforms with their typical spate of battle-blood fervor. Even a smart krogan could make an easy target and these ones didn't appear particularly bright, running out into her field of vision without a single thought for their position or her own. It took more clips than she would have liked—Shepard hurriedly jammed a new one into the pistol with quick fingers and the blessing of keen muscle memory. Back in basic, she had been able to disassemble and reassemble a weapon in under a hundred and twenty seconds without error. Putting a new thermal clip in wasn’t nearly so complicated but there was a significant difference between logistical training drills and being in the middle of battle on a somewhat-deserted planet while besieged by both mercenaries and a bottleneck formation of angry infant krogan.
At least they had a biotic. Jacob’s telling shout passed over her head as a field of pure blue energy engulfed the oncoming Krogan. Shepard was in between them, sure, but she knew how these things usually went: a ragdoll display akimbo of limbs, the joints of armor snapping in two, the enemy flailing into the distance at increasing velocity until it was acted on by an opposing force. That force was usually a wall, and they would crack like an egg against it.
This time was different. This time, the krogan arced through the air in a ragdoll display that would surprise exactly zero physicists, coming into his downward trajectory sooner than she anticipated…
...and dropped, quite soundly, on Shepard’s head.
At least, he would have if she hadn’t lunged out of the way, swearing loudly.
She was still swearing by the time they got back onto the Normandy.
Jacob didn’t blame her, not in the slightest, but he didn’t enjoy the situation he found himself in either.
Out of the armor, she was considerably smaller, but no less formidable. The Lazarus project had taken its toll on Commander Jane Shepard, first human Spectre and pride of the Alliance, youngest woman to complete N7 training (at the time, anyway; that title had since gone to another talented Marine while Shepard was a slab of meat on a table for two years). Her last few open facial wounds from the reconstruction had become infected in the premature escape from the Lazarus lab and were slow to heal, leaving fading blemished scarring across her cheek, lip and chin. Her hair—once long, red, and pinned in an immaculate ballet bun every day—had been the last thing to grow effectively during her reconstruction; little more than a buzzcut when they left the lab, and since grown into an awkward pixie cut and only due to Miranda quietly ordering keratin-infused products. It was hardly Alliance grade, but Shepard had yet to complain about any luxury given to her, even if that luxury was as mundane as drug store products or a toilet she didn’t have to share or scrub.
Leaving the tank in the cargo hold for now, she brought Miranda and himself into the briefing room. Shepard planted her hands down on the table like she was ready to throw it, the line of her brow something alive and terrifying.
By the time she was done briefing Miranda, Jacob saw a shadow of something he and only he would recognise about his longtime coworker’s lips: suppressed laughter.
“I see,” Miranda said, her middling voice smooth as always. “Shepard, I understand why you’re upset. It was an unfortunate accident and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Uh-uh.” The spread of Shepard’s hands was very telling. She was prepared to rebuke every argument. “Jacob, I’m removing you from active field duty. You’ll work solely in the armoury from now on.”
He didn’t get a chance to interject; Miranda did it for him.
“With all due respect, that’s not your call to make.”
“Krogan.”
“I realise that but—”
“On. My. Head.”
Jacob couldn’t bear it anymore and cut in, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Two tonne of muscle, bone and girth, Jacob. Wrapped in a biotic sandwich and dropped on my spine. Is that really what Cerberus wants after spending billions of credits to rebuild me?”
“Of course not. You’re a valuable asset.” His tone was appropriately chastened. Granted, it wasn’t much different from his normal tone.
“Then you need to learn to aim your throws a little more carefully. I have enough people shooting at me without getting a krogan dropped on me in friendly fire.”
Miranda took pity on him and jumped back in. “Shepard, you know biotics aren’t always precise executions. It could have happened to anyone.”
“Even you?”
Miranda said nothing. Everyone in the room knew exactly what her silence meant. Of course it wouldn’t have been her making such a wild, dangerous throw. She’s too smart, too calculated, too impossibly perfect.
Jacob sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’m benched. Got it.”
“No, you’re not.” Miranda’s tone—and the look she gave him—was severe. But Jacob knew her well enough by now to know that the severity of it wasn’t aimed at him; she was rarely petty and never personal. He knew where they stood and felt briefly heartened by it. “Shepard, take whoever you want out with you, but Jacob stays in the rotation.”
A moment of sullen silence. Shepard’s palms pressed firmer into the table. Jacob wondered if she might be wearing grooves into the polished wood.
“Back in the Alliance, whenever a Marine would screw up that bad, we’d send ‘em back to basics,” she said finally.
“What do you recommend?” Miranda’s tone was back to being cool and even.
“Can you teach him how to control his throws?”
By now, Jacob was getting a little irritated at being discussed like he wasn’t even in the room. The heartening glow of Miranda’s camaraderie and defense was quickly fading.
“Of course.”
“Good. When you’re done, I’ll gauge his performance for myself. If I’m satisfied, he can return to active field work.”
Something rose in Jacob’s throat; he swallowed it back.
Shepard dismissed them, turned on a heel, and stormed out of the room.
Miranda didn’t bother hiding her smile now. It was a lot less subdued than her typical lukewarm smile, slightly crooked, and pulled a dimple out of her cheek.
“Smooth, Jacob.”
Feeling like his pride had been dinged enough for one day, he simply shook his head and retreated back to the safety of the armoury and its quiet, chrome walls.
“I’ll be the human. Jacob.”
Javik’s grin was a bit eerie, even when lit by the soft, expensive lights of Admiral Anderson’s old apartment. Shepard, who was now faced with the sheer incredulity of watching a grumpy Prothean roleplay as her former shipmate, simply crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. At least the steady supply of alcohol had helped lift Javik’s spirits.
