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"New alien place popped up down the street from the hideout," Pinch mutters darkly around a mouthful of soda. "Not long before they start popping up everywhere, I reckon. Not long before we have alien gangs to fight for territory."
"You're such a conspiracy theorist," Leer replies, rolling his eyes.
The clouds hang heavy over the city skyline in a humid fog, pinning the heat close to the street. The few pedestrians that dot the sidewalks power walk angrily toward their destinations, as if their stomping could frighten the precipitation away. In defiance of the malicious summer weather, the three teenagers loiter on the corner, backs pressed against rusting old fences and brand new concrete walls.
The redhead finishes chewing over her mouthful of meat and peppers and bad cheese and tilts her gaze up toward the sky in all of its vague, lonely grayness, lights reflecting off the dense clouds to mask the sky above. It's hard to imagine that it's even dark up there, let alone full of stars. Just streetlights gleaming off the undersides of skycars and public shuttles.
"I don't see what the problem is," Shep says, finally. "Easy to steal from out-of-towners. Probably even easier to steal from off-worlders."
"I don't wanna steal from no turian," Leer says, hastily. "Hear they can rip you apart with their talons. Claws like knives."
"It's supposed to be cheesesteaks," Pinch seethes, ignoring Leer's little outburst. Her dark hair is already slipping out of her hair tie -- it's only been up for a few minutes. "Alien cheesesteaks. With alien ingredients. Cultural exchange, ain't it great! Remember that fuckin', uh, jawn-- that now-extinct-then-invasive jawn that killed all those trees way back when? You were tellin' me about it a few months ago. Some kind of tall beetle."
"Asian longhorned beetle, accidentally imported into North America via the lumber trade in the late 1990s," Shep offers, and the boy groans, balling up the paper from his hoagie between his hands.
"You've got to start pretending you don't remember everything you've ever heard," Leer says. "It's freaky."
"I don't!" Shep holds her hands up defensively. "I only--"
"--I only remember what's interesting," the other two chorus in a mock-offended tone.
"We don't need aliens down here," Pinch reiterates, this time elbowing Leer in the ribs. "Shep’s enough of a freakshow for all of Philly."
"For all of Earth," Leer agrees, grinning.
"You guys are assholes," Shep mutters, wrapping the rest of her food in the paper and shoving it into her bag. "What about the beetles?"
Pinch's eyes light up as she remembers the point. She tends to get sidetracked easily.
"What if those asari show up and like... they import alien bugs in here. Accidental-like. What if we get invasive beetles part two."
"Invasive beetles from space," Leer suggests.
"Invasive beetles from space, part two," Pinch agrees.
"Invasive beetles from space, part two, the infestening," Leer finishes, with a confident finality. Pinch nods, looking to Shep for her opinion.
"Man," Shep says, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'd almost look forward to the variety. I'm so sick of mosquitoes."
"Shep? Hey, Shep? I mean this in as loving a way as possible," Pinch says, touching Shep's forearm. It's sweaty, the contact is slick and uncomfortable. "But fuck you. These mosquitoes may suck... but they're our mosquitoes. Earth mosquitoes."
"Philly mosquitoes," Leer says.
"Philly mosquitoes," Pinch emphasizes, curling her fist and pounding it against her chest, once, twice. "Those are our boys."
"Only female mosquitoes bite," Shep corrects her. "Males drink flower nectar. I have no problem with your boys, as you call them."
"Man, shut the fuck up, nerd," Pinch mutters, kicking the ground.
"Maybe it'll be like War of the Worlds," Leer suggests, chucking his trash across the street as he veers back to the original point. The ball of paper is packed extremely tight and it goes skittering straight into a drainpipe. Shep frowns, glancing back at the trash can a few yards away. "Maybe they'll get like, mad cow from eating at Geno's. It'll turn out to be super contagious and deadly and they'll stop coming."
"Look, it's just a couple aliens," Shep reasons. "'Sides, nobody's coming to Philly for food tourism and getting alien food, right? They'll just flock to Geno's and Pat's like they always have."
"And Steve's will finally get closed down by corrupt corporations," Pinch laments. "Goodnight, sweet prince. We barely knew you."
"You watch too many vids," Shep says, shaking her head. She's tired. It's been a long day. "Steve's was here before First Contact. It's not going anywhere."
"'Cos loyalists like us are willing to trudge an hour round trip from home in this shitty sauna weather to keep them in business," Leer sighs.
A woman paces down the sidewalk practically inches away from them in her suit pants and red stiletto heels, eyes dead set on where she's going. She doesn't even break her stride when her shoulder collides full force with Leer, almost seeming to speed up so as to avoid acknowledging the faux pas. She clearly has somewhere to be, and if she's to get there on time in this weather, it seems she deemed it more valuable to be an asshole than to apologize.
Pinch holds up a wallet -- real leather, Shep thinks, but not from Earth. Still fake, though; the brand it’s pretending to be is lettered incorrectly in the pattern, even if the stitching is tight. It came from across the stars, but somehow it’s cheaper than what came from here.
A bad omen. She shakes it off, smiling her approval at the other two instead.
It always manages to impress Shep what a good team they make -- Leer is so good at getting people to look away from him, and Pinch is so good at taking advantage of the aversion of eyes.
"For you, madam," Pinch says in a faux-haughty affect, gently tucking the wallet next to Shep's cood. The redhead rolls her eyes, pulls on the pair of gloves she carries around for this exact purpose, and opens the wallet in the shelter of the bag. Credit chit, sure, they can use that. A few holos, a paper receipt from an antiques dealer. Rewards card for a nail salon. Coupon for shoes that expired last month. She extracts the chit.
"Lose this a block back," Shep says, tossing the wallet to Leer. "Can't buy shit with holos."
Leer rolls his eyes at the order but follows it anyway, cracking off a smarmy little salute as he pulls away to ditch the evidence. Pinch snorts, crosses her arms.
