Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On April 11, 2154, one well-known, widowed mother dies in childbirth and two new baby Shepards are born. Somewhere in the depths of datapads and garbage data, there’s a clear time on which Shepard came first.

Unfortunately, there’s no first name wishes from the mother prior to her death, and the doctors and nurses don’t want to form any attachment to the orphan twins, so the boy is named John, and the girl is named Jane.

They grow up in an orphanage for exactly six years, hanging onto each other – John tags along after Jane, Jane clings to John. No one ever guesses they are twins, except for the way they talk in unison and have an uncanny sense of locating the other.

John’s thick dark hair gets in his blue eyes all the time, and it takes Jane only ten minutes to grab the pair of scissors the caretaker owns to cut her red hair in a jagged fringe. Her green eyes scare the other children from any bully attempts.

When they are six and a half, a married couple swings by the orphanage – two men, dressed in old-style clothes like flannel shirts with the cuffs rolled up to their elbows. The couple takes one look at his sad puppy face and they collectively ‘aw’.

Wisely, the caretaker warns them that they have to take John’s twin sister, who is becoming a hellion to all trying to take advantage of John’s charitable nature.

“Aw, so protective,” one coos.

“But we only have room for one,” the other sighs. They’re overlooking the kids in the yard, and the few things they notice is that Jane and John surround themselves with only a choice few, all misfits, the caretaker informs the couple. They look like they’re playing cards.

The taller of the couple implores the caretaker, “Can’t we just, you know, adopt John and let him see his sister every couple of months?”

No one sees Jane’s head perk up and swivel towards them.

“Why can’t you house both of them?”

“Look, we live in an apartment and – Jane looks like a trouble-maker.”

Green eyes narrow into slits, and though John takes note and follows her glare, she gestures for him to ignore it for now.

“We’ll adopt John,” the shorter one says decisively.

“You can pick him up in a week.”

We’ll be gone in a week, thinks Jane.

That night, Jane creeps over to the boys’ section and wakes John up. “John,” she whispers, harsh and low. “You gotta wake up.”

Sleepy blue-eyed John mutters back, already aware that Jane wants privacy, “Wha’ we doin’?”

“We’re leavin’ this place.”

-

The streets alone are not very accommodating to six year old children.

The leader of the Reds, however, is very happy to accommodate two new kids wanting in on the thug life (initially as cannon fodder and pitiful looking urchins). The only shtick they give him is the entire ‘we stick together or we stick you’ spiel.

They get new hairstyles – John buzzes his hair far too close to the scalp on one side, and Eric the gang-barber absolutely refuses to let John walk out with a punk hairstyle, so he buzzes his hair entirely. Jane, on the other hand, finally gets a decent trim.

“Yeah? No?”

He gives her a chubby thumbs-up. “Yeah.”

-

John learns how to shoot a pistol really well. He also learns how to steal, pickpocket, and haggle like the angry shopkeepers that have to deal with American tourists. His resumé as a street-kid and member of the Reds rises with every successful getaway and shootout.

With Jane – Jane gets special treatment, primarily because she’s one of the few girls. The Reds aren’t into prostitution (and the government’s cracked down on that road hard over the past years) and Jane would probably bite someone in the jugular before they laid a hand on her.

So she gets training in the single sniper rifle the Reds have managed to snatch from the Alliance vans, and getting good at the rifle is the only way Jane can follow John on his raids and the lone heist. Later, when the Red leader trusts her, Jane is gifted a textbook education in hacking.

John corners her when they are sixteen and pros at thug life. “Jane,” he says in earnest, looking way too innocent for what he might ask for. “Guess what?”

“What,” says Jane.

“No, no, seriously, come on. Guess.” He’s holding something behind his back.

“You stole us tickets to the theater?”

His brow furrows, like she’s deeply offended his morals (Jane doesn’t get how he’s retained any ethical code while hitching a ride with her in the Reds, but she loves him all the more for it). “No,” John repeats quizzically. “Did you want tickets to the theater?”

“No, they’re showing shit nowadays. What’s in your hands?”

A bright grin, and then he’s showing off a shiny new rifle. “Stole it from one of the visiting C-Sec officers.”

She accepts it with the usual grace and hugs him until he starts choking.

This is, of course, to distract her from the fact that he has a ticket to the new Mindoir colony for her. Jane is sixteen, and John knows well that the streets – the streets the gangs roam – are not safe, even for a ruthless sniper.

-

“You’re a fucking asshole,” she tells him exactly twice. Once is over video, where she is at Mindoir in a room with a hacked terminal. Jane is pissed, extremely so, and John thinks it is fate for her to have the Irish coloring of fire-red hair. He tells her so and adds a quip about ‘don’t burn down the colony’.

Because the Shepards have no luck, the Mindoir colony burns down the next month due to batarians (shitheads, Jane’s voice spits). Despite John’s frantic calls to the Alliance, he makes zero contact with his twin for the next two years. In therapy, they say, solemn tones and empty of empathy. In recovery, they explain, dismissing a seventeen year old’s – a seventeen year old orphan’s – desperate attempts to reconnect to his sister.

He adapts to the absence at his side and his six. John learns how to hack a terminal like she did, though his art is less efficient – in comparison to Jane’s fluid style of ‘connecting the dots’, John punches in code, line by line, breaking down firewalls with something akin to a hammer.

Get in the AM, John sends across the extranet to a million billion people. He does this for a year until he is eighteen and temporarily free from the slum life – then he runs for the nearest Alliance station and signs up for that shit so fast, he’s still out of breath when the Reds start thundering down a street searching for him.

Less than two months later, when he’s undergoing a grueling training routine, Anderson escorts him into an empty cafeteria. He feels his stomach drop, or maybe his heart crawls up his throat – he’d been good. He hadn’t even stabbed any asshole for stealing the last of the milk cartons. That’s a feat.

“Wait here,” orders Anderson, and he leaves for a minute, just enough so that John can steel his spine, ready his arguments for his continued stay at the Alliance Academy –

Anderson strolls back in, his face cautious, a teenager of eighteen on his arm. Red-haired and green-eyed and with the pissed-off expression John’s always kept clear in his memory, Jane Shepard stalks into the cafeteria.

Like any wise man, Anderson departs before he’s witness to an explosive (no, literally, one of two Shepards has a habit of hiding bastardized explosive hybrids on their person, and it isn’t him) reunion.

At the sight of her, John blurts out the first thing in his mind: “So you did get the message, right, Jane?”

The ominous orange glow of her omni-tool lights up into existence on her left arm. “You’re a fucking asshole,” she seethes at him, and god, John should not be so happy when his twin is trying to beat him into the floor.

-

“Recovery? I didn’t go to recovery, what the fuck,” says Jane. “What happened to you? You never learned to hack a terminal before – “ She trips head over heels on her words. “Before this.”

They are sitting across from each other at a cafeteria table – the table’s elongated rectangular surface amplifies the solitary atmosphere in which they’ve been sequestered in.

He spreads his arms wide. “Had to cover all our bases, right?” His twin makes a conceding grunt, and damn, John’s close to sighing at the nostalgia building up. “Anyway, it was an educational two years.”

Jane reaches over the table and claps his burly shoulder, business becoming clear on her face. “Good, because now we have to find out how to stick together.” The statement catches John off-guard; why wouldn’t they stick together, they practically are a squad by themselves, especially if Jane’s been polishing her aim. Jane sees the bewildered expression and clarifies, “We’re twins, dummy. Even if we were apart by a couple years, there’s like, a hundred and twenty-eight regs preventing families together in the army.”

“So we just show our skills together?”

It seems so simple: pair up, win wars, hold petty victories over each other’s heads (most money stolen, most food stolen, and the last contest had been most police hugged, because nothing was more hilarious than hugging police officers in the slums).

She rests her elbows on the table, interlocks her fingers, and rests her chin on the lattice of fingers. “Not just a display of skill,” she murmurs, her green eyes going unfocused with contemplation. “It has to be something so amazing, they can’t risk splitting us up.”

John sees several flaws in this strategy. “No,” he disagrees. “We’re a liability if we can’t adapt to new teams. Even if we’re pretty bomb at doing things together.”

“Toss in new people to our group,” she throws out. “You take point, I handle your back, we protect the newbies.”

“Jane, it’s gotta be shared labor.”

“Sorry if I need to trust people to not shoot your toe off, John.”

-

They misle their way past the training officers, but it’s worth it to feel the easy way John slides back into combat with Jane at his back covering his five, six, seven, eight. No training can deliver results like the fluid motions of the Shepard twins on a battlefield, where the twin-psyche shit is cranked to eleven and they can flip strategies on one another like hot damn without losing track. If the tide of victory turns away from Jane’s side, John is right there with his shotgun to sweep out the trash.

Likewise, if John is being peppered with fire from enemies too far for him to snipe (and she knows he can’t snipe, although he claims it’s always windy), Jane is right there with a tampered Hammer I picking them off like a pro.

(they’re being called the Shepard Strike Team and hell if John knows what Jane thinks of it, but he’s absolutely in love with the name)

“Don’t know how you did it, you two, but I have to say I’m terrified of what your future holds,” says Anderson drily.

Cheerful, John almost says, We totally twinned it, when Jane points a dirty look at his direction.

“We totally twinned it,” she says with a straight face.

John could almost kick her, but he opts for instead a shit-faced grin. “Sir, thank you for the chance to make this happen,” he says earnestly.

Anderson magnanimously waves a large hand. “Can’t see families go to waste, especially in the military. Nice to see a hunch turn out well, in any case.”

-

The Shepard twins are in the Alliance military as normal grunts for precisely three years. Then, as one will follow the other (with usually no space in-between), they ascend the ranks slowly, with every military operation tucked under their belt.

And then the Skyllian Blitz disaster happens, and humanity needs specialists.

“You noob,” she wails, beating his face effectually with her armored hands. Her twin is developing purple bruises along his jaw, but it probably adds to the dashing soldier look he thinks he’s got going on. “I hate you and all your patriotic asshat ideas.”

“Listen,” he says, bracing himself for another round with her fists. Hacking attempts to fry the circuitry in his armor are banned from wrestling and sparring, and it puts them on somewhat even ground. John tries to elbow her own jaw, but big burly idiot he is, he just clumsily knocks her shoulder. “No, listen – ow, what the fuck, Jane?”

It’s a good time to mention they are both armored – both of them like to put everything in perspective and be as lazy as possible, so they’ve reasoned it out like this: go out on military exercises in armor, catalogue weaknesses in slowing movement, come back to base and train in armor until flexible.

Jane has stepped on his toe, by the way.

She slaps the side of his head. “N7. You signed us up to Anderson for the N-track to become N7s.”

“Uh, no,” John contradicts her. “Anderson told us we were N7-material and said he’d sponsor us for promotion whether or not we agreed.” He gives her a stern, piercing blue look. “You were sleeping, so I said, why not?”

“’Why not?’ ‘Why not?’”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the epitome of patriotism?”

John pauses. Congratulates her. “Huh, didn’t think of it that way. Great perspective, Jane.”

-

The N-program’s training weeks are in Rio de Janeiro, and here is what Jane knows of Rio de Janeiro prior to being shipped out there with her twin brother. It is hot. Not attractively hot, but she is sure she’d see her fill of the attractively hot. More of the bastardly hot, where the oppressive heat eventually suffocates all human life.

Even John looks disgruntled. “It’s hot,” he says, needlessly.

“It’s pretty hot,” she agrees, just to focus on something other than the shimmering heatwave two feet in front of her. “I’ve said I hate you, right?” she asks, blithe.

“So many times.”

“I hate you.”

-

The N-program is accompanied with shadowing other military operations, and maybe it’s not always a good thing to have both of them on the same team, because if there is a rule the Shepard twins do not believe in, it is radio silence.

“I’m going to buy jerky when we get home,” says Jane. The silence in the shuttle had been deafening, and no, she’s not sitting through the rest of the mission up top in the rafters quietly.

“Radio silence, Shepard-One,” says Captain Tammy. Her patience is infinite, and even if the regs are against it, Tammy knows the benefits of banter. Evidence – ‘Shepard-One’.

“Not the spicy kind,” John interrupts. “You buy like, ten, and it’s just nine too much.”

Jane’s offended. “What are you accusing me of?”

“You think you put food away like a trashcan, eating it whole, but really, Jane. It takes you an hour to finish one jerky stick.”

Captain Tammy sighs good-naturedly, and yes, the Shepard twins hear the muffled sniggering of the squad she and her twin are shadowing.

-

They only need to split up for one mission during the Skyllian Blitz for the famous Shepard luck to ensnare them in its claws.

Jane joins a mission to Akuze, pulling together a cheery (if bitchily friendly) attitude to her colleagues. They’re investigating a non-responsive human colony at the edge of Systems Alliance space, and Jane has spent so much effort memorizing her fifty-man Alliance Marines unit’s faces. To them, and to the rest of the Alliance, she is still an Alliance marine. Not yet N7 (although pretty damn close), and the comradery they extend to her is… new.