Grunt’s chuckles, on the other hand, were downright unsettling. She ignored them.
“And I’ll be, uh. The amazing flying krogan!”
His arms swung out, as if he was already soaring through the air.
Javik looked around. “And - yes, this plant, this will be Shepard. Help me move it.”
She did not help them move it. She only watched as the ancient Prothean warrior and the adolescent tank-bred Krogan picked up one of her ficuses, gently carried it five feet into the open space, and set it back down.
“Kinda short to be me.” Neither of them acknowledged the critique. Shepard took that as an invitation to continue. “Can I just point out that none of you were there? The only people there were—”
“No matter, I saw the vid,” interrupted Javik.
Shepard, who (a) didn’t even know that Javik knew the word vid; and (b) had no idea what to even say to that, went back to quietly watching and hoping they didn’t shatter her plant pot. This party was already a blight on her carefully maintained rental insurance.
Javik rolled his shoulders as a faint vermillion glow began to pulsate out from his skin. Grunt’s giggles only got deeper, gravellier, and more sinister.
“I’m - I’m a stupid not-perfect! I’m charging— I mean, krogan charging!” Grunt acted out.
It’s important to note that Grunt is not an actor. In fact, he could barely get his line out; he was too busy guffawing in delight of his own performance. In her sightline, Shepard could see Joker and EDI watching with fascination from the couches while Miranda leaned back in her seat at the bar to get a better look.
When Grunt was suddenly imbued with the same glow as Javik, and then began to float, he could only whoop with excitement.
And then Javik threw him, biotically, into the plant.
Clipping the top and bending the plant’s spine, Grunt flew for several more feet, bouncing along the carpet until he eventually rolled to a stop by the piano.
“Yep,” Shepard said drily, pushing some of her shoulder-length hair out of her eyes. “That’s exactly what happened. Right down to the broken spine.”
Grunt immediately jumped up and wanted Javik to throw him again.
Jacob walked up and offered her a drink—a spicy, throat-burning peace offering in a red cup. Shepard smiled at him and took it.
“There wasn’t really a vid of that day, was there?”
“Nah.” She took another sip and continued to watch their friends drunkenly act out indiscretions from their past. “Gotta say, kind of miss the days when the most we had to worry about was you throwing a krogan at my face.”
“Feels like those days never really existed,” he said. Shepard felt something in her stomach shift and hid it behind another drink. “We just made ‘em up to mask the pressure from the worst stuff.”
Finishing off her drink in one swig, Shepard went to pick up her plant. “You’re such a downer, Jacob.”
He watches as the liquor leaves a faint flush around her cheeks. Her words are a bit breathy, happily so, but not slurred. It’s a good fit for her.
“You’re such a downer, Jacob.”
Her tone is playful. He can tell she doesn’t mean it, but leans into the epithet anyway.
“Yeah, maybe.” But his smile feels real, and that’s enough, right? “Hope I don’t pass that along to my kid.”
Shepard rights the pot, brushing some dirt off its rim and giving the plant a quick look of appraisal. It takes far less time to fix the situation with the attacked plant—Javik and Grunt’s eagerly assigned stand-in for the woman herself—than it did for her to forgive him about the incident they were mocking. But she had; he wasn’t sure entirely when, but she put up a wall of professionalism between them and then let his reasonable, normal nature chip it back down over a series of months played out in late-night strategy sessions, stolen discussions on tactical advantages, and (eventually) tales from N7 training. He loved hearing about her N7 training. Still does, although he isn’t sure there’s a story she hasn’t told him by now.
The scars are gone now, the hair grown out--although not long enough for the ballet bun again—and whatever muscle she lost while atrophying herself all the way back to life on Miranda’s table is back now.
Jacob Taylor isn’t a man with grandiose dreams or one eye to the sky for shooting stars to wish on. He’s too practical for that, too educated. He’s seen too much of life’s ugliest little corners, things he couldn’t forget if he tried. His father was one such example: something horrid, like a nightmare realised, the depth of depravity one can sink to in isolated power written in his own name, held by a face that looks so much like his—but isn’t his, it isn’t—that he once terrified a poor captive crew woman.
He’s gained a few wishes since the Reapers touched down on Earth, though. A few hopes for a future he may not be around to see. Most of them are about Brynn, about their unborn child. Even now, part of him wishes he was with her instead of here, counting her freckles for the billionth time and trying to find a joke she hasn’t heard yet.
A few wishes, however, are for Shepard.
She looks healthier, yes - but the deep bruise-coloured shadows around her eyes are new, chasing away the crinkle-lines of a smile or a laugh that he used to be able to see.
He hopes that the next smile will be the one to finally reach her eyes, to restore that abandoned thread of communication.
He hopes that the universe will recognise that she’s trying to hold it together with her bare hands. He hopes that it breaks all the unspoken rules of nature, laid out over eons and star-spans, and recognises something other than itself, and lets her breathe again and maybe even laugh.
She offers him another drink.
Snug between somewhere and nowhere, there’s a bar. It looks exactly like how everyone who ever thought of this bar once imagined it, all at once. That shouldn’t be possible - but it exists regardless, openly defiant of things like spatial rules, physics, metaphysics, even common sense.
There are also no fire exits. It's a cheeky bar.
Jacob finally visits when his joints are creaking, when his hair is stiff and grey and overgrown, when his oldest grandchild has just gotten her PhD in astrobiology. He’s so proud of that day, spends a week telling everyone; Brynn only ever looks on, fond, if slightly alarmed every time his words are seized and overtaken by coughs.
A familiar voice calls his name, and it’s excited, youthful, buoyed through the air with celebration. He doesn’t need to look over to see the open spot at her table.
A drink will help, he thinks, and orders something strong.