“You’re so soft. Could’ve pawned the wallet. Still expensive, for a fake.”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Someone else’ll just take it if they find it on the ground,” Pinch says, shrugging as she turns to leave. “Whoever that lady is, she’s not getting those precious memories back. Bet she won't even notice it's missing until she goes to buy something.”
Shep snorts, following along, hands in her pockets. Her tank top clings to her back, damp with sweat. This weather sucks.
“Not everyone's a thief like us. Anyway, Leer’ll pawn it without telling me, then, if it’s that big of a deal.”
“Nah,” Pinch says, shrugging. “He won’t.”
"Used to have stray dogs, you know," Shep says, holding her arms out while the taller girl measures around her with a faded piece of fabric tape. "Urban centers, here especially. Not so much anymore, after First Contact."
"Stop talking," Snip says, scribbling something down in her notebook.
"Still got stray dogs around here," says Aces, pantomiming shooting a gun from the hip straight at Shepard. "Tenth Street Reds, baby!"
Shep laughs, mimes being shot. Stray dogs, war orphans, a gang -- depends on who you ask.
"Yeah, we fill that ecological niche pretty well, huh?"
"Put this stupid dress on," Snip says, selecting a mess of white fabric from a pile of messes of fabrics and shoves it into Shep's startled arms. "Carmen wants to see you."
"A dog in a costume," Aces says, waggling his eyebrows. One of them is half burnt off from a dumb trick he tried to do with a lighter last week.
"Bitch," Shep says, and Aces touches his heart as if he's been mortally wounded by the audacity of the word.
"Hey, I didn't say it."
Shep scurries into the bathroom to strip down to plain underwear and freckles and not enough fat, turning the dress around a few times to figure out which way is up and which way is forward. Slides it over her head and -- ah, perfect. Fits like a glove. Maybe a little too much like a glove-- too tight around the legs, like it hobbles movement.
Whatever. She pulls her hair out of her messy bun, combs her fingers through it and puts it up into a slightly less messy bun, gathering clothes in her arm and holding her shoes with two fingers -- Carmen doesn't care. Whatever she needs, this doesn't matter.
"Fits well."
"What can I say," Shep says, and then says nothing. Carmen looks pleased.
She's a real person, with a real name. Not like everyone else Shep knows: all the way in her 40s. Her black hair is cut short, a nasty burn spans across her neck and left ear.
"There's a military ball tonight at the Ritz. I want you there."
"A ball?" Shep wrinkles her nose. "I'm not exactly--"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're not dancing or anything. Calm down." Carmen lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag, holds it for a few seconds. Tilts her head back to blow it in a billowing cloud, out above her head. She's always thought Carmen looked like a dragon when she did that, towering over her in that crimson leather jacket. "I just need you to be charming, chat around, remember as much as you can. Stars are better than bars, and more of either is better than less."
"What do you expect me to hear?"
"Anything," Carmen clarifies, clearing nothing up. "Affairs, doubts about the job, hell, if they say something off-color about aliens, just jot it down in that little brain of yours. Dirt."
"Charm -- a bunch of old guys?"
"Not like that." Carmen waves her concerns away flippantly, smoke wavering in the air. "People like you for some reason, Shepherd. Follow you around like little lost lambs. It's why they call you that."
"Yeah?" Shep says.
"Yeah," Carmen says, cups Shep's cheek in one palm, cool on her skin. "Remember your old name?"
Shep's eyes dart away as she thinks about it. She doesn't remember the war, not like the other Reds. There was a house, once -- or was it an apartment? A woman, there was a woman, but what color was her hair? It wasn't red like hers is. There was a wood carving on the counter. A little doll with angel wings, soft and rounded like a child's drawing.
Her name. There was a vowel, definitely. A? Was it an O? What were the consonants?
Carmen digs a sharp nail into Shep's cheek, turning her head sharply to look at her -- big, blue eyes, like what the sky looks like in pictures -- like what the sky's supposed to look like, Shep figures. She's never really seen it clear, devoid of fog and smog and traffic and light.
"You belong to the Reds," Carmen says, sweetly, and it's as if that nail was never there. She gently pats the side of Shep's face, brushing a hand over her hair. This is praise. This is what home feels like. "Just think of it as stealing information. Snip will get you ready, Butler will drive you."
"Borrowing Byte's omni-tool for this one," Snip mutters, snapping the flexible metal band around Shep's thin wrist. Frowns. Tightens it up considerably. "You're so small. This plan is stupid. They're going to think you're twelve."
"Do you remember your old name?" Shep asks, because Snip is only about two years older.
Snip pauses, and the light filters through the faded green dye in her hair, casting color over her face.
"I think it was Alice," she says.
"Do you miss it?"
"No." Snip shrugs, easily moving Shep around to brush her hair. "Alice died in the war."
"And you don't mind that?"
"I'll pick a name soon enough. I've been thinking about Steele," Snip says, swiftly pulling Shep's hair into a braid down the back. "With like, an E at the end. It sounds all professional and shit."
"Yeah," Shep says, pondering. "It does."
"Can I check back later? This is so embarrassing," Shep apologizes, bowing her head to the receptionist, eyes wet. "I'm so sorry--"
"Is everything okay?" A hand alights on her shoulder, and she has the self-control not to smile. She sniffles instead, looking up, fixing the hair that's fallen in her face. The man is white: late 30s, probably, brown eyes and brown hair that's starting to grey a little, but only at the roots. Two bars on his uniform. She wipes under her eyes with the pad of her thumb and forefinger as if she's trying to pretend she's not crying, careful not to smear the makeup.
"My uncle Mason asked me to attend this function with him," she says carefully -- purposefully too carefully, putting on the airs of a child who is trying to act more adult. Stiff upper lip. She watches his expression soften to putty before her very eyes. "But he hasn't arrived yet, and I've no idea when he'll get here, he was meant to arrive before me. He hasn't been answering my calls..."