Upon reaching the settlement, it is empty. Hollow.

A trap.

She’s never encountered a thresher maw outside a vehicle, and to be honest? It is fucking terrifying. Twenty men are lost the first night, the ambush at camp. The maw comes out of the ground with a screech, spitting acid everywhere.

Rocks tumble off rumbling mountains, adding to the panic and cacophony of death.

Pulling her rifle close to her chest and her pistol hitched tight at her thigh, Jane endures the first night. Then the next, after a brief deathcount is conducted and the thresher maws ambush them in broad daylight, pushed by something (she doesn’t know how, but this, this cannot just be a ‘bad day’) to crush their makeshift shelters.

Another twenty-five are lost. There are six left, including her, and at least four are traumatized beyond belief. Huddled over a bumpy surface of the cliffs, Jane crouches low with the others and finds it herself to call the Alliance.

“No, you fucking listen to me, you arrogant two-faced shitbag,” Jane Shepard snarls into the microphone. “You will send a shuttle to Akuze, I don’t fucking care if I was never promoted in-field to leader, we’re dying.”

Hushed, the comm goes dead quiet, and then it is a burst of staticky shouting.

“Get – coordinates – her – team!”

Jane slaps Corporal Toombs’s stupid terrified face back into action and shouts at him, “Coordinates, Corporal!” The big compass-nerd he is, he’s spitting longitude, latitude, and a whole list of platitudes aimed at calming her down. She’s waving him away when she yells at her omni-tool (and the station off-world): “GET US OUT.”

Corporal Toombs looks up at her, timid. “Are we – are we gonna get out, Shepard?”

She grabs him by the shoulder, looks him dead in the eye. “One way or another,” she swears, “at least one of us is getting out. I might die. You might die. Even fucking Joey over there might die. But at least one of us will get through this.”

Only she gets out.

Staggering through the gales of dust and wind and damn, damned sand, Jane weeps her way aboard the shuttle and refuses any sympathy, only asking for a line to her brother.

“John,” she gasps out in-between sobs. The static image of him, helmeted and clad in typical Alliance-blue military armor is comforting, even if the shoot-out behind him is not. Batarians are impatient bastards – bastards who won’t even wait for a girl to say goodbye to her parents before hauling her off in a direction to what may as well be called a slaughter camp –

“Jane,” he returns, worry clear in his baby-blues.

She’s always thought those would be a reason for his world domination. What else could move her to buy into the kale-smoothie craze (regret), the protein shake craze (even more regret), or the infamous We’re-Going-Green diet that ended with her almost sabotaging his bed’s structural supports?

“What happened?” John demands.

“I – John. I fucked up.”

It’d be so easy to write this off and ease the newly born panic in his gaze.

Jane digs a hand through her unwashed hair and involuntarily grimaces through the tears and grime. “I killed several thresher maws. On foot. With a pistol,” she brags hollowly to John’s sharp inhale of air. “Proud of me yet, bro?”

“Proud,” he swears, right hand going up in a scout’s promise. “I’m proud of you, Jane. Just – just let the medics heal you up, alright? I’m going to finish this mission soon, and I’m gonna make it back to the barracks before you do.”

-

“They want to make you N7 for Akuze,” says John softly, sitting at the edge of Jane’s bed. She is tucked up in a ball at the other side, blankets wrapped over her form in many layers. “I told them to hold off.”

“Good on you,” she says, muffled. “Finally, you know what I want.”

He extends a stick of spicy beef jerky and pokes her unguarded cheek with it.

-

She gives John an unsettled look when Anderson comes up to their barracks and offers her the N7 designation. John, still happily a Major to her Commander status (an N6 to her N7), smiles encouragingly at her.

“I don’t deserve it,” she confides to Anderson. “Akuze – it was just survival at Akuze.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “We overheard the audio logs, Shepard,” he tells her. “Even if you made it out alone, you gave courage to the other men to at least try and make it home. That’s leadership.”

“Inspiring other people to certain death is leadership,” Jane summarizes slowly.

He blows out a sigh, and behind him, John is peering at her and mouthing: What are you doing?

“I don’t know what to tell you, Shepard. The N7 title isn’t just an award. It’s a symbol. You’re a soldier who’s endured the worst conditions and made it out intact, body and soul.” Kindness bleeds through the craggy lines of his face. “Not many people can say that.”

Jane takes the rank of N7 to John’s delight, and he later congratulates her.

-

John fights like an animal, now, when his sister is gone off on other missions, leading as Commander Jane Shepard, one of the N7s. Without his twin covering his six, the only way John knows how to move forward is to block everything out and run forward. He operates by ruthless calculus, and he will always finish the mission before considering his men’s opinions.

I am the law, he faintly recalls as he attains the Commander rank.

“You’re losing it, John,” Jane reprimands him. They are both back on Earth, a happy accident that seems much more like an intended event. Anderson, of course. Always looks after them, or at least gives a glance every now and then so they don’t explode the military.

“Losing what?” he asks, keeping a light tone.

She punches him in the shoulder. “War’s ending. You can’t keep this rep up.”

“Uh, what rep?”

“Commander John Shepard, ruthless and dangerously handsome.” Jane drags the words out, adds a villainous hiss at the end of ‘ruthless’. “Getting popular with Command, I’ll tell you that.”

He shrugs it off. “I get things done to get back to you, sister.”

“Get things done the right way then.”

-

Ever since Jane finally caved in to tell him what happened on Mindoir, John’s harbored a violent dislike for slavers. Not batarians in particular – although he’d grant that most were slavers – but anyone keeping a sentient against their will fell in the category.

His commanding officer, Major Kyle, tells him they’ve got a mission on Torfan to wipe out the batarian strongholds – old slaver bases that are still occasionally used for their original purpose.

John only needs to step one foot in the stronghold to know that he’s going to finish this mission, no bullshit about pulling out for injuries received. He’s leading a unit of twenty, including him, and prior to their entry into Torfan, John had stared steadily at them with hardened eyes.

“Soldiers, we have a job to do, and that is to clear out this base of slavers and ensure it never has the capability to hold slaves ever again,” John had told them. “We’re going to give the slavers hell – this isn’t just a vengeance mission for those we lost in the Skyllian Blitz. This is retalitation against those who are holding our race as slaves.”

There aren’t any phobias or traumas dragging him down – no, John completes his mission with ice-fire in his eyes and not a care for those dying behind him.

Go, he roars at them, leading the charge himself. In this base, John is the apex predator, running and gunning his way through rooms. He motivates them to continue despite their losses, and against all odds of their ethics fighting against the magnetism that is John’s charisma, the remnants of his unit stampede forward.

They’re at the last room. On the ground, a batarian cowers with his arms raised protectively over his head. He begs for mercy and tries to absolve himself of the crimes he’s committed. Family, the batarian sobs. I have a family I have to provide for, please.

John thinks about it for a second or two, then steels himself. He cocks his shotgun, holds it point-blank at the batarian’s face, and deadens his tone. “We all have had families to provide for,” he says. “You don’t have to steal other families to provide for yours.”

Pulls the trigger – fuck, batarian gore gets everywhere.

The last of his men – four, Jesus – stare at their Commander with hesitant eyes. It’s finally 2^nd Lieutenant Bak who speaks up: “Commander, I think that was the last one.”

John looks at Bak and responds in a sure voice, “No, I don’t think so.” Carelessly, he clips the shotgun to the small of his back and reaches for his assault rifle. “They’re in their rat-holes, waiting for us to leave. And we’re going to hunt them down.” He offers a tight smile to Bak. “Shouldn’t take long, Lieutenant.”

-

Jane never hugs him, period. Not the full-frontal bear hugs at least.

Either way, she’s wrapped her arms around his neck and is clutching onto him for dear life. “They’re calling you the ‘Butcher of Torfan’,” she breathes into his ear. “Wake up, John.”

Slowly, John disengages.  He still feels a little empty, hollowed out – scraped clean. “I’m awake,” he says back. It doesn’t sound quite right, but he’s sure it’ll get there. “Glad to be home.” That’s… marginally better. Maybe he should add some cheer. “No, seriously, I’m glad I’m home.”

She grabs his head between her palms and forces him to look straight in her eyes. “We’re talking later,” hisses Jane, and then she’s letting him go with the medics.

Later, so much later, John stumbles into their shared room. Jane’s waiting, cross-legged at the foot of his bed, her lips a flat thin line of disapproval. On reflex, he scratches the back of his neck and laughs awkwardly. “So you’re up.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “What happened?”

He goes to sit next to her and kind of collapses on top of his bedsheets without any warning. His sock-clad feet dangle off the side of the bed – John had tried once to shove them over Jane’s lap, but the resulting jab to the arch of the foot had so not been worth it.

“John.”

Faintly, he recalls the moment when she called him up in the midst of a battle during the Skyllian Blitz, still in tears over Akuze. John’s lips pull up in a humorless smile, not that she can see. His face is buried an inch deep in the cheap pillow. “I fucked up,” he says, muffled. John turns his head before she can get angry. “It’s – it got to me. The batarians and the slavers.”

Jane doesn’t shift her position. “Heard you killed most of the batarians yourself.”

“Had to,” he croaks. “Best to get a batarian while he’s unaware.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jane goes quiet for a moment, and John thinks that she’s fallen asleep. But then she’s edging up to sit beside his head, her back against the wall. “John, it’s okay.”

“What are you talking about?”

A thin, wiry hand gingerly claps his shoulder. “It’s okay,” Jane repeats. “You’re home.”

He takes a deep breath, and it hitches at the end. As he lets it out, something breaks, and he lets out a broken little laugh. “Jane, it was – God. I made them go in with me in every room, and even though I took point, they still died.”

Fifteen men and women dead because of her twin’s ruthless desire to complete a mission to the letter.

-

The next week, Anderson’s visiting the twins, a speech ready in his head. It figures, he thinks fondly, that they’d both get the N7 title. One can’t go without the other. He knocks on the door as a warning and steps into the room – it is not what he expects.

“No, no, no, oh my God what the fuck!” Jane yells at a pair of dice rattling in a steeply curved container. She and her twin are both on the floor, kneeling before a homemade board of multiple colors and playing with differently painted tiny hemispheres Anderson’s assuming are pieces.

“Move outta the Attican Traverse, Jane,” John taunts her, nudging at presumably Jane’s blood red pieces. “Yeah, you tried.” He glances up, attention caught by the startled huff at the door, and his eyes widen.

John stands to attention fast, knees cracking at the sudden movement, and Jane is soon following him, a swift salute.

“Stand down,” Anderson says, amused. “Just came by to give John his N7 title. I figured since you didn’t want a grand ceremony, Jane, your twin wouldn’t either.”

The boy sucks in a breath, like he’s about to argue against the title, but Anderson’s picked up the Shepard twins’ tells. “No, John. You deserve it.” He wavers between continuing his encouraging lecture and opts to, because why not? The Shepard twins were fast becoming his pseudo-children anyway with how much he stepped into their lives. “I know what they’ve been calling you.”

“Good rep to have as a Commander, right, sir?” mutters John.

Jane steps on his toe.

Anderson heaves a greater sigh and holds the boy at his shoulders. “Listen, John. Not many people could pull off the mission and persuade their men to go through with it. You and your sister are two of a kind, and you should be proud of that.”

Stiffly, John nods. “Sir.”

-

A couple years later, Commander Shepard meets Commander Shepard at the docking bay on a spacer station. Anderson presides over their unexpected reunion, which he organized after wrangling permission from the stuffy Council. He doesn’t know which Shepard should be made the Council’s first human Spectre, and presented with reports emphasizing the equal abilities, the Council didn’t know which one to promote either.

Both are incapable in some areas – John still lacks any talent at ranged combat, Jane flat-out orders her assigned units to play point while she picks off enemies at the back – and they hold a relatively equal number of successful missions under their belt. Some missions, subtle tests from the Alliance Command, are the same to see if they still retained their supernatural twin-psyche ability (they do).

So they’re both coming aboard the Normandy SR-1 to accompany Nihlus on his mission to Eden Prime.

Tall, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed John cheerfully greets his twin sister, arms spread wide. Petite green-eyed Jane punches him on the shoulder.

He overhears their banter as they board the ship.

“Know what’s happening, Jane?”

“No, John. You don’t either?”

“Nope.” John pops the ‘p’. “Thought you knew.” As the two approach the airlock onto the Normandy, they salute Anderson, and he waves them off. “Sir, do you know where we’re headed?”

As they wait patiently for the airlock to open, Anderson answers, “Well, John, glad you asked. We’re going to Eden Prime.”

The twins go into furious whispers.

“Eden Prime - ?” That must be John. He’s more reliably informed of alien worlds and colonies, which scored him a point in the Council’s eyes.

“Human colony near the edges of Terminus space.” Enter Jane, who only needed a moment to herself to provide an answer. Anderson peers at her closer and sees the glimmer of an omni-tool wink out of existence. He shakes his head, laughing inwardly. Girl could take in information with only a couple blinks. Jane clears her throat. “What’s happening on Eden Prime?”