"Mason Welles?" The lieutenant before her scoffs. There's a contempt there, but it's barely there. Annoyance. "The man worked magic during the war, but he's always been kind of a flake off the battlefield. I'm sorry you had to experience it firsthand. He's been busy patrolling the edges of the Terminus Systems, hasn't he?"
"That's right," Shep says with a confident pride that doesn't belong to her, eyes shining all the more through the tears she's coaxed out. She tilts her head up and beams at this poor, poor man. High pressure. "Keeping the peace for humanity among the stars. I want to join after my birthday, but Uncle Mason says it's a big commitment and I should go to college, first. Mama says he's just scared I'll outrank him."
The man chuckles.
"He probably invited you here to discourage you from joining, then. These events are notoriously dull." He glances toward the entrance to the ballroom, pretentious velvet rope and military bouncers. "Old soldiers talking about the days when they were young soldiers. Not much for a young woman to do, in there."
"I want to go," Shep says intensely, like she wants nothing more, curling her hands into light fists and holding them to her clavicles. "I want to be out there, someday, defending Earth. I want to know what it's like."
"Well, we have colonies to defend nowadays as well," he says, extending a hand. "But I like your attitude. First Lieutenant Martin Clark. I'll take you around, if you don't mind me standing in for your uncle. He has me in rank, but I like to think my personality makes up the difference. I'm sure I could introduce you to a few people before he gets here."
Shep laughs, extending her hand.
"Janelle Welles, but you can call me Jane. And I would love that, Lieutenant."
How could she reject his offer? She chose him for this when he opened the door.
Captain Mason Welles earned a Star of Terra for heroic action when the Second Fleet reclaimed Shanxi from turian occupation. Kept his head cool during the dogfighting and managed to peel off a turian cruiser and disable it, taking its crew prisoner and allowing humanity the opportunity to study fully operational turian tech for the first time. Came from a big family, all military.
Despite it all, Welles is an alcoholic, now. The Alliance keeps him busy with patrols along the edge of the Terminus Systems, which Shep doesn't know much about, other than it's a dangerous place, not settled by friendly aliens. The Alliance hopes to change that.
This is all of the information Carmen gave her, and Shep likes to think that her persona is convincing. A military brat longing for grandeur, wanting to prove herself to the world -- to her family, to herself. It's far from her first time on the grift -- in fact, it's her specialty, fitting into places that shouldn't want her there -- but rarely are the victims actively dangerous. Anyone she meets here will have killed someone. In some ways, she's more like them than they'll know.
Her act is at least convincing enough for Lieutenant Clark, if the way he drags her around to every person he knows is any indication. In the space of 30 minutes, she meets a lieutenant commander who openly makes jokes about cheating on his wife, a commander who can't stop muttering about "spiky bastards", a second lieutenant that keeps glancing at a commander across the floor. There's a lot to pick up.
"Commander Anderson, I'd like to introduce you to Janelle Welles," Clark starts, putting his hand between Shep's shoulders. "Mason's niece. She wants to join the military."
"Mason's niece?" The commander has his hair cut close to the scalp, brown skin, piercing eyes. His posture cuts a sharper silhouette than anyone she's been introduced to, so far, and she has an almost uncomfortable feeling as he stares at her. "David Anderson, I'm the XO on the SSV Hastings. I was just talking to our honored guest, here."
There comes a sound that seems to shake through Shep's bones. She blinks, turning her head. How did she miss the 7-foot alien? Its mouth comes apart in four places, sharp teeth, small, attentive eyes resting behind a curving facial plate with sharp edges. Its skin looks like metal, the skin of its neck looks like worn leather, and its face is adorned with stark, blue markings that make brown eyes pop against bronze, scaled skin. Shep can't resist glancing at the hands. Gloved, but they certainly don't look like they're concealing knives. Only three fingers on each hand, long, barely anything consisting of a palm. How do they hold things?
"Never seen a turian before, huh?" Clark sounds amused. Shep knows she's staring and she looks away, feeling her cheeks color. Stupid. Carmen always said she looks stupid when her blood drowns out her freckles, but maybe she's wearing enough makeup to cover it up.
"Not in person," Shep recovers, glancing back up, those brown eyes seem to stare right through her, like the commander's. She feels like she's in danger, somehow, even moreso than when she first walked over here. "Pardon my reaction. I didn't see you, somehow."
The turian opens her mouth and all of the parts move, sounds come out, but they sound mostly like clicks and vibration -- more hum and intonation than anything resembling a vowel or, heaven forbid, a consonant. Shep just furrows her brow a little.
"Sheesh, Mason really threw you to the sharks inviting you here, huh?" Welles removes something from his ears -- curved wires that terminate in a small speaker on the inner curl -- then fits them over Shep's ears. "Not even getting you a translator. I'm not really important enough for implants, and so, not really important enough to be talking to this esteemed dignitary anyway."
"Very funny," the turian says in a voice that sounds like if a cat could purr while sounding mildly disdainful. Feminine, no nonsense, but beautiful. "If you were important, you would be too busy to be here."
"He knows that," Anderson says, sighing. "We all know that."
"No idea what you just said, ma'am," Clark says, matter-of-factly. "I believe I spied an unattended LTJR Howe actually dancing, and alone no less. I'm just going to check if she needs an assist. You wouldn't mind talking to Jane for me, would you? She's interested in space."
I am? Shep mouths at Clark, hoping the turian's translator won't pick up on it. He just gives her two thumbs up and disappears, backwards, into the small crowd.
The turian shakes her head in a way that feels like rolling her eyes and she extends a hand. Shep hesitantly takes it. Aliens shake too, huh?
"General Minera Valerius. Your uncle was an honorable combatant. If you are planning on joining the Alliance, I hope you have that same honor."
She make it sound like they dueled with swords or something. Shep feels like she's talking to a samurai, not an alien.
"Thank you," Shep stammers, heart slamming into her ribs.
"I was sorry to hear about Mason's shuttle accident," Anderson says, somberly. "Let him know I wish him a speedy recovery."
"What?" Shep looks at him, eyes wide with confusion.
"Ah," the turian says, looking directly at Shep. "My condolences. He's a good man."
Shep instinctively looks to her omni-tool. She knew Welles wouldn't show up, Carmen assured her. But this is the facade she's built, this is the character -- the character didn't know, she didn't know he'd been hurt, she has to be--
"You didn't know," Anderson observes, more quietly. "I'm sorry."
"I-- I'll be right back," Shep says, backing up and weaving her way through the bodies.
Everyone here is so tall. One of those blue aliens is here, on the dance floor, being spun around in a billowing cloud of cloth by a man in uniform. This is such a bad place to be, everything's wrong. She tries to call Carmen, but she doesn't pick up. Tries again.
Again.
Nothing.
She clutches her hand to her chest and takes a long breath, exhaling, shuddering. How did Carmen know that Welles wouldn't be here? Why does she give a fuck? She's killed before. She's in a gang. She runs drugs, weapons, she's broken into so many homes, stolen so many shuttles and never once been caught. Hell, she pickpocketed a guy on the way over here. Why is she worried now?
Deep breath.
It's fine.
Shep picks her way back through the crowd, using the turian woman as a focal point, but when she arrives, Anderson is gone. Minera is sipping something from a flask, but she puts it away once she sees the human girl again.
"Hey," she says, soothingly. Odd place and time for it, given how many humans she must have helped kill on Shanxi. "You okay?"
"I couldn't get a hold of my mom," Shep says, and it's in-character, yes, the correct choice -- but she feels struck by how miserable she actually feels. "I was supposed to meet my uncle here, Lieutenant Clark was just showing me around until he showed up..."
"Let's go for a walk," Minera says, folding her hands behind her back. She looks stately, somehow. "You're probably the only person here who I don't have to worry about."
"Worry about?"
"There's a human phrase... stepping on eggs," the general says, stepping between a pair of ostentatious replicas of Greek pillars that surround the room, and Shep chokes on a laugh. The turian seems to take it as a sob and glances down at her, those things on the side of her face fluttering. "I'm sorry, I probably butchered that. You're probably upset about your uncle, and here I am, mangling idioms."
"No, it's okay." Shep sniffles to extend the illusion of the sob, then reaches a hand out to indicate for Minera to lead the way. The turian does so, walking toward the outer walls. "What are you worried about with everyone else?"
"Worry is perhaps the wrong word," Minera says, ambling over to a painting. Sheer, white curtains are pulled away from it -- the effect is stupid, like they put curtains over the paintings when the room isn't in use. Some people just have too much money and no taste. "The incident was not long ago. Your people have... a certain perception of mine, colored in the poor decisions of a few and a mountain of half-truths. This event is a farce, meant for humans to prove to us that they wish to celebrate moving past the incident. But you haven't, really."
The scales at the back of her neck are coppery, closer together against the base of the spine, farther apart on the sides. Minera turns her head to look at Shep with those piercing brown eyes.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," Shep responds instantly.
"It must have been terrifying for you," Minera says, gazing at the painting. Shep looks at it for the first time -- rich colors, clearly defining people that aren't clearly defined. It doesn't seem old, but it's evocative of Monet. A girl with orange hair, backlit by the sun streaming through a broken window, holding a swaddled baby in what seems to be a house being overtaken by weeds. One such weed twines up the girl's leg, jagged leaves curling away from her ankle. "Meeting other people in the galaxy for the first time and being forced to fight back immediately. You would have been a child at the time, correct?"
"I was about three," Shep says, still looking at the painting. She can feel the turian's gaze on her, but she doesn't look back.
"Humanity has done well integrating itself into galactic politics off of this planet," Minera says, beginning to walk toward the next painting. "But those from your planet coming up now will have grown up with the scars of the conflict. It will be generations before an event like this can be held without some form of... discontentment."
"That's what war does," Shep says.
"That's what conflict does," Minera says, disagreeing with her words in a tone that implies she agrees. Shep is fascinated by the ability of the translator to pick up on the nuance. "You are not Alliance. You have no reason to avoid offending me. Tell me, what are humans really worried about, when it comes to us?"
She feels defensive, suddenly, as if she's being broken open for information on humanity's weaknesses. Janelle, though -- what does Janelle Welles think? Janelle has a future in the military. Janelle doesn't like turians -- her uncle fought in the war, after all -- but she doesn't want to be blacklisted with them, or put her uncle in a bad light. Mason Welles is an honorable man who took prisoners instead of bodies. Something to satisfy both parties. A diplomatic option.
"Homogeneity," Shep says after a moment of thought. "Humans are afraid of homogeneity."
"An interesting answer," Minera replies, looking to the next painting. The same style, this one depicts some sort of grand dance -- men and women swirling around a dance floor in a sea of cloth and flame, beautiful tapestries hanging behind them on stone walls. Nothing like the meager, regimented moves being displayed on the dance floor here. "Why is that?"
"We love feeling special," Shep says in earnest, looking at the alien. "Doesn't everyone?"
Minera chuckles, ducking her head down for a moment.
"That's true."
They remain quiet for a moment, just looking at the painting. The more she looks, the less she feels like she sees.
"There's an asari restaurant opening downtown," Shep says, just letting her mouth move. She learned a long time ago that the best way to lie is to be honest when you can. "They're trying to put their spin on a regional dish, and a friend of mine is really upset about it. She's worried that a restaurant is going to turn into a whole town."
"Asari will do that to regional dishes," Minera says with a tone of humor to her voice. "But I wouldn't worry too much about it. Some aliens will be curious, but not enough to make us a common sight. Your friend can rest easy."
They view another few paintings. A man with long hair and a crook guiding a flock of sheep. A dark-skinned woman draped in sheer silk, gazing into a golden mirror. A little girl in a nightdress, arms covered with perching birds. It's still impressionism, but from the coloration and markings on the birds, Shep is confident that they're orioles. It takes every bone in her body not to bring it up.