“Not sure yet.” Anderson feels so discreet and subtle, Kahlee would be proud.

-

Aboard the Normandy, the Commanders struggle not to show any awe. There is, though, a great deal of elbows to the ribs and hissing. The Captain keeps an impassive face pasted over the smirk when Nihlus’s mandible drops at the sight of two Spectres candidates.

The turian Spectre pulls him aside and tells Anderson, “There can only be one Spectre I can approve of.”

Anderson shrugs. “Why not two?”

Meanwhile – the twins are standing in the cockpit, watching the pilot and co-pilot snipe at each other good-naturedly. Quietly, John nudges his twin’s shoulder, and he catches her eyes. “I have an optimistic feeling about this mission,” he says to her.

Jane rolls her eyes. “The minute you say that, it means we’re totally fucked.”

Chapter Text

It’s just plain goddamn luck that the Prothean beacon on Eden Prime decides on a fail-safe just this once in implanting memories in both of the Shepards’ heads.

Jane figures they wouldn’t be in this situation where her head is being torn apart by vividly saturated images if goddamn Kaidan Alenko wasn’t so curious about the unnatural phenomenon left behind.

The last thing John thinks before he and his twin collapse back onto the ground is: What fresh hell is this?

-

Pretty damn monumental that the Alliance and the Council are letting them both take command of the Normandy as Spectres. It’s not so monumental anymore when the crew starts making in-jokes a Normandy thing.

(Twins that are both N7 Commanders that are both Spectres? Unbelievable.)

They split their time in the captain’s quarters and the CIC, because it’s fucking cramped even with one person and none of the crew know which Shepard twin to defer to when they are both on deck. Neither of them likes sleeping in the pods, though, so they make do with shifts. John sweeps through the CIC and the lower decks accordingly, working from top down. Jane tends to do the opposite.

But there’s one thing they always do, something the Normandy crew incorporates into their jokes.

The Shepard Commanders always visit Joker first.

-

If there’s ever been the one thing Jane and John both disagree about the Alliance Command, it’s the internalized xenophobia. The First Contact War hit a lot of people’s hearts and souls back on Earth, but this is a time where they have to make relationships.

Jane picks up the rookie C-Sec officer wanting justice in the Citadel’s red-tape arms. John saves a quarian from certain death and is fairly certain the quarian developed a minor crush along the way.

They both find themselves taking Wrex onto the Normandy, mostly because Jane’s fascinated by a krogan with biotics and because John’s faintly alarmed at the consequences of refusing a krogan battlemaster on board.

-

Jane lingers at the co-pilot’s seat, cradling her coffee mug in her hands. Stars streak past, or maybe they streak past stars. It’s the question most galactic philosophers would put their minds to and ultimately come up with ‘what the fuck is space even’.

Green eyes – darker than hers, maybe a tad more gray – peer at her, and Joker hesitates to even speak. His initial conversations with the Shepards – both at different times, thank god – had turned out somewhat rocky. On his part, because he’d irrationally assumed that they had read over his file. Also, he may or may not have gotten a little tetchy over the innocent questions they were asking.

Not a good start for a working relationship.

“Please don’t spill that,” Joker says, partially serious.

“Shh,” she responds, eyes closed. Her red hair frames her face, and it makes her look soft. “I’m sleeping. And working. If John comes by, tell him I’m – “

“Calculating distances from targets to you?” questions Joker dryly.

“Good excuse.”

“Always keep it handy in my brain.”

-

“Commander.”

“Joker. How’s the Normandy – is that Jane sleeping with cold coffee?”

“… She’s calculating probable killshots from the distance she is from her enemies?”

John nods solemnly, like this is typical. Joker would fall for the guileless expression, except that there’s a wry smile on his face. “Mind telling her she’s, uh, overdue for a physical with Dr. Chakwas?”

Joker glances up at him. “Will that get me strangled?”

It’s not a light or delicate grip clasping his shoulder – it’s the rock-solid, rock-steady kind that steels Joker’s spine. “Probably not. There’s a new strain of the chicken flu at one of the human colonies we’ll be visiting, and Jane’s immune system isn’t as strong as she claims.” John lets go, pats the shoulder lightly. “Good luck,” he says cheerfully.

As John exits the long hallway, Joker carefully puts pressure on an elbow and twists to face John Shepard bounce down the corridor. He shakes his head, and looks back at the other Shepard. “Son of a bitch,” he breathes, and he prays for some mercy.

-

John likes visiting the cargo bay ever since the Requisitions Officer offered to sell him deals on the next armor upgrade, courtesy of the black market. Now it’s because the alien members of their crew hang out there and it is his and Jane’s job to interact with them.

“So what’s it like at C-Sec?” he asks Garrus.

“Clean, inefficient, also a little bland in line of work,” responds the turian. “Anything beyond the normal pickpocketing and heists, like assassinations and the murders, happen every couple of months. Not so often in the Presidium.” He cocks his head. “So I’m trying to calibrate the weapons’ defense system on this, but since I haven’t seen it in action yet, I’m not sure what needs tuning. Any suggestions?”

Dubiously, John looks at the Mako’s lone cannon and machine gun. “I could get you the performance reports,” he offers. “Jane and I haven’t taken it out on a test drive yet.”

-

Jane, predictably, bonds great with the krogan. “Indulge me,” she says in a flat voice (it barely hides her enthusiasm because wow, this guy’s a couple hundred years old), and Jane pulls out a stack of dilapidated cards to shuffle. There’s an automated shuffler somewhere in the Normandy, something labeled as contraband, but Jane’s got a good eye for the guilty pleasure people, and Pressly is one of them. Wily old bastard.

“What’s this,” says Wrex.

“To put it bluntly, we’re playing Skyllian Five. For strategy.”

The blood-red eyes stare at her in puzzlement. “Human, I’m not sure what you’re trying to do – “

Jane shrugs. “Learn?” She supposes it’s mostly that. “Wrex, you’ve got several hundred years on you. Sometime, somewhere, you learned something that let you survive.”

“Then go learn it yourself.” The krogan’s lips curl. “I don’t teach. Anything.”

“Then this is down-time,” Jane continues stubbornly. “And I’m sure you’re bored. C’mon.” She deals Wrex the cards, keeping steady eye-contact. Her muscle memory serves her well – God knows how many times she’s played with John, even though he cannot bluff for shit. “Not like you can spar anything out down here.”

It’s the beginning of a beautiful relationship, where Jane Shepard plays Skyllian Five with the great mercenary Urdnot Wrex –

“You motherfucker.”

“Shepard, here’s a lesson. Learn to accept a loss if you played like shit.”

“You bastard motherfucker.”

-

Garrus is awe-struck by the two Spectres on board, and obviously, he is a little wary. “Spectres rarely work together,” he tells Jane. “They’re independent workers.” Memorized from gossip, Jane theorizes.

She shrugs and watches him peruse the datapads John had sneaked to him. Jane wholeheartedly approves of John’s developing delinquent behavior. “When John and I were at the orphanage,” she tells Garrus, and he perks up, intrigued that the Shepard mostly everyone outside of the Normandy feared (a common hilarious sight within the Normandy is Jane Shepard falling asleep whenever and wherever, be it the CIC in front of the galaxy map or the mess hall) is telling him a piece of her history. Jane’s eyes drift to an empty corner, and she continues. “When we were still at the orphanage, a couple came by wanting a cute kid to take care of.”

He fiddles with the datapads. There’s a point somewhere in this anecdote.

“They wanted John, of course.” Garrus couldn’t hear any bitterness in her voice. It is only matter-of-fact, like it was expected John would be chosen for adoption. “And me being me, I wasn’t about to let my twin get taken away, probably never to be seen again. So one night, I told John ‘we gotta go’, and he said ‘okay’, and we went to live on the streets.” A slow smile pulls the corner of her lips up. “Everyone always said that we had to grow up and face the fact that we would eventually split up and find our own paths. Their guess was that I would probably be in the streets, he would probably be a celebrity, in space or otherwise.”

“But you both ended up in the military.”

Jane exhales a sharp breath. “I guess my point was that John and I have always covered each other’s asses. I’d follow him to the edges of the galaxy and maybe beyond that if he was really serious. And he’d follow me right back.” She directs her green eyes back to him, and Garrus is reminded on the bottles of alcohol the humans on the Citadel ship to each other, a sharp and glittering thing. “You got any siblings, Garrus?”

-

John talks to Tali before Jane ventures down to the engine room, mostly because he feels he owes her some light-hearted conversation before his twin starts interrogating the quarian. He leans against the railing and folds his arms contemplatively. Whatever the quarian is doing to the console in front of her, John’s got no qualms because what does he know about engines.

Nothing, that’s what Joker will tell you with passion – John Shepard knows nothing about engines.

“So what brought you to the Citadel?”

Innocent question, haha, yeah, that is not how his question is interpreted at all.

Tali faces him and defensively also crosses her own arms. “I told you, I found evidence that Saren was a traitor to the Council – “

Alarmed by the vehemence, John raises a placating hand. “I was only asking in case you didn’t see all the Citadel sights.” He looks away to frown at the eerie blue drive core thing. It’s more of a ‘what the hell is that’ than a contemplative philosophical expression. “I didn’t get all the ship models the magazines advertised,” he confides in her.

“Models?” asks Tali.

“It’s a new hobby I’m trying to get into,” he tries to explain with a shrug, but then the quarian’s sniggering at his expense.

-

Alliance soldiers react well to camaraderie. Every human does, unless they’re complete fuckheads with their own agenda. For example, in the Reds, the recruited children had learned to warily bond with each other and form a loose network. Jane remembers Leo’s gap-tooth smile and scruffy hair, Tammy’s devilish intelligence, and Mark’s ponderous expressions. She remembers loving them at one point, and then hating them at another.

Before Jane had turned into the Reds’ best specialist, she was a kid who interacted however she could around others. A pretense to follow John while he enthusiastically adopted many new friends.

Talking to Ashley and Kaidan shouldn’t be so different, she figures.

She’s talked to John about this – about how to deal with the Lieutenant and the Chief Gunnery Officer. They brainstorm the different ways to handle talking, and though John pushes for friendly overtures and personal histories, Jane prefers the occasional ‘hey how you doing’. In the end, the twins compromise with friendly overtures and minor questions about personal backgrounds.

Jane’s not sure how she got to talk to Kaidan first, but she’s certain she’ll strangle John later.

-

They save Liara at Therum first, because, well. John’s always had the guilty heart after Torfan happened, and Jane’s pretty much powerless when faced with her twin’s baby blues when he starts talking about ‘we have to save those we can, always.’

Liara’s fairly gobsmacked at the appearance of two shining knights in armor – well, actually, John’s the shining knight in armor because he endeavors to be chivalrously righteous. Jane’s always been the lithe shadow outfitted in lethality.

-

John personally apologizes to Joker about making him fly next to a volcano.

Joker responds with a happy: “Holy shit, you have no idea what an adrenaline boost that was!”

-

Princess. That’s the first conclusion Jane arrives at – Tali’Zorah is a princess. Rebellious, perhaps, and pressured by her heritage as the daughter of what Jane understands is a high-ranking Admiral. Silently, she ghosts her way to the railing and waits for Tali to finish whatever she is doing with the console.

Ask anyone, hell, ask Joker what Jane Shepard knows about engines – Joker will repeat the same thing he said about the other twin – Jane Shepard knows nothing about engines. Other than hijacking vehicles, neither of the twins is particularly knowledgeable of that area.

“Commander,” says Tali evenly. “It is nice to meet you.”

“No,” says Jane with certainty. “I’m sure everyone else has told you stories about the ‘Dread’ Shepard.” She grins at the quarian and sees the startled blink. “It’s that or they told legends about me being the asshole commander. Come on. Which was it?”

Tali folds her hands behind her back. “To be honest,” and she is, no kidding that tone of bewilderment, “the rest of the crew refused to say anything about you. Chief Williams only told me that you and your brother took, ah, no ‘shit’.”

She even does the finger quotes, oh god, Jane’s already inwardly cooing. This is a kid. A total baby. They had a baby quarian that could – according to John – wield a shotgun.

Jane claps Tali’s shoulder with a friendly hand. “Then I guess we’ll get along great. What brought you to the Citadel?” Of course Jane already knows, but it helps to have a girl-to-girl chat. Ashley shares Jane’s enthusiasm for guns and dislike of emotional talks (like John, good god, he was always insisting on connecting with the people when all she wanted was to move), but as commanders who have lost, well, pretty much their entire squads pre-N7, they have a firm belief in caring about their squad.

“My Pilgrimage led me to a geth… “

They talk for the rest of the night, one question begging another.

She wonders how John is dealing with the asari.

-

“Doctor, are you certain that this area is comfortable for you?” John asks, dubiously taking in the darkened room and stacks of med-kits against the walls. A terminal glows bright next to Liara’s arm.