Don't be weird.
"There's paint on your face," Shep says, instead. Minera looks down at her, mouth flickering.
"Yours, as well. What does yours mean?"
It doesn't mean anything.
"Just that I'm trying to look nice," Shep says, intrigued by the implications of the question. "What does yours mean?"
"Our facial markings are a holdover from the Unification War." Minera traces over hers with her fingers. "Turians held many colonies, once. Each one became independent of Palaven, increasingly proud of themselves, increasingly distrustful of others. They began painting their faces, crafting insignia to wear so they could be easily identified by their peers. Their rabid self-obsession became violence toward the other colonies, breaking out into war. People, ways of life -- entire cultures were destroyed. Palaven was finally able to liberate the people of those colonies from the self-destructive nature of their leadership, but colony markings have become a method of keeping that pride intact. Palaven even developed some of their own, long after the fact."
"The turian homeworld," Shep says, mulling over all of the information. "Why would Palaven develop colony markings after the conflict? Wouldn't it make more sense not to wear any?"
Minera chuckles, tapping at the geometric blue paint on one of her mandibles.
"We love feeling special. Doesn't everyone?"
Shep can't help the smile that appears on her mouth. A finger taps her shoulder.
Ah. Clark.
"I'll be taking Miss Welles," he says, slow and clear, like he's talking to a child, or a simpleton.
"You sound like an idiot," Minera says drily, crossing her arms.
"Can't understand you," Clark proclaims, giving her a thumbs up as he guides Shep away. "Hope you enjoy the party!"
Shep's blood goes cold almost immediately as he leads her to the dance floor.
"I can't dance," she whispers, gently fighting his guidance, but Clark just laughs, pulling her around, setting a hand on her waist, the other on her shoulder.
"Sorry for leaving you, didn't think Anderson would abandon you like that."
"I don't dance," Shep insists, pulling at her arm, but he doesn't let go.
"Dancing's just an excuse to get you to the other side of the room without being suspicious. Didn't want the skullface getting offended."
That's a human slur for turians, first coined by soldiers on Shanxi. She's had to have heard it a hundred times, by now, but this time, it bugs her.
"Walking on eggshells," she suggests, and Clark laughs, stepping backward. She follows, unsure as he spins them around.
"You know how it is. Alliance brass wants us to be friendly with the enemy, but they send us to Philadelphia -- not Vancouver, not London. Philadelphia. City of brotherly love."
"What's wrong with Philadelphia?" Shep minds her mouth. She's a wealthy military brat from Kentucky, her uncle is a captain from Missouri. Her house has a pool in the backyard. She doesn't care about this city. Never been in it until today.
"Nothing! It's nothing," Clark says, spinning her around again, taking a step back. She stumbles over her own feet, keeps looking down. There's music playing, she only just noticed. "It's just so... intentional. Asari eat that shit up. Grand displays of sentimentality. The pandering. The turians and salarians know it's bullshit, too. Pretty sure the salarian's just an actor, their politicians don't have the time to fuck around with this kind of an event, and it's not like we can tell the difference between them. Valerius is probably being punished for only shooting to disable during the war, the coward."
"My uncle shot to disable," Shep says, feeling defensive again, suddenly. "Risked his life when he did it. They gave him a Star of Terra."
"Your uncle got us information that would have helped us beat the turians, if they hadn't given up. He's a hero." Another turn, a step. Turn and step. Shep trips a little, and Clark lets her. "Valerius is just weak-willed. Doubt they'll demote her since we ended up becoming buddies with the other aliens, though."
Turn, step. Turn, step. They pass by the asari and and her current dance partner, and Clark stays quiet. They've moved about a quarter of the way across the room.
"They've been sending her to these parties for fourteen years," he starts up again when the asari passes, quiet. "I doubt she'll ever advance in the military again."
Shep thinks that's terrible. Being a prisoner is preferable to being dead. She would know -- she's killed a lot of Hawks and Wolves in turf wars, and they certainly would have preferred to live. She's sure the turians that Captain Welles captured felt the same way when they got to go home.
"I'm cutting in," comes another man's voice. It's Commander Anderson. Shep removes the translator cuffs from her ears, hands them back to Clark.
"In case I don't see you again tonight, Lieutenant," she says politely. It's the nicest way she can think of to get rid of him.
He takes the cuffs, bows, and disappears backward into the crowd, probably to bother that second lieutenant again.
Anderson takes up the same position Clark was in, but he takes smaller steps back, making it easier for Shep to follow, though not nearly as graceful.
"You looked uncomfortable," Anderson says, plainly, spinning her much slower, so she doesn't fall. "I'll hail you a cab, if you want to leave."
"It's alright, I want to stay a little longer," Shep says, looking up from her feet to look at that uncomfortable stare of his. Feels like he looks through her. One rotation around the dance floor should be enough to ease suspicion, she can return to one of the people she met earlier and continue digging--
"Captain Welles is an old friend of mine," Anderson says, spinning her, stepping back. Shep isn't getting any better at doing it, but she hasn't fallen yet, and that's a win in her book. There's something about the way everyone else is able to move to the music, like they know it, despite how old it is -- but she can't predict it. She feels out of place. "He has two sisters and two brothers."
"I know," Shep says, furrowing her brows a little bit. "Two first lieutenants, a staff commander, and Aunt Aggie's a major."
"Aunt Aggie," Anderson echoes, spinning Shep again, her braid whipping around behind her. "Then of course you know that neither of Mason's brothers have children."
Shep stops where she stands, but Anderson pulls her toward him while she stumbles along. There are only a few steps to this dance, but she can't keep them straight. Forward, back, spin, step back--
"How did you end up with the same last name?"
"I just decided to introduce myself that way," Shep replies, hastily. Not technically a lie. "I didn't think anyone here would be nice to me if I introduced myself with my father's last name."