“Oh! Um, no, I’m – I’m quite fine. I… “ Liara hesitates, and then goes into a shallow bow at the waist. “Thank you for saving me so soon.” Her face grows darker with every word, and John has never been so puzzled. Briefly, he can hear Jane in his ear: she’s blushing, you moron.

“It’s good to have you aboard,” he says gently. “Also nice to know you’ve recovered.”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Chakwas is well-informed of asari physiology.”

The conversation is stilted, and John scrambles for a saving grace or some icebreaker. “So have you ever built models?” It’s a stupid question, the kind where Jane would look at him steadily for five whole seconds and enunciate ‘what the fuck’.

Liara blinks those huge blue eyes (like holy crap , she could probably pull a kicked puppy look great) and responds with a soft negative.

Decisively, John nods. “Next time we’re on the Citadel, I’ll buy a couple models.” He grimaces. “I’ve been missing out on the entire Citadel tourist trap. And Jane’s shoes are starting to overflow to my side of the closet.”

She laughs before she can put a polite hand to her mouth. “Sorry, it’s just – I imagined Spectres to be much more intimidating when I first heard of them.”

“I don’t get to hear a lot of stereotypes about us revolutionary human Spectres. Mind keeping an ear out next time we dock there?”

“Of… of course, Commander.”

“Oh, about that – if Jane and I happen to be around together at the same time, since we’re usually in sync, you can just call us Commander, and at least one of us will respond. We’ve got a system going on.”

-

“Skipper,” says Ashley politely. She doesn’t say anything when he joins her to clean the charred firearms returned to the Normandy after every outing.

“Williams.” John casts his mind around for a safe topic. “I hear you grew up on a colony? I think I would’ve preferred it to Earth to be honest.”

She shrugs. “Not a lot of things to do on a recently colonized planet. At least Earth has everything entertaining already built.”

“Always saw Earth as too busy,” he muses. “Too modern, I think. Maybe I’ll be a farmer or something when this is over.”

Ashley barks a laugh. “You, Skipper? Farm? Sorry, sir, but you’d be better as – “ She catches herself from finishing, and John silently gestures for her to continue.

“I promise I won’t be offended,” he promises.

Tossing a dirty rag to a corner, she picks up a new one and runs it down the barrel of a Naginata. “Well, Skipper, you’re a people-person. You could be a bartender when this is over, really. Earth seems busy? Maybe it just seems too modernized to you, respectfully, sir.”

He grumbles something good-naturedly, and she laughs and punches him in the shoulder.

-

Everyone votes in favor of Jane driving the Mako exactly once.

It’s a shame, because John’s conservative with his driving, and it takes them approximately half an hour more to reach any destination because he won’t jump a cliff face no matter how economical the time-saving is.

There is a moment, one of those rare moments when the Shepard twins have chivvied the entire squad inside the Mako for a basic scouting run in a mountainous desert terrain. Wrex complains somewhere in the back about how his time is being wasted, and Liara is already clinging to her seat and Tali, who has braced herself against any surface she can find.

“Commander,” says Garrus, forgetting the inevitable twin confusion in favor of looking (and feeling) queasy about the idea of being trapped in the Mako with the two. John’s driving, but how long would that last?

“What?” says both of the Shepards, green and blue eyes staring back at where he’s been pushed to sit next to Ashley, who looks vaguely unhappy.

Garrus gives up trying to understand and settles in for the long haul.

An hour later, when John is laboriously easing the Mako down the steep side of a mountain, Jane goads him into a bet. That’s a thing about the twins – they act in sync for about ninety percent of the time, and then the rest is shameless bets, wagers, and competitions.

“John, I bet you couldn’t even make the jump from this side of the mountain to the opposing one,” she says blithely, one lightly-armored foot raised and rested on her knee.

Tali interrupts with, “Don’t do it. Don’t you dare.”

John stalls the engine and looks over at his sister’s encouraging eyes, and he backs up the Mako up the mountain. Slow enough that everyone knows that John is taking the bet and is probably going to kill them all. On the other hand, Jane is still relaxed in her chair. She waves a hand lazily.

“Come on, John, we don’t have all – “

He guns it, speeds forward as fast as he dares without blowing out a wheel, and John slams a fist on the thrusters.

They fly in the Mako, almost perfectly vertical. Everyone’s screaming, even Wrex, but Jane? Jane cackles wildly, raises her arms like she’s on a rollercoaster. John’s manic grin speaks volumes, and Kaidan, who can see the pull of lips twist upward and show a gleam of bright teeth, feels horrified that maybe John isn’t a conservative driver at all.

The Mako slams onto the other side of the mountain, jolting its passengers violently. Someone’s swearing in the back – Liara? Wrex sounds like he’s crying, either laughter or genuine fear for his life.

-

Neither Shepard allows the rachni queen to live, no matter how harsh genocide is. However, they feel enough regret that Jane bitches to the Council and John doesn’t stop her. Matriarch Benezia’s death takes a brief toll on Liara, but the young asari pulls through.

Also? Noveria’s goddamn cold.

-

“Go talk to Wrex,” Jane tells John, masking her amusement at the flash of anxiety in his eyes. “He’s a little – agitated.” John’s mouth drops in horror. “Yeah, I know. I’m taking control of the CIC while you, um, talk to Wrex.”

“But – “

“See you, buddy.” There’s a good reason why she’s throwing him to the wolves – Kaidan’s confided in her about Brain Camp and no, she’s not dealing with more shit now.

-

John almost collapses to the floor when Wrex does a brotherly clap to the shoulder when they’ve entered the station and retrieved the ancient Urdnot armor.

“You’re a good guy, Shepard,” says the krogan gruffly. “I know you tiptoe like a pansy fuck around me, but you’re a good guy.”

The room is littered with corpses, and a rainbow of blood splatters paints the room. Jane is back on the Normandy, trying to catch up on her procrastinated mission reports to Hackett and the Council, so John had dropped into what he called the ‘Torfan’ mindset: Get it done, get it done fast. Along with Kaidan as back-up, he and Wrex had cleaned house.

“I try,” he tells the krogan, shrugging and trying to add some humor. There’s satisfaction to be found in completing missions, and the Shepard twins – as the squad and the Normandy crew have caught on fast – try to do well for those under their command. “Shouldn’t Jane have come - ?”

Wrex rolls his shoulders, almost pin-wheeling his arms to stretch the joints. “She suggested I take it up with you when I asked her.”

“Explains your irritation with me asking all those questions now.”

“Not my fault you tend to sound like a pyjak shitting itself when you talk to me.”

“And what’s that sound, Wrex.” John, Kaidan, and Wrex exit the building into the Mako, and the time it takes for them to find a decent pick-up area for Joker to swing by lets Wrex respond.

“You squeak. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And again, your tiptoe-around-krogan-history. Pisses me off. Take some notes off your sister, Shepard.”

“Noted,” says John dryly.

-

John bets Garrus fifty credits that he’s been in more fire fights than the turian. Over a contraband pack of cards (he’s taken them off Jane, shh, don’t tell her Garrus), they essentially tell each other campfire stories in a hangar bay where almost everyone is eavesdropping.

“So us Reds were chasing down a traitor,” says John slowly, keeping an eye open for any of Garrus’s tells. Predictably, the turian remains impassive. It’s a really unfair game, but John’s a great poker player no matter what Jane claims. He can smile against any odds, and no one ever expects a man to tell the truth about his cards. “We track this dumb kid all the way to the outskirts of the city, trying to hijack a vehicle for himself, and the only thing he can say is, ‘I had to’.”

The turian hums and lays out his cards. “Pretty miserable excuse.”

“Yeah, and the boss didn’t take to it so great, especially when this was the kid who sold him out to a rival gang. So he tells me to shoot him.”

“Did you?” His mandibles flutter.

“What do you think,” John responds, and he thinks he knows what’s going on in the turian’s head. Jane probably shot him, Garrus would conclude, because she’s all about her twin’s emotional health.

Instead, to John’s surprise, Garrus brings up Dr. Saleon.

-

John grabs Garrus’s rifle and forces it down. “The authorities will take him, Garrus,” he says in a low voice. “This isn’t your justice.” His twin’s back on the Normandy, probably fiddling with weapons and her sniper rifle next to Williams, who dutifully cleans whatever miscellaneous weapons come her way.

Tali watches the drama with wide eyes.

Slow as molasses, Garrus lowers his gun. His eyes are still burning that righteous blue, and the rough dual-tones of his next words communicate to John that he’s still pissed.

John sighs, and then Saleon’s raising a gun – instinct overtakes him. He whips up his pistol and fires a neat bullet between the salarian’s eyes.

-

“He killed him,” says Garrus, dull. He’s stiff against the Mako’s wheels, omni-tool out and flashing a merry orange. Jane inhales a deep breath, and then she sits down on the floor, cross-legged. “… Shepard, what are you doing?”

“There’s a line between justice and vengeance,” says Jane steadily. “And I know you wanted vengeance against Saleon, not justice. It might’ve factored in, but you’d still be killing him out of cold blood. And John’s not one for cold blooded vendettas.”

Garrus still won’t look at her. “So what,” the turian deadpans. “It’d still be justice. He’d pay for his crimes.” He chances a glare at the Commander. “You would’ve killed him before he pulled a gun.”

“If John hadn’t been there? Maybe. But that’s the difference between justice and vengeance, him and me. Vengeance is petty and takes the easiest solution to the problem it wants solved. Justice explores every other option before resorting to the last option.”

-

Feros is a mess. Literally and figuratively. Like always, the Shepards divvy up the tasks and the squad – it’s been the unspoken rule between them to always bring two members each. Always.

Being the infiltrator of the Normandy – no, seriously, John thinks his sister knows every accessible duct in the ship and that is not a good thing – Jane takes Wrex for brute force and Tali for her impressive electronics skill. They clean out the varren nest and even open the water valves before being hit by one of Saren’s mercenary units.

On the other side, John, Ashley, and Garrus storm their way up the tower. John and Ashley take point with their shotguns, and Garrus stays back to cover their six.

When both sides are done, they meet back down at the elevator and yes the Mako is awaiting Jane’s hands, she can almost feel the steering wheel under her hands –

As a force of nature alone, Wrex’s imposing figure ushers Jane away from the wheel, and John, being the last to hop in the Mako, guns the engine to a steady speed.

-

“Exogeni,” says Jane, “should kick itself into a hole.” What a mess they left behind. John restrains her before she slaps the representative, a money-grubbing piece of shit that gives the bad rep for humans in the galaxy.

They save the colonists, but it turns out that John has a shit throwing arm – Ashley stares at the commander like she can’t believe he ever passed through the N7 program, and then at the other commander, who is doubled over laughing and passing her twin more grenades to try and lob.

Wrex doesn’t even bother hiding his derision and amusement, and eventually, Tali and Garrus follow suit. John bears it all in good manner and soon tells Jane to handle it.

The Thorian, in the end, freaks Jane out so much, she’s hiding behind Wrex and Garrus for most of the time John’s trying to shoot down the roots keeping the monster plant attached to the walls. Plant goop is all over his armor, and he has never been gladder to have his helmet encase his head entirely.

Jane, on the other hand, only has her blue visor on.

It’s fucking gross.

Free from the indoctrinating properties of the Reaper and the Thorian’s clutch, the asari melds with them both – it’s a little embarrassing to do it to both, they can tell from her darkening face.

-

Jane parks herself next to Garrus on the ride out of Feros, squishes herself into the cramped seat. “So,” she starts, divesting her hands of her gloves. “So you’re okay with John?”

With a side-glance, Garrus pretty much confirms all Jane assumes.

She sighs. “Know that John’s kind of a sweetheart. A gullible sweetheart, but still one none the less.”

“I got that,” says the turian drily. “Hard not to notice the earnest pleas to ‘stand down’.”

A thin hand clutches his shoulder in a comforting grip. “Vakarian, I’ve spent most of my life watching my brother generally fail at being a typical human. When he starts spouting his righteous talks at you,” Jane leans on him, resting her head on the bony shoulder. “Well,” she muses, “I’d tell you to suck it up. John’s usually has a good gut feeling about things. Except women. And food. He’s got seriously bad taste.”

He chuckles, and that’s a victory in itself. “Do you always make fun of your brother?” he asks.

Solemnly, Jane nods. “Always. It’s how we keep the peace.”

-

Tali pulls Jane aside the next mission Hackett orders them to do, and she confides in her the Pilgrimage and the gift they have to bring back, and there is no greater chance for her to do it but now.

What else can Jane say but to agree? It’s not classified, she thinks, and this information should be safe in the flotilla. The only complaint Jane sends up the ladder is that the Alliance Command should maybe (definitely, she backspaces) invest in some more human-turian ships because jumping system to system, planet to planet?

At least, that’s how Joker puts it.

-

“Oh, no,” mutters Jane, her head rising up sharply. Next to her, Ashley stops retooling a modded pistol, and her hand goes for the holster at her thigh. Jane waves her off, distracted. “Oh, fuck no,” she then hisses.