"Hm," Anderson hums, spinning her again. She stumbles, barely catching herself. She's not even wearing heels.
"You're trying to trip me," Shep accuses him, trying to pull back, but he doesn't let her. Doesn't hurt her, but makes it clear that she'll be making a scene if she breaks away.
"A friend of mine has an interest in the development of the human brain," Anderson says, turning her a little faster this time. The music swells and he picks her up -- she wants to fight it, at first, until she sees other people held aloft across the dance floor -- it's part of the dance. He sets her down, immediately resumes stepping back. "Did you know that a human who is never taught rhythm as a child may never be able to learn it?"
Shep spins again, dizzy. The dress isn't really made for dancing in -- too tight around the thighs. Carmen promised that she wouldn't have to dance.
"I'm dizzy," Shep says, also not a lie.
"I don't think you're the niece of Mason Welles," Anderson says, spinning her again. She stumbles a lot harder this time, but he catches her on his arm, stepping back, pulling her with him. "I think you're a war orphan."
"A war orphan?" Shep manages to sound incredulous, she thinks, but her heart is racing -- she stands up as quickly as possible so the commander won't notice. "What would a war orphan want at an Alliance military ball?"
"Revenge," Anderson says, quieter this time. He tilts her back, but not far enough that she has to trust him to hold her back. Upside down, she sees General Valerius, discretely waving at her from the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by a small group of human lieutenants. He mercifully dances Shep far enough away that the turian wouldn't be able to hear. "You didn't have a clear shot, but you tried to get her away from the rest of the party as soon as I left her side."
"I wouldn't--"
Anderson spins her again and she looks at the ceiling for the first time, a fresco or something -- women and winged babies, grapes, waves, clouds. If she were trying to kill Valerius, she would have tried to get her away from the party. She's good at getting people to follow her. People like her, for some reason.
"I think you're a misguided, angry teenager in a stolen dress with a knife strapped to her leg," Anderson says, and Shep flushes.
"I am a teenager with a knife," Shep says quietly. "But the other things, I think, are awfully presumptuous."
Anderson raises a brow, twirls her again. "At least you admit to the knife."
"This is a dangerous city," Shep says, and it's easier to lie when you tell the truth, sometimes. "I'd be stupid not to have one."
"Why are you here?" Spins her again. Her head hurts.
"I don't know," Shep lies, and this time, Anderson dips her down straight out of the spin. She can feel her braid touch her floor. Is this torture? Is this what torture feels like? She has to disarm the situation, she can't escape without being caught, but he's literally keeping her off balance. Her head is swimming.
Why bother with this nonsense when he can just have her arrested? Surely she's committing some sort of heinous crime against the military, just with the impersonation and infiltration -- all intentions aside.
"Why are you here?" He dips her lower. The soles of her flats aren't built to withstand this much weight at such an angle, she's slipping. She's going to fall and cause a scene if he doesn't pick her up.
"I don't understand why," she says this time, the truth. Grips his arms, desperate for some sort of control over the situation. "I was just told to come here. Please don't drop me."
He picks her up.
"Who sent you?" The music picks up, Shep thinks -- it's the only reason everyone could have started moving so quickly around them. It's been two revolutions around the circle. Shep doesn't answer, just looking at their feet again, trying to keep up. "Who?"
"I can't tell you," she says, and she's never really felt small before. "Are you going to kill me?"
Anderson is the one who stumbles this time, and it scares her enough that she looks up at him. It's the first time he's looked anything other than serious since she's met him -- he's caught off guard.
Good!
Good.
She can use that.
"I'm not going to--" He catches what he's saying and breathes out, looking down at her. "Where do you live?"
"A warehouse," she says. Another truth. Lots of warehouses out there.
"Do you have a job?"
"So to speak."
This is a fun game. He seems to be getting more frustrated.
"What's your name?"
"Janelle Welles," she says, smiling. Eyes big. He spins her again, but she manages this time, landing her hand back on his, twisting her hip a little to show off that she didn't stumble. "But you can call me Jane."
"We're far past the point of entertaining that, child," he says. "Your name."
"Don't know," she sings out, stepping forward into his backstep.
"Ah," he says, finally. "You don't have one."
She falls, this time. There isn't even a twirl, she just connects a toe to the floor and the knee buckles, the rest of her going after it.
The other dancers spin on around them, the music goes on. She just braces her hands on the shiny floor, staring at the gleaming reflection of her face in the shadow of her body.
Commander Anderson picks her up from under her arms takes her by the hand, leads her silently through the crowd.
"Commander," calls out a huge woman, arms crossed. "What's up with the little girl? She looks sick."
"It's Mason's niece," he says. "She needs some air."
She did need some air. She hasn't been this high up in a while -- the last time was when she took out a Hawk lieutenant from a block away. She sits on the short wall at the edge of the deck and takes a deep breath. This high up, she can actually see the stars, sort of: the big, shimmering cloud must be the moon.
"You're young, for an informant," Anderson says, handing her a glass of water. It could be poisoned, but he could also just push her off. Not like anyone would be able to identify the body of a kid with no name. "Are you independent? Mercenary?"
"Can't say," Shep says. "I'm sorry, you're really nice, but I won't die for you."
"Hm," Anderson says. "You worry a lot about death, for someone so young."
"I've seen a lot of people die for someone my age," she says, and that's true. "How many people have you killed?"
He's quiet for a while. Good. Maybe it'll stop him from asking questions and making insights.
Across the street, she can see the Octavius Catto memorial, and he looks small, from here. A Quest for Parity, the series was called. She doesn't know how many times she's walked by that statue and wondered how a twelve-foot metal man could look like he was being chosen. Chosen for what? For something.
"More than I've wanted to," Anderson says, finally. "And probably fewer than I think."
He joins her, sitting on the wall. She could push him over. Get back to the party. Get something resembling valuable information so Carmen won't-- "How many people have you killed?"