“Skip?” questions Ashley, eyes tracking the clenching fists and tension in her shoulders. “What’s the situation – “ Jane whips out her omni-tool and pings Joker for access into the ship’s cameras, which he bemusedly allows. “Uh, Skip, I don’t think that’s legal – “

The omni-tool pops into a display where John is talking to Kaidan, sharing a tentative laugh and words Jane can’t make out. Jane’s posture sags. “Goddamnit,” she mutters. “I hate him,” Jane tells Ashley, and she does not sound like she’s jesting.

Ashley’s bewildered expression says all, so Jane sighs again, “Goddamnit, no, I love him, but sometimes he can be a failure at this crap.” Her left hand gestures at the omni-tool display. “Look at him, the romantic sap.”

Then – Ashley gets it. And a slow grin rises on her face. “L.T. doesn’t even know, does he,” she tests. Jane glances at her wearily, and the laugh bubbling inside the soldier’s chest dies a swift death. “Oh. He doesn’t know.”

“No,” confirms Jane. She closes her omni-tool and her eyes, placing both hands on the table and bracing herself. “It’s a total trainwreck,” she confides in Ashley, and Ashley’s startled into a brief laugh.

-

The Shepard twins are always a trove of newsworthy information when they hit the Citadel for refueling and supplies. John’s not entirely aware of his appeal until the Westerlund news girl imposes on him and strands him from his sister, who’s busy making Garrus upgrade his baby sniper rifle. After the reporter almost gets punched by Jane – she overhears the worst part, typical of her – Jane makes it her duty to find a nicer reporter.

She finds Emily Wong, and together, Jane and John finally get a decent and honest news segment on the extranet.

-

Like good little Alliance soldiers, the Shepard twins don’t indulge in romance. Jane does her utmost best to keep things at a cool professional friend-level with Kaidan, because she’s fifty percent sure that John likes the Canadian and the guy looks like he’s got a hero-worship going on.

Ashley has always been chill to keep them ‘Skipper’ and ‘Skip’.

They both have to do damage control on Liara’s painfully shy crushes; John takes longer, mostly out of misplaced guilt.

“But what do I say,” he asks bewilderedly to his twin, legs crisscrossed on the bed. She’s up against a table, leaning back into it with a visible why me expression.

“Suck it up,” she tells him, “and say, ‘Oh, sorry, not interested in romance right now’. “

It’s not what she did with Kaidan, which was much more pointed, but at the next mission Hackett assigns, Jane takes Liara down to Luna and faces earnest professionalism.

Liara’s adorable in the way that she’s still naïve to much of the galaxy’s wiles, and as Jane tells John this, John most emphatically agrees.

The Luna VI is easily dealt with – the long string of binary code baffles John, and he tries to take a picture of it when the damn VI shuts down.

“You asshole,” says Jane. “We can’t recreate that.”

“I know,” responds John. “Maybe it was inconsequential?”

Softly, Liara mentions the possibility it was really saying ‘die humans die’.

-

Virmire happens. John and Jane talk Wrex down from a blood rage, but they’re forced to consider what the krogan have been subjected to, and – it’s almost the equivalent of the rachni genocide (but it’s not), and the similar circumstances make them both shudder.

The STG team led by Captain Kirrahe tells the twins, “Don’t split up. There are two objectives, and having another team to account for always ends in tragedy.” John and Jane don’t like the idea, because they’ve totally rejected this ‘ruthless calculus’, but they comply. Ashley hitches a ride with Kirrahe, and the Shepard twins escort Kaidan on his ‘bomb job’.

A long time passes, and Jane holds John back from freeing the indoctrinated salarians on the basis that one of them flipped the fuck out on them. The crackling sounds of Ashley’s desperation hurries them forward, all the way to –

And after Sovereign, Saren.

It’s just one right after the other, isn’t. Jane exchanges an exasperated look with John and gestures a question: Persuade? Shoot?

PERSUADE, he signs back frantically. She makes a face at him.

And after all that shit, all that fucking shit concludes with Saren using one hand each to choke them. “What the fuck – “ Jane manages.

“You indoctrinated son of a-” gasps John. Jane and John both scrabble at the chokeholds they’ve been placed in. For some odd reasons, instead of disposing of them right then and there, Saren opts to run away.

-

When John and Jane, their squad, and a silent Kaidan Alenko returns to the Normandy, the Shepard twins will have to write up a mission report. But before that, they have to brief the team. It’s not as easy as everyone would expect.

Some people imagine that when one Shepard twin falters (John, perhaps, who mourns when he can for those lost), the other will take up the reins.

Wrong – the instant John pauses at a word, stopping to inhale a quick breath, Jane tracks her twin’s gaze and sees it hooked to the sight of an empty chair. It only takes that second for John to recover – he’s no delicate flower, her twin.

Later: Kaidan will confront the two grieving Shepard twins, ask them why me. Jane will stay silent, her green eyes burning like her fire-red hair, and John will laugh something broken.

“It was you or her. Rank or personal feeling. Don’t think for an instant that I regret saving you, don’t even dare think that Ash’s death wasn’t worth it,” says John. “That demeans her sacrifice.”

“They called you ruthless back on Earth, everyone who studied the N7s,” Kaidan replies after a moment.

John tries to smile, but he can’t get his face to work right, so it more or less ends up with his lips twisted in a rueful manner. “The Butcher of Torfan. Boogeyman of all batarians. I’ve heard it all, Lieutenant.”

“We’re done,” Jane interrupts, and she turns to Kaidan. “Listen. If you want to judge this off our characters? You were the logical choice. You had the bomb. I would’ve chosen to save you off your rank and your position. Ashley – Ash understood that. Try to do so as well, Alenko.”

She presses a hand at John’s back and shoves him all the way to the captain’s quarters.

He stumbles for the bed, sits on it, buries his face in his hands, and he laughs again. “Oh, god. Jane. Know how most people say ‘I screwed up everything, my life, my love, my job’?” John looks at her. “Well, here’s everything. Let’s see if we can salvage anything from this wreck, huh?”

Tentatively, Jane perches on the cot as well and hooks her arm around his neck. “We’ll find something useful from this shit,” she answers.

-

“Playing cards?” asks John, spying Jane huddled next to Wrex with her shoulders hunched. Garrus has been roped in as well, and if he’s reading the tense line in the turian’s shoulders right? Garrus is losing. The sound of his bemused voice causes Garrus to almost fall over, only to be caught by Jane’s steady hand.

“Joining, bro?”

He thinks about it. “Call the rest of the squad, maybe we can hold a poker tournament.” The first genuine smile in a couple of days appears on his face like a damn ray of sunshine. Jane always thought he could be one of those prissy models if she hadn’t spirited the both of them away from the orphanage. “Unless, you’re scared of losing.”

“Specifically, to whom? You?” Jane tsks. “Please, John. Your tells are as open as Garrus’s.”

Garrus jerks at the insult. “What tells? I thought you said I was decent at poker face.” Wrex snickers – clearly, the krogan has seen the turian’s tells as well.

Jane pats his shoulder. “That’s not where your tells are at, Garrus.” She points a finger at John and keeps her hand face down on her lap. “You want poker tournament, you better make sure it just stays within the squad. Remember the regs.”

“You broke the regs last time,” says John, injured. “Not my fault Anderson caught you with your socks off. Anyway, tournament tonight?” Jane hums in agreement, and she lays down her cards. Another win. “What are the stakes?”

For the first time in a while, John sees Jane wince in embarrassment. “… Not credits, that’s for sure.”

Wrex interrupts good-naturedly. “Nothing so pathetic as credits, please.” He grins something wide and vicious. “We’re betting guns. Winner gets to choose the loser’s weapons for next party you or your sister takes us on.”

John’s heart sinks. “We are keeping our usual weaponry at hand, right?”

Green eyes stare guilelessly back. “Please, John. I am a professional.”

-

Tali wins the poker tournament to everyone’s surprise (and Wrex’s dismay). It makes the stakes kind of pointless, because Tali’s not the kind to maliciously sentence her friends to what would’ve been a really panicked mission.

Yeah, John remembers the shitty Storm I he owned. John still has that assault rifle, god knows why.

Surprisingly, most of them want to do it again.

“In time, in time,” responds Jane to all of them. “I need to recover from Tali’s deathblow.”

Joker’s voice rings overhead, smug, “So, Commanders. Thought the twin psyche would help.” He sobers but regains his momentum. “Reaching the Citadel in an hour. Thought you might want to know after the, uh, strenuous tournament.”

-

Being grounded at the Citadel ranks as one of the Shepards’ worst days ever. The mere idea of being grounded kind of dampens their attitudes – Jane’s especially. When Anderson requests to meet them at Flux, which is the lesser of two sleazy clubs at the accessible levels of the Citadel the Council is allowing them (like, really, come on, Purgatory is a lot better place to be spotted in compared to Chora’s Den), Jane is dressed in an overlarge zip-up jacket and sweats.

John’s opted for a more functional shirt, belt, and jeans.

At the mention of being able to get to Ilos, the two of them perk up at the same time.

Once Anderson lays out his options, he waits with bated breath for them to decide. With Nihlus gone along with any viable reports on the Shepards’ abilities, Anderson needs to assess their leadership skills himself.

Jane points out that she could probably make the run from C-Sec to the docks, assisting Anderson in shutting the dock controls before escape. Alternatively, she muses, it’d be pretty nice for Anderson to coincidentally see Udina and punch his lights out.

Her twin hums, a low dark sound, and lays out Anderson’s run.

Completed with plans A through Q, the rest all back-ups of plan A, the Shepard twins stare at Anderson expectantly, green and blue eyes meeting his dark ones with a gleam.

He’s speechless.

And saddened.

It’s rare for someone to point out another’s mistakes, especially if that person is a sibling. But Jane sneers at John’s method of barreling through, and John mocks Jane’s complex layout, and it would be a damn shame if Jane and John were ever separated.

A damn shame.

-

“Ilos sucks,” Jane tells Tali, lamenting everything in life. The Shepard twins are not blessed with good directional sense, so they are lost wandering the watery halls of the ruins while tracking down Saren.

“The Mako sucks,” Tali responds, relentlessly cheerful in the light of all things. “What kind of ground vehicle can’t gain traction in mud? Why doesn’t it float? Imagine a floating Mako, Shepard!”

Jane briefly wonders if Tali has forgotten the time she drove the Mako, but then snap, like that –

Vigil the Prothean VI almost blinds the group. The fractioning slices of light coalescing around a kind of spherical hologram blink like the strobes on Earth, making them squint in displeasure.

-

Finding out the Citadel is basically a huge mass relay almost intrigues John at a scientific level.

Finding out that Saren’s getting a huge headstart – and that it might turn into a permanent headstart – pushes the Shepards to run and pack their squad in the Mako. Jane, coincidentally, ends up at the wheel and gearshifts.

Garrus emphatically tries to grab her arm and pull her away, but there’s a fire igniting in her blood and fuck yes she’s gunning the engine.

John yelps and crashes into the side of the vehicle, but he catches Tali’s flailing form and braces Liara against her chair with one arm. He yells at his twin to move the fuck out oh my fucking god, and to stop taking time to flatten out unfortunate geth.

The turian, having greater luck, is only pressed back into his chair at the sheer velocity. He makes a distressed trill, matching the intensity of Kaidan’s yelp of terror.

His twin laughs along with Wrex, who has finally adjusted to the insanity of the female Shepard’s driving skills.

-

Geth, in a nutshell, are pretty easy to fight. Smart as they may be in numbers when a network can be established, it’s still basic math: aim + shoot = dead. There’s no messy last words with uppity soldiers, no crocodile tears about family.

“You’re enjoying this?” asks Liara, wide eyes tracking Jane’s smooth and efficient movements.

Through the optics. Reload. Peer through the scope. Shoot.

Through the chassis. Reload. Peer through the scope. Shoot.

Jane has an ongoing bet with Garrus about limbs being torn off with a bullet. She’s losing.

When John is with Wrex as the squad’s vanguard, they storm their way up the Citadel and it is a glorious carnage of metal parts and glass shrapnel. He locks forearms with Wrex for a brief moment before shooting a look behind.

Jane and Garrus are hanging back; Garrus by force, because John can see one of Jane’s hands clutching to the curved armor turians wore. Tali is with them, shaking her head while crouched behind cover, but her fingers dance at her omnitool.

They’ve split the biotics – Kaidan graciously goes with John, alternating between medic and sentinel. Liara stays with Jane, deflecting shots and pulling the asshole geth from their own cover.

-

“We have to save them,” insists John. “It’s the Council.” Pragmatically, Jane can see the point – if they let the Council die with the Destiny Ascension, then the Citadel might revolt entirely against humankind. She grimaces at the thought.

But – should they have to risk the Alliance fleet on one asari dreadnought?  She points this out to her twin, who hums disapprovingly.

Behind them, the team offers their own perspectives.