She thinks about it. Four assassinations to date, probably a dozen in skirmishes with other gangs, who knows how many people in the process of moving red sand around. The Reds love throwing their weight around, and Shep weighs a lot, for her size. That doesn't mean she doesn't wonder if there are other ways, sometimes.
"About the same," she decides.
He sighs.
"You should think about joining the Alliance for real," he says, and she looks at him like he's an insane person, which he must be. "Start over. Three square meals a day, somewhere to sleep. Sounds like a better deal than whatever you've got now."
"You don't know what I've got right now."
"Whatever it is, the Alliance can give you more. A few years will get you an education at any human school, if you want it."
"Don't need one."
It's tempting, though.
"That's too bad," Anderson says, and he sounds like he really does think it's too bad. "We could use more soldiers like you out there."
"Like me?" She blinks.
"Loyal. Resourceful. Adaptable. Plus, you made General Valerius laugh. I've been coming to these things for years. Never seen that happen."
"Ha. My coworkers say I'm weird enough to be an alien." She kicks her legs over the side, daring her flats to fall off. They don't. "First time I've ever heard it as a compliment."
"You made an effort, and there's something to be said for that. More than most of the guys down there can say for themselves."
"You make it all sound so easy," she sighs.
"I think, for you, it will be." He gets up. "I'm heading back inside. You should go home."
"Yeah," Shep says, all of the wind knocked out of her sails. "I should."
The receptionist stops her as she passes the front desk. "You're Miss Welles, right?"
"That's right," Shep says, turning back around with a smile. "Did you need something?"
"Our turian guest wanted me to thank you for the company. I hope you had a pleasant evening."
"It was enlightening," Shep says, turning back away. "Thank you for telling me."
Carmen mercifully allows her a shower before their meeting, so she spends the whole time combing fingers through her wet hair, water dripping down onto an old sweatshirt.
"First Lieutenant Martin Clark hates aliens. Mostly turians, but that's pretty standard. He's an idiot." She holds out another finger, counting out her facts. "Lieutenant Commander Robert Shields has been cheating on his wife for at least five years. He kept making off-color jokes in Spanish, so that's probably relevant in his mind. Commander Katherine Smalls hates turians. Just being in the same room with one left her muttering and shifty-eyed the entire time I observed her. Second Lieutenant Marion Bates took off her wedding ring just before Commander Marcus Faraday came over to say hello to her. Faraday went on to mention something about retiring, but it sounded like Bates talked him out of it."
Carmen is lazily typing this all into a datapad. Shep neglects to mention anything about Commander Anderson or General Valerius. Somehow, she doesn't feel like it would go over well.
"Is that everything, Shepherd?"
"Yes, boss."
"Good." She flicks a pointed nail at the door. "Tell Pinch she's got thirty minutes left to break open the Wolf girl before we put her down like a dog. I have some calls to make."
"Yes, boss."
"And Shepherd," she says, holding the silence in between for a moment. "Good work."
"--if you don't, she's gonna kill you," Pinch is saying when Shep walks into the interrogation room. "I don't really care if you die, but I'm guessing you do."
When Carmen said girl, she really meant girl. The person in that chair can't be more than thirteen. Dark skin, curly hair, big, wet eyes. Shep made her first kill at thirteen, but it's different to see thirteen in this context.
"Oh, Shep," Pinch says, bored. "There you are. Was wondering when you'd be home."
"Major's gonna come get me," the girl says, voice wavering. Her mouth is bloody. Shep sees a tooth on the floor. She's clearly been crying, but the quiet kind. "The Wolves are gonna rip this place apart."
"Aw, Shep," Pinch says, putting her hands on Shep's shoulders. "Canis Major's gonna come get her. He loves her so much!"
"She's a kid," Shep says, quietly. Pinch snorts, towering over Shep's head.
"We're all kids. Who cares? This kid needs to give us information on where the Wolves are hiding our red sand." Pinch hauls off and kicks her in the side. Shep grabs her arm, pulls her away.
"Torture has been proven time and time again to be an ineffective method of obtaining valid information," Shep blurts out and Pinch just laughs at her.
"God. You're such a fuckin' nerd. Works fine, in my experience. 'Sides, this isn't even that bad." Pinch tilts her head to one side. Her hair is falling out of its tie again. "Remember that time you accidentally called Carmen mom and she broke your nose? We were like, 6. That was worse."
"This is worse," Shep claims, and Pinch rolls her eyes, pulling an arm back. "She's too young. No way she'd know where the Wolves keep their product."
"Bleeding heart with no bite," Pinch says, and Shep tackles her to the floor. One second, two seconds. Grabs her by the hair and bashes it into the concrete.
Pinch is unresponsive. Shep holds her hand over her mouth to feel breath, checks her pulse -- still alive.
She's shaking. They'll find her. They're supposed to execute the girl in 30 minutes. Pinch will be fine.
She rushes over to the girl, untying her from the chair. Seconds later, the girl has a knife, and she's pointing it at Shep.
"I know how to use this," she threatens, and Shep has no doubts that she does.
"What's your name," Shep says, ignoring the knife, turning around to open the window. The girl won't stab her, if she's lucky.
She's lucky.
"I'm Skye," the girl says, rapidly adapting to her change in fortune, and the knife is gone when she rushes over to the window. It's high up, horizontal -- the kind that opens outward. It's not a great option, but it's better than potentially getting spotted by the other Reds trying to help a Wolf escape. "I can't climb that high."
"It's fine," Shep says, grabbing the chair and pulling it up to the wall. She's short, but she has good upper arm strength. "I'll help you up."
She steps up onto the chair, then picks up Skye, carefully turning her to get her hands on the edge of the window. It's narrow, but they're both small. They'll fit. A quick boost up and the girl pulls herself up and over the edge, Shep following after, letting herself down into the dark. It's cooler by the river, but they need to move, quick. Shep rushes for one of the skycars in the back, opens it with her omni-tool -- Byte's omni-tool. Byte's former omni-tool.