Ultimately, it comes to this: will the Council listen to their future warnings?

“Don’t do it,” Jane advises. “Like it or not – xenophobic we may be accused of, John – that Alliance military fleet is the only thing that will guarantee that Reaper’s destruction.” Sovereign’s destruction.

John still looks undecided, but then he stiffens his spine, juts out his chin, and his hand reaches for the command panel.

The Butcher of Torfan, Jane suddenly recalls. She takes two steps forward and knocks John’s hand away with a scowl. She activates the commline with Joker, who is panicking at the slight pause. “Save the fleet for the Reaper, Joker,” she orders, and John snags her wrist with a questioning look.

She glares him away and ensures everyone, especially the damn Council, know that it is her giving the command.

-

The Shepard twins have developed a reputation galaxy-wide about their smooth talking skills. They work at opposite ends, and even their squad holds some awe concerning the twin-talk. One of the stupid in-jokes floating about the Normandy is the Shepard Cop Routine, where John shows his baby-blues (good cop, he’ll always play good cop after Torfan) and Jane feathers her face with her fire-red hair and gets straight to the point, no bullshitting about it.

They tag-team Saren, beat at his defenses and convince him of the indoctrination and –

Saren shoots himself in the head.

“Uh,” says Jane.

“Well,” says John.

As the Shepard luck would have it, Sovereign decides it ain’t done with Saren being a puppet and twists its weird Reaper essence into the corpse. Saren turns into something vaguely similar to a big black and blue bug.

-

“What the everloving fuck,” Jane yells, as a piece of Sovereign’s goddamn corpse comes flying toward the Council room. Why isn’t this room reinforced with something stronger than glass, she thinks hysterically, why is this entire wall made of glass?

“Move,” roars John, and he’s picking Tali up and tossing her forward into Garrus’s arms, pulling Kaidan up to his feet and shoving him. Jane pushes Liara forward, ejecting her right into Wrex.

Wrex, thank god, doesn’t even stumble. He just keeps on moving.

Jane turns back for John, who is barreling towards her as well.

And then Sovereign crashes through giant panes of glass and steel, obliterating the architecture of a thousand years plus.

John tackles her to the ground, and someone – maybe Kaidan, maybe Liara, hell, maybe Wrex – gives them a biotic push forward.

-

Jane gasps for a breath, tries to recover. There’s a heavy weight on her chest, something eerily like –

“You asshole,” she grouches at him, breathless. “Get off.”

He groans and rolls off of her. “Ready?” he asks her, pulling her up to her feet. John dusts off her shoulders and studies her for any injuries.

She does the same to him, but Jane adds a dirty look. “You’re fat,” she accuses.

Grinning, he curls his arms up to flex his biceps. “I’m buff,” he boasts.

Together, they stagger over rubble and ruins, and holy shit, that is Anderson over there trying to deal with their squad (alternatively, the angry krogan battlemaster, the pissy baby quarian with a happy trigger finger, the traumatized turian still in battle-mode clutching his rifles, the panicked human biotic, and the nervous asari). “Anderson!” John shouts, cheery despite the blood running down his face.

Anderson’s relieved to see them, that much is clear.

-

When all is said and done, most of their squad depart for greener futures. What’s left of the Normandy is the original Alliance crew and Joker, who kind of transcends the Alliance title.

Udina and Anderson corner the Shepard twins (they stick together in the Citadel since the al-Jilani incident), and now they get to choose who gets the new Councilor position.

John and Jane share a look of equal despair. More politics.

Not Anderson, Jane warns with her eyes. He hates politics.

That’s exactly why we should put him on there, reasons John.

We put Anderson on there, he’s not even going to preside over our funeral.

All this takes place on the twin-psyche level and the number of glares they share with each other. “Udina,” John finally says. “You know politics.”

Being the slimy shit he is, he gives them a pasty smile. “Glad to know you don’t hold grudges, Commanders,” he says breezily. Then he leaves, and Anderson remains with a small smile quirking his lips.

“Thanks,” says Anderson, droll.

“You’re welcome, sir,” Jane responds. “Can’t see you dressed in Council clothes, sir.”

-

They are back on the Normandy, with only Liara remaining of their team. It’s not a bad thing, to be honest. The three-man squad finally becomes a three-man squad with Kaidan off the Normandy seeking some closure still, and they’ve never been more rounded out with a soldier, an infiltrator, and a biotic adept.

“Don’t jinx us,” warns Jane sleepily. “I know what you want to say, so I’m going to tell you right now. Don’t jinx us.” She’s lying flat on the bed, face half-buried in the pillow. John’s standing, looking out at the stars like some dumb philosopher.

The blue planet they orbit glows a comforting blue, and he chances a look down at his twin. “Jane,” he says warmly. “We’ve won. And now we can get ready for the Reapers.”

Jane pulls the sheets over her head and moans, “You fucking jinxed us, you asshole.”

Chapter Text

Well, everything’s on fire.

John’s not totally aware of what the hell has happened to the Normandy, but as he pulls yet another member of the crew – Corporal Kinsey, he thinks – out from a fallen sleeping pod, he spies Liara running his way, also pushing the Normandy’s crew to the escape pods.

“Liara!” he calls out over the gushing flames. His helmet’s already on, but his filtered voice makes it across to the panicking asari. “What’s happened?”

“Enemy ship!” she responds, harried. Jane suddenly springs from the back of the sleeping pod area brandishing a fire extinguisher – her helmet’s also on. “Joker’s in the cockpit – he won’t – he won’t leave.”

The Shepard twins share an exasperated look, and Jane tosses Liara the extinguisher. “Find the rest of the crew, get them into the pods,” she orders. John’s already heading for the stairs, and Jane’s going to chase after him in a minute.

Liara’s wobbly question makes the both of them stop: “The Alliance – the Council – will come for us, right?”

Viciously, Jane interrupts what would’ve been her brother’s reassuring words. “They’d damn well better if they know what’s good for them.” She gentles her voice. “Now go, Liara.”

As they enter the CIC, the void of space leaves them breathing harshly. “Thank god for magnetic boots?” asks John lightly, treading his way past the consoles surrounding the galaxy map. His voice echoes, magnified and overly loud in the empty of space.

“Thank god for magnetic boots,” Jane agrees, and together, they break through the blue field encasing the cockpit. Joker is frantically moving his hands, bright orange schematics flying past and red alerts blaring all over in front of him. “Joker. The Normandy’s lost, okay? Get up.”

He spares a desperate look at her. “I can still save her, Jane.”

John’s patience regarding stubborn people runs infinite. “There’s no time to debate that, Joker,” he says, albeit not as urgent as Jane would’ve liked. “The Normandy can be rebuilt. You can’t.”

-

In the end, they both get spaced.

Jane’s look of betrayal almost makes him laugh as he spins out into the void, a million stars winking at him with a brightness defying the black. So they accidentally did the twin thing – sacrificed themselves for the better of the other, except, well. Now they’re here, and Joker’s in the escape pod still having that gut-wrenching horrified expression plastered on his face.

She flips him off, and then her green eyes go wide. Oxygen is spurting from the cracks in her suit, from her helmet and she starts flailing to keep her air in – John gags at the same time.

Where’s the air, where’s the air, WHERE’S THE AIR –

-

“We can’t possibly fund two Lazarus Projects,” Miranda Lawson insists to the Illusive Man. “The cost of reviving one of the Shepard twins is incredibly high not to mention the rebuilding of the Normandy – “

The prissy bastard sits in his chair, calmly tapping the ashes from his cigarette like he’s come from the gangster-movie franchise revival back on Earth.  “I know the expense,” he responds, “but I’ve also read the dossiers and military reports. The Shepards work best at each other’s side.”

Miranda restrains herself from tearing her hair out. “We’re also planning on paying the mercenary and the thief an exorbitant amount of credits to be part of Shepard’s team. We can’t afford – “

Waving a lazy hand, the Illusive Man dismisses her protests. “I’m shutting down several projects and pulling in several favors to fund for both Shepards, Miranda. I’m putting my trust in you that they both come out from this as they were before.”

She gives up. “They don’t, and won’t, trust Cerberus,” she warns.

“We’ll give them a reason to.”

-

“Commander, wake up! Get off the table, you’re not safe!”

Jane groans, feels a pain in her jaw. She raises a tentative hand to her chin and feels the heat of a scar that shouldn’t be there. What the fuck, she thinks, propping herself on one elbow and squinting her eyes to assess her situation.

White walls, gleaming floor, medical instruments everywhere.

“Get to your pistol, Shepard!”

No John, and one bodiless, bitch-ass, vaguely-British sounding voice of a woman screeching for her to get into action. She gingerly puts pressure on her legs and quickly regains her balance. Her hand grabs the pistol and –

“There’s no thermal clips in this gun,” Jane complains. “Who the fuck keeps an unloaded gun around?”

“I wasn’t anticipating a breach in security – “ The voice breaks off, so Jane shrugs and moves on her own to find her brother. Priorities.

-

“Commander, get off the table! You’re in danger!”

John automatically rolls off the table, crouches low to try and find the danger. He can’t see the telltale red hair of his sister, and he’s stuck in a white medical room. Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he can feel the stubble he forgot to shave that day the Normandy fell and –

Carefully, he runs several fingers at his jawline. The burn of several scars has his fingers skitter away.

“We didn’t have time to heal all of your scars, Commander. Get to the pistol, now.”

“Where’s Jane?” he demands, before grabbing the – it’s empty. “And why is this out of thermal clips? Who keeps an unloaded pistol around?”

He hears the voice audibly sigh and mutter, “Good God, they are twins.” The woman clears her throat. “Just keep on moving, you’ll find thermal clips lying about. This station has been sabotaged, and yes, you will eventually encounter your sister.”

-

Predictably, the paths they take combine to a bridge where a lone black Cerberus soldier fires at the newly produced LOKI mechs. It’s a brief reunion – the Shepard twins don’t need long to reassure they are both real and legit.

“You got ammo?” she asks.

“Enough to get us out, yeah.” John spares a glance at the increasingly harried Cerberus soldier. “C’mon, let’s help him. He looks – official enough.” Moving fast, faster than she can grab at his collar, John rolls over to the soldier and starts making friendly under fire.

“He looks like a grunt,” Jane yells at him, and then she follows.

-

Perfect Miranda Lawson shoots a man point-blank, and while Jane Shepard can appreciate the decisive action taken against a traitor, how the fuck is there no blood staining her jumpsuit. Jane’s briefly envious until John starts reprimanding Miranda for automatically killing a suspect and for abandoning the station. Then she’s just sympathetic, because John’s lectures are the prime example of ‘boring’.

“If they aren’t here, then they’re not coming,” says Miranda shortly, and that’s that.

Under his breath, John mutters to Jane, “I don’t like that attitude.”

Jane mutters back, “I think you should hate her more for that jumpsuit than that attitude.”

-

The meeting with the Illusive Man goes as well as anyone can expect. Badly. Jane and John know that they have to work with Cerberus if they want to save the human colonies, but it doesn’t mean that they like it. John expresses the latter sentiment loudly, and for the first time in a long while, Jane’s the one restraining him.

They ask about their old squad, because no, John and Jane Shepard are not invincible and all-powerful, and they do need loyal and awesome teammates by their sides.

The Illusive Man runs down the list of the SR-1’s precision strike team:

Garrus, gone off-grid. Kaidan, working as the Alliance poster boy. Tali, considered a responsible adult aboard her flotilla. Liara, too busy at Illium to deal with the Shepards’ brand of crap missions. Wrex, wrestling Tuchanka under his control.

Best results of the entire conversation with the Illusive Man: Joker’s back.

Joker looks nervous, almost hesitant in the face of two people who sacrificed themselves for him.

But then John claps his shoulder, gives him a bright reassuring grin. “Glad you’re back, Joker. Even though I know why the Illusive Man – “

Jane interrupts darkly, but she also puts a steady hand on Joker’s arm. “I’m calling him Tim.”

“You can’t just call him Tim, what if the other Cerberus operatives hear – “ John’s protests are unheard, and even his cheerful voice dies out when they see their new ship. Joker’s proud of it, like a new father, and John can see why.

The ship is bigger, but still constructed in the same style of the old sleek Normandy. Hasn’t been named yet, Joker hints at them, and Jane snorts.

“It’s obviously a Normandy, look at her wings.”

-

“You can’t call the Illusive Man ‘Tim’, Commander Jane Shepard,” says Miranda patiently. They are seated in a shuttle headed for Freedom’s Progress. Her face absolutely emotes no irritation, and that irks Jane.

Jane smiles, showing a hint of her teeth, and beside her, John exhales a resigned breath. “Call me Jane, Miranda,” she invites. “It’d just get confusing, then, if you had to say ‘Commander Jane Shepard!’ all the time.”

John’s suspecting he’s about to become the mediator of every conversation Jane and Miranda hold, but then Jacob comes to the rescue.

“I believe we had a goal here, Miranda,” he reminds her.

The Shepard twins are interrogated, and it’s a temporary peace until Miranda brings up the basis of their psychological profiles. Then it’s Jane almost lunging for her throat and John pulling her back.

-

John pulls Jane aside for a couple of minutes at Freedom’s Progress on the pretense of needing her help for hacking a wall safe for extra credits. “Jane,” he says, and one hand creeps up to trace over the burning scars on his face. “Do you – do you feel them – “

“Burn?” asks Jane quietly. “Yeah. Guess it’s a sign.”

“Finally,” he jokes, “some universal hint telling us what we’re doing right and wrong.”

-

Prazza shoots at John’s head, and John can honestly tell him he’s not surprised. The entire situation looks bad – the two N7 Commanders, practically saviors of the Citadel (while killing the Council in the process, not everyone’s perfect), aligning with Cerberus?

Yeah, John would shoot himself in the head too.

Tali tells Prazza to stand down, and although Miranda bitches about Jane taking the initiative to agree with allying with Tali’s retrieval team, at least the Cerberus operative complies.

The quarian tugs at Jane’s arm before they split, and her tone brooks something serious and pained. “Jane, I know this is going to sound – oh, what do I say. This is going to make me sound like a bosh’tet, but – “ Tali pauses, and her grip tightens involuntarily. Jane could still break through it. “Are you and John real?”

Jane pats Tali’s arm carefully, wary of causing suit tears. “I think we’re real. Give us time to figure that question out.”

-

This YMIR mech, John decides, is a real bitch. He winces at the sudden burn searing his cheek and amends quickly, Man, this mech is mean. Nothing happens, except that his distracted mind has taken its focus away from the heavy mech. A piercing shot – yeah, that’s Jane – impacts on the mech’s optics.

“Shoot it, John!” Jane shouts at him, and he obliges with a spray of bullets.

Flanking them are Miranda and Jacob, offering a mixture of biotic powers and firepower. Miranda’s attached to his side, providing him with a steady litany about their progress and the stupidity of upstart quarians.

He wishes he had the other Cerberus soldier at his side. Jacob, at least, seemed to have no qualms about staying quiet next to Jane’s side.

At the end of it all, they all survive what most of Tali’s squad hasn’t. Tali herself is tending to one injured quarian, mending a suit rupture and occasionally slapping her colleague back to the world of the living. “Find Veetor,” she tells the Shepards, ignoring the Cerberus operatives entirely.

Veetor the twitchy quarian has locked himself in a monitor room. The wall of screens in front of him speak some language John’s unable to understand, but he definitely understands that the quarian in front of him is not… all there.

Irreversibly traumatized? Maybe. PTSD seems a galactic constant.

Despite Miranda’s vocal disapproval, John and Jane accept the compromise for Veetor’s omni-tool. Jane figures that all they really needed to know was that she and her twin are facing against the Collectors, the buggiest and freakiest and grossest alien race in the Milky Way. Batarians can’t even compare.

-

The Normandy SR-2 is gorgeous. Even Joker says so, except for the recent (and according to their pilot, permanent) AI, EDI. John’s not as perturbed as Jane about having an AI reside in the Normandy’s frame, but he’s always been more accepting about things he can’t control.

After they receive the suggestion to visit Omega first, for the infamous Archangel and retired STG operative Mordin Solus, John and Jane fall back in familiar patterns. They rotate their rounds – it will take them two days to reach the criminal-infested station anyway, so it’s plenty of time to adjust.

But something’s new – Jane visits Joker first in her rounds, John finishes with Joker.

Before all that happens, however, she and John have the unfortunate experience of meeting the gregarious Yeoman Kelly Chambers, Jane’s ‘fellow redhead’. Not the best opening to a conversation, even if it was intended to introduce an obligated empathy. Jane doesn’t do empathy for many people – Chambers is shaping up to be one of those many.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you!” says Yeoman Chambers. “I’m Yeoman Chambers, but you can call me Kelly if you want.” Her eyes track their movements, and John is unafraid to admit that he feels like a piece of meat. Meat that Chambers wants to eat.

Jane is feeling the same way.

“Yeoman Chambers,” the Shepards say in unison, opting not to get familiar with the yeoman. There’s camaraderie, and then there’s camaraderie.

It’s only out of John’s bleeding heart that he offers in consolation, “It’s good to meet you. What do you do around here?”

Chambers tucks a piece of her copper hair behind an ear and blushes like some maiden – Jane immediately hates her, because something about this girl is so fake. Can anyone in this galaxy even be that happy? That innocent?

Jane drags her mind from the gutter of evil thoughts to hear the yeoman finish, “… And I’ll also alert you to any strange behaviors from the crew.”

 -

“So I’ve noticed that the twins are switching up the meet-and-greet routine,” says Joker. In the co-pilot’s chair is Jane, who clutches onto a cup of coffee like her life depends on it. Stars are streaking past, and they are close to reaching Omega.

Jane hears the hurt buried under indifferent tones and playful jokes, and she cuts straight to the issue. “John doesn’t hate you, scout’s honor,” she responds, sipping her coffee. It’s really disgusting – Gardner wasn’t kidding about the entire ‘I’ve got no quality supplies, Commanders’. “We figured that the two of us laying into you was stress-inducing. Always had bags under your eyes when we saw you.”

Joker lays a hand on his chest. “Stress-inducing?” he echoes, and then he scoffs. “Please. The banter was great. Greatest moments of the SR-1 happened when the both of you were sniping at each other.”

She repeats, “Bags. Eyes. You.”

Sniffing at her and the presence of her bad coffee, Joker retorts, “Not all of us got the beauty sleep, Commander.” He indicates her atrocious offense to humanity’s tastebuds. “Nor the coffee.”

-

“Jacob.”

“Commander.”

Side by side, John and Jacob clean guns with machine-like efficiency. Field-stripping a gun is muscle memory to both of them (to John, reminiscent of the times he spent with Ashley), but the silent atmosphere persists until John finally breaks it. “Call me John.” He scrubs the barrel of an SMG – it’s got a suspicious dent, like a civilian had banged it against the surface of a table. Probably the yeoman.

Jacob chances a glance at the imposing Commander. “Kind of informal.”

John rolls his shoulders and gives up the SMG to Jacob’s steady hands. “Informal mission. Might as well make friends, right?”

The man lets out a hearty chuckle. “Might as well. I heard you and your sister told the old Normandy crew to also call you by your first names?”

“Ah, well, it’s one thing to bank on a system on who turns around when someone says ‘Commander’ or ‘Shepard’, but when an entire crew shouts ‘Commander Shepard’ and we’re both on deck? Almost like hell.” John shudders at the single memory of being swamped with requests to help and then having the misfortune of hearing the number of apologies saying ‘oh, we wanted the girl Shepard’.

Another laugh from the solemn soldier – John counts it as a win. For the next hour or so, they trade Alliance stories.

-

Jane makes herself cozy in Miranda’s office. “So, Miranda. What’s your story?” Good as an icebreaker if any, and trust her, she knew many icebreakers that had had her banned from several stores and bars.

“Shepard, I’m busy writing up reports.” The woman doesn’t even look up at her, so Jane sulks. Audibly.

“What can you do?” she presses.

A clack of ten pristine fingernails colliding against a table, and Miranda is finally making eye-contact with Jane. And she recites what Jane supposes is her resume – it’s not a bad resume, per se, but there’s definite room for some personal touches.

She’ll leave that to John. No way can she have the girl’s best friend relationship with Miranda Lawson, genetically engineered perfect human being.

-

Omega is full of despair. And fried food.

The grouping’s no different from last time. Jane reflexively runs from Miranda’s puppeteering hands to Jacob’s side, and John is left to the ice queen’s mercy. Either way, they’re ordered to attend to the biggest club on Omega: Afterlife.

“I’m not really a clubbing guy,” John tries to say to the batarian. “I’m more of a fancy restaurant or pleasant café guy.” What’s sad is that John does look like that kind of snobby rich bastard, even with his buzzed hair and constant five o’ clock shadow.

The batarian snarls at him wordlessly, and Jane snarls back with equal ferocity, “We’ll fucking go when we want, you ass.”

Behind him, a mercenary carelessly backhands another batarian – Jane approves of the tactics, and John is scowling by the time Miranda ushers them towards the tall man.

Zaeed Massani, old mercenary with a distinct Northern accent, can hardly replace Wrex in Jane’s mind, though. This particular old man wants promises, promises, and money. Priorities that she can somewhat sympathize with, except she’s irritated at his swagger.

What an ass. John watches and practically creates his own raincloud while watching Massani finish his last commission before boarding the Normandy.

-

Aria T’Loak is a total bitch. No other words necessary.

On the stairs of Afterlife with a thrumming bass beat pounding in their veins, John and Jane debate who’s going where and getting who. They can feel the contemptuous glare the asari is directing towards them – it’s not even like they’re obstructing other people’s way to T’Loak. From what they’ve seen, no one even wants to go near the Queen of Omega.

“You’re more equipped to get Archangel,” John points out, hushed. Innocently, he adds, “And you’ve still got the thug life all over you, sister.” She slaps his shoulder and grimaces, but Jane runs a hand through her hand to add an edgy look to her appearance.

“They’re going to make fun of me,” she complains. “You sure you’ll be safe in the quarantine ward?”

“Be the badass,” he suggests. “And I heard that humans are immune to the plague. So I’m only at risk for the usual, you know, bullet holes and biotic explosions.”

Miranda impatiently interrupts, “Time’s running out.”

In sync, the twins turn to stare her down, deadly green eyes and guiltless baby-blues.

-

So his twin’s picked up Garrus Vakarian, who’s been masquerading as the Archangel who took a rocket to the face in the midst of having the greatest one versus many firefight in all of galactic history. Big deal – okay, no, it’s actually a huge deal. Vakarian took a rocket to the face, holy shit.

-

So her twin saved, inadvertently, an entire ward from a disease only affecting species not of the human kind. And in doing so, cajoled the ice queen to help him clean out the vorcha and gangs trying to interfere with the clinic Solus had set up. It’s impressive. Mordin Solus, even more so.

-

“You alright?” asks John, watching Garrus calibrate the Normandy’s guns. He’s practically hovering over the turian’s shoulder. Mesmerized by the numbers scrolling by and the minute adjustments the turian is making, John almost misses the answer.

“I’ve never felt better.” The cybernetic patch pasted to the side of the turian’s head seems significantly dulled in spite of the fluorescent lights in the room. If he tries hard, John can still sniff out the acrid scent from Garrus’s banged up armor.

“Oh. That’s – that’s healthy?” His hand involuntarily goes to poke the orange interface, and Garrus pushes it away hastily. “Sorry. Just thought I saw a, uh, letter.”

Blue eyes, almost like his, flick towards him, and the turian sighs in exasperation. “You’ve never even calibrated a gun.”

John’s mildly offended at the dig at his technical skills, and he protests, “I tinkered around with the Mako’s guns. That’s experience, right?”

“That was you?”

“… No?”

-

Jane parks herself in the tech labs, datapads and everything stacked next to a window and a ladder leading down to a duct. She’s reviewing which planets to send probes to, because while John likes the task of scanning planets clearly lacking any valuable eezo, iridium, palladium, etcetera, Jane doesn’t like wasting her time.

Across from her, Mordin Solus pauses in his frenetic work, but quickly regains momentum. “Curious behavior,” he comments to the room. “Workspace ideal for labwork. Not for… “ He spares a glance over to her datapads. “Reports? No, any sensitive information would be dealt with in private quarters. Entirely irresponsible if actually completing mission reports in lab where information is liable to be stolen – “

“They’re just the initial resource scans of planets, professor,” Jane finally cuts in, bemused. “In interest of time – “

He brightens, like he’s some goddamn Einstein or Archimedes about to shout ‘Eureka!’. “Ah! See tech labs as convenient route to the CIC in case of delivering new orders. That, or paranoid.” Mordin busies himself with doing science things Jane can’t even begin to comprehend.  Scalpel? Test tube? Bacteria culture?

She shrugs – not like he’s watching – and asks drily, “Why am I paranoid?” Jane tosses one datapad to the planet-pile ‘ignore at all costs’. Whatever cache the planet is hiding, it is not worth the time.

“Extrapolated information suggests that of two siblings, one is more vigilant than the other.” Gesturing with a distracted hand in her direction, the salarian concludes, “So. Paranoid. Expecting brother to visit sometime this cycle.” A sharp inhale. “Brother is… more amenable to direct confrontation.”

Jane shrugs again, loosens the stiffness in her lower back. “He could use more subtlety in dealing with people,” she agrees, “but I think that’s part of his charm.”

This time, Mordin deigns to give her a two-second frown before bending back to his glassware. “Unlikely. Brother’s charm more of physical nature. Otherwise?” Sharp inhale again, but this one sounds more like he’s contemplating whether or not to spill. Jane gives him an encouraging eyebrow. He huffs a short laugh. “Hypothesis that if confronted with romance, general failure in self to speak occurs.”