It feels like a fever dream. Shep gets out at the Ritz, Skye trailing behind her -- Shep gives her the sweatshirt, to hide how bad her face looks. The receptionist is the same one from earlier and he looks startled to see her again, dressed so differently, clearly frantic.
"Hello, miss, your uncle still hasn't checked in--"
"What room is Captain David Anderson staying in?" The receptionist blinks, offering an unsure smile.
"I'm afraid I can't just give that information away--"
"Please call him for me. Tell him Jane Welles is here to see him. It's urgent."
It's an ungodly late hour, so it's not like he's doing anything better, but he still seems unsure as he dials the room up. The conversation is brief, and after about thirty seconds, the receptionist sighs, looking at her.
"Room 402. Please don't wake the other guests."
Shep steps into the elevator immediately, pounds the key for the 4th floor. Skye stays quiet. She's probably wondering why they're here. Shep is wondering the same thing, truth be told. Maybe it's just that Anderson is the only person she knows who won't just kill her, kill the girl, or call the cops.
Anderson is standing in the doorway when they arrive, and his brow immediately furrows when he sees the second girl.
"Who--"
"Inside," Shep says, pulling Skye through the doorway and past him. He closes the door and sits on the end of the bed -- the covers are mussed, he was probably sleeping, but he doesn't act it at all. Skye pulls the hood back from her head and her hair falls around her face. Anderson wrinkles his nose at the state of her face.
"What happened?"
"Her name is Skye. The Reds were trying to get information out of her," Shep says, holding her own arms. "She's with the Wolves, but she's too young. They'll just keep coming after her."
"I want to go home," Skye says, suddenly understanding that the way things are going, she's not going to see Canis Major or his lackeys again.
"Where are your parents, Skye?" Anderson is much gentler here. He sounds old.
"Dead," Skye says. She's too young to be a war orphan. Her parents were probably Wolves, before. "I want to go home."
"Watch her," Anderson says, looking directly at Shep. "I'm making a call."
"I hate you," Skye says, miserably. At least her face is clean, now. "Major would've come for me."
"Yeah," Shep says. "But I got there first. Sorry."
CPS will be there in the morning, according to Anderson, and he's tasked Shep with watching Skye until then to make sure she doesn't run away. Skye is comically dwarfed by the second bed in the room and just sits up the whole time, arms crossed.
"I want to go home."
"You don't have a home," Shep says. "You have a job. You're not even allowed to drive and you have a job that expects you to die for it."
"Major doesn't want me to die," Skye says, pouting.
"No, but it won't matter to him either way if you live or die."
"Carmen doesn't care about you," Skye retorts sharply. "She doesn't care if you live or die, either! She's a bitch."
"Watch your language," Shep says, even though Carmen has killed people, and is a bitch. "Carmen probably cares if I live or die now."
"Yeah," Skye says smugly, burrowing under the sheets. "Shouldn't have saved me. You're stupid."
How will she go back? What can she even do to make up for it?
It's not even really Carmen that Shep's worried about -- Carmen will beat her half to death, wait for her to heal, and give her some assassinations. She's a useful tool and weapon; she won't kill Shep outright, probably, but she won't trust her again. Not for a while. It's Pinch. She, Pinch, and Leer all grew up together -- been through everything together. How is she supposed to come back from betraying one of her best friends?
It's late enough that morning comes before long, and Shep doesn't sleep a wink. She's pretty sure Skye fell asleep, but it's hard to know with kids that are actively trying to escape. Sometimes they're just pretending. There's a knock on the door around 7 AM and Shep gets up to answer it before Anderson does. It's a young man in a military uniform.
"Hello," he says. "Is Commander Anderson here?"
"Present and accounted for," Anderson says, appearing behind Shep. She glances at him -- he's already in his uniform. How did he do that so fast? "She's the one. Talk outside, if it's no trouble."
"Oh, no trouble at all," the man says. Shep just sort of looks at Anderson as he pushes her out of the room, closing the door behind her. Leaving her to this odd early bird of a man. "So, the commander tells me you're interested in enlisting."
"Did he now," Shep deadpans.
"That's right," the recruiter says, either oblivious or undeterred. "He mentioned you might not have legal documentation, but to take your word for it on his authority and construct a profile, so I'll just ask you a few questions, if that's alright."
Ha. So this is what he meant when he said it would be easy.
"Sure," she says. It's not like she can go back to the Reds. Not really. And it might be nice, getting paid. Going to space. Maybe kill something that deserves it, for once. "What do you need?"
"Name?"
"Shepherd," she says.
"First name?"
"Janelle." It's the last person she was, and it's the last person she'll be, if this turns out the way Anderson hopes it will.
"Birthday?"
"April," Shep starts, reasoning out the math in her head, "11th, 2154." That should safely make her old enough to enlist. And hey, now she'll have a birthday to celebrate. She just keeps winning with this enlistment thing.
"Blood type?"
"O negative."
"Any medical conditions we should know about?"
"I still think the Eagles can win the Super Bowl again, does that count?"
The recruiter snorts, turns the datapad around for her to look at. "Does everything look right?"
He spelled her name wrong, but... she kind of prefers it with the A. It's like Snip's Steele -- it feels professional. Like a real person's name, but it's still her.
"Looks good to me," she says.
"Excellent. A shuttle of new recruits will be leaving from the Philadelphia spaceport tonight at 6 PM sharp. Don't be late."
She salutes him -- she's pretty sure she has to do that now -- he just laughs and walks away. Anderson opens the door again, not a moment later.
"So you know your blood type, but not your birthday?"
"Birthday doesn't save you when the medic's trying to keep your heart beating," she shrugs. "I've been in the Reds since I was three. Didn't exactly know what months were, back then."
"Well," Anderson says, extending a hand. "It's good to finally meet you, Serviceman Shepard."
"The pleasure's all mine," Shepard says, shaking it with force. "I'm sure you'll learn to regret it."