“Confirmed,” she deadpans.

-

John and Jane come to the conclusion that Zaeed Massani must have been chosen because Tim’s line of thinking was ‘oh I need some kind of grandpa-looking figure with a foul mouth to substitute the power house of the Shepards’ old team’. Because otherwise, he is an utter shit.

Once, when John goes down to Engineering to see how Massani’s settled in, he sees the yeoman politely laugh when prompted to by one of Massani’s gory stories. It’s all downhill from that angle, because the old mercenary’s gotten his hands on John’s history, and no, John does not want to talk about Torfan. At all.

Jane, on the other hand, spares her attention on Massani for one day. A single day on the planet he wants to visit. It’s hot, and steamy, and altogether similar to a jungle. John’s back on the Normandy, probably overseeing her, Zaeed, and Miranda walk through this hellish green place.

It is not difficult what to do when faced with saving civilians or letting Zaeed finish his vendetta. John is her moral compass, and her moral compass isn’t here right now urging her to the burning factory. 

Privately, in the captain’s quarters that they rarely use, John hugs her and says, “I get it, you know.”

“Get what?” she responds, muffled because she’s squished up against his chest.

“Sacrifice. Getting the mission done.”

Jane blindly pats him on the cheek. “I know.”

They take Zaeed Massani out to cool his blood sometimes – well, it’s really Jane who will pick him onto her side. Massani will ask her exactly once, mockingly, if Jane thinks her twin can’t handle him, and Jane will respond with a genuine laugh.

“No, Zaeed,” she tells him, full of mirth. “I’m taking you because John might actually strangle you if given the chance, a dark alleyway with a garbage disposal bin, and the time.”

-

After John swings through Mordin’s little niche in the Normandy – evidently, having a blast at his expense if the salarian and his twin’s snickering is any hint – he makes the walk all the way to Joker’s cockpit, and then John collapses in the co-pilot’s chair.

There’s a relieving sense in that John or Jane never have to actually take control of the co-pilot’s duties. God bless EDI.

“Commander,” Joker greets him, distracted by the tumbling numbers and diagrams in front of him. “Last of the rounds now, huh? Totally broke my heart to hear the twins were switching up the classic routine.”

John yawns and slouches back in the chair. “If you don’t tell Jane that my plan is to sleep in this chair until her shift arrives, I’ll personally find and build you a Normandy model at the Citadel,” he offers, eyes half-shut.

Joker hums. “You drive a hard bargain, Commander. Risk your sister’s wrath for a personally found ship model? Built and painted?” At the slow nod, Joker cautiously extends a fist sideways. “Seal the deal, sir.”

“I thought we were beyond ‘sir’ and ‘Commander’,” grumbles John, and his fist gently bumps against the pilot’s. “Anything Jane talked about that I should avoid?”

“A-ha, I knew there was more to the change in routine. Not much, to be honest.” Gray-green eyes flicker to see the great Commander John Shepard sleepy. Ha. So much blackmail potential. “She did warn me.”

“About?”

“Well, the mission about taking up a war with the Collectors, which I should probably add, are more in number compared to, uh, Saren. The possibility of how deadly your new recruits are gonna be. Though, nice to have Garrus back. Finally got the stick out of his ass… “

It’s quiet conversation and light jokes until Jane sneaks up behind them and bumps John on the head with her knuckles. “Hey,” she says fondly. “We’re going to find ourselves a crazy krogan warlord.”

-

“Commanders, I do not recommend opening that tank,” Miranda automatically says once they are out of orbit and heading back to the Normandy. John’s yawning up a storm, almost falling asleep in his seat, and Garrus, sitting across from him, obligingly kicks the man in the knee.

The Cerberus operative, still rigidly holding herself upright next to Garrus although the rest of them happen to be lolling about, looks expectantly at Jane like she expects the redhead to do something unspeakably ruthless. Squished besides Miranda, Jacob looks up at the ceiling of the shuttle like he wants to sink into a hole of resignation.

“Krogan are pretty cool,” muses Jane. Her fingers are interlocked in her lap, and they lace together even tighter with every word the ice queen deigns to speak. “Wouldn’t be bad to have some extra muscle.”

Miranda barely hides her disdain. “It’s an unknown asset. The dossier specified Okeer’s abilities and skills, not whatever he’s cooked up in a tank.”

Thoughtfully, John pitches in his two blessed cents. “But Miranda,” he says earnestly, “it’s supposed to be the perfect krogan. How can we let the galaxy continue without a perfect krogan?”

Garrus snorts. Loudly.

-

EDI’s apprehensive about the potential damage to the Normandy, and John’s optimistic that it’s a display of real feeling. Of fear. That’s a good development for every sentient being, right? Either way, the AI gives up all responsibility to John and Jane, and Jane jumps for the console, excited about yet another krogan on the team –

John’s pinned to the side of a wall, life sucks, and Jane’s aiming a pistol at the krogan’s eyes, her green eyes hard as jade.

Grunt, having finally gotten over his identity crisis, turns a little to acknowledge her. “A krogan can only have one battlemaster,” he slowly says, emphasizing the one. An equally slow smile – something viciously intimidating – curls his lips up.

Oh my god, John says to his sister in the all-powerful twin-speak. He wants us to fight? You be battlemaster, you be battlemaster, I cannot be battlemaster to a fifteen-minute old krogan –

In response, Jane glares at him, and then Grunt.

“Grunt,” she says. “Whatever you think your placement in this ship is, you’re under my brother’s command and mine. We’re of equal rank, and of the same clan. So if you fucking think I have to fight my brother to be alpha, I’m tossing you out of the airlock.”

John makes a face at her.

-

“He’s like a baby brother,” Jane says to Garrus moodily. “Another baby brother, Garrus.” She is picking through the boggling amount of inane missions Tim’s sending through the Shepards’ private terminal, and she’s tossing the Firewalker ones to the ‘doing it’ pile. Jane’s heard things about the great and difficult-to-master Hammerhead and hell yeah she’s going to put her hands on that steering wheel.

If it has a steering wheel.

Whatever, she’ll figure something out.

Garrus doesn’t look up from his calibrations. “I thought John was the older twin.”

“I’m not talking about John – our ages are top-secret,” she sniffs haughtily, like the Council used to when dismissing the Reapers. “I’m talking about Joker. As a baby brother. But we’re not talking about Joker.”

“No,” he agrees easily, “we’re talking about the fully-grown krogan who probably has a programmed hatred for all turians.” His tone leaves the impression he’s making fun of her.

That’s fine. Garrus looks ragged nowadays.

“Not a problem,” Jane responds. “If you couldn’t handle a baby krogan, this entire mission is going to hell.”

“What, we weren’t already? Damn. Thought that was your sales pitch. What other lies are you hiding?”

-

John goes from saying hello to Jacob to ‘no, wait, I don’t want to walk in on this conversation’ at the sight of his twin casually chatting with the operative. The Shepard twins have a rule about not interfering with each other’s conversations, mostly because in the beginning, no one was willing to call them by name except maybe Wrex.

But Wrex never gave a shit about Alliance rank, so there was that.

He finds solace in the tech labs and watches Mordin-magic happen right before his eyes.

“Finding antidote to Collector venom difficult,” Mordin informs him suddenly. “But exciting. If easy, probably wouldn’t have joined Normandy. Would have recommended other retired STG crew.”

“I doubt they’d have any expertise with chemicals.” John’s careful about conversations with Mordin, because the last time – not with Mordin, some jackass at a bar crowing about deathcounts – he got into a verbal war about ideals and morals, Jane had to bail him from the locals’ jail.

Reading ‘bail’ as ‘jailbreak’, of course.

“Recommendation would not be for more salarian soldiers. Anyway. Have already contributed much to galactic history, Shepard. Additional accolades meaningless.”

Wryly, John has to snark, “I don’t think the Illusive Man plans to give us any medals about destroying the Collectors.”

Mordin blinks. “Physical proof of accomplishment? Hardly necessary. Was referring to achievements awarded through affecting galaxy by own self.”

Wow, if they let Mordin out on Earth, John could name probably a dozen or so politicians (and military men) who would be offended by the salarian’s dismissal of commendations. However, as the comment’s made (probably) to lighten the mood, he only chuckles.

-

Jane doesn’t mean to flirt with Jacob, but –

Look, her brother walked in a bad time, when Jane had been digging herself out of a hole. Before she leaves Jacob in the armory, she makes it clear to him that she’d rather not indulge in any scandalous romance. “You’re great eye-candy,” she tells the man candidly. “And you can’t take that the wrong way. But seriously, me and you? Not happening.”

Jacob looks just as relieved as she is about calling off any potential romance. “Glad to keep it that way, Commander.”

-

“This is a trap,” Garrus mentions mournfully to Jane. The two of them watch John cheerfully greet the armed guards, ignoring the order for the team to stand down and relinquish their weapons. Grunt is baring his teeth, almost snapping his jaws at the prison guards. “This is a trap, and you two have never brought me anywhere nice. Why do you never bring me anywhere nice?”

“You’re just soft-hearted for us Shepards,” Jane answers for him. “Isn’t the ship awesome, though? Sleek design and all?”

He spares a blue-eyed (not the baby blues of her brother, more like the startling blue of harsh alien liquor served at Afterlife) glare down at her petite frame. “This is a prison ship. You brought me to a prison ship. A turian prison ship. And you brought a krogan.”

As Warden Kuril steps through to assure his men that the Normandy squad can easily be handled, with or without guns, John steps on Grunt’s foot – not like it would hurt, it’s just to add some pressure – and gives him a meaningful glare: Don’t say anything.

Turns out, Jack is a crazy, tiny, human biotic with a bitchy behavior to match Aria T’Loak’s attitude.

-

“Talk to her,” Jane recommends.

John recoils and gamely holds onto the railing overlooking the galaxy map. “I’m very happy here,” he protests. “No, really, I haven’t stayed here for more than a couple – ” He glances at the yeoman, who mouths a reproving ‘hours’ – “minutes. Anyway, I don’t think she particularly trusts men at the moment.”

“Most men aren’t you, John,” sighs his twin. “Look, go say hi. To her and Grunt.”

“Go make friends with Miranda,” he snaps back.

-

“Jack.”

“Fuck off.”

“… How are you settling in?”

“Fuck off, Shepard. I’m not in the mood for any of your shitty pep talks – yeah, I’ve heard.”

He keeps his eyes politely above her scantily-clad chest and hopes to high hell she doesn’t ever feel any fuzzy warm feelings for him. “… Pick up anything useful while roaming the galaxy?”

Jack sneers at him. “Nothing you would spend resources on.”

John restrains himself from crossing his arms or putting his hands in his pockets. Instead, he holds his wrists at the small of his back and tries not to be freaked out.

Large dark eyes bore into his, two pits of the abyss letting him know he’s probably got less than a minute to scram before she follows through on her word to make things explode. Like him. Or the Normandy.

“Send plans up when you can,” he orders. Then he flees.

-

Contrary to some people’s opinions, John is not a weak little shit reliant on his twin to bail him out of worse situations. He’s a damn surgeon with a shotgun, practically a tank when wielding his assault rifle, and Tali had once told him that John Shepard with a pistol is a monster.

John’s the de-facto leader of a squad, and Jane prefers it this way because not many assholes in the galaxy understand the meaning of N7 without having a red laser trained at their left eye, and being a leader means being diplomatic.

Down at Horizon, Jane finds herself wishing that she had been the leader instead. “Shit,” she breathes to Garrus, and he hums a worried agreement. In front of them is Kaidan Alenko, who looks older and heartbroken before gaining some steel spine.

The wrong kind of steel.

Kaidan ‘Motherfucking’ Alenko accuses them of being fake, of being clones, of being controlled somehow by some chip installed in their brains by Tim. Apparently, not even John’s face (broken, yet again, but not in the sobbing teary way – no, John’s never been the one to shed the tears, he reverts to the Butcher’s mindset) fazes the new poster-boy for the Alliance.

“I… I have to go tell the Council this,” Alenko says, stepping away with betrayal all over his face. “You’re actually Cerberus. N7 Commanders John and Jane Shepard, Cerberus.”

“Why don’t you just shoot me while you’re at it, Kaidan,” John replies. Bitter words – no, not like John at all. Even Garrus flinches at the tone, because as far as the turian knows, John Shepard is the idealistic soldier who sees past grudges and old conflicts and ultimately tries to be the better man.

 “I guess the Butcher of Torfan lives up to his name, huh,” snaps Kaidan.

And that hurts.

Wordlessly, John waves Jane down from raising her sniper rifle to Kaidan’s face. No-scoping isn’t a thing she usually indulges in, but for this asshole, she just might.

“Go your way,” spits the Butcher of Torfan, the venom hiding the shaky voice. “We’re going ours, Alenko.”

-

Jane only catches the last bit of Tim’s little ‘private’ conversation with John.

“And are there any emotional attachments still with you, John?” Tim’s voice is too oily, too pleased-sounding to be of any comfort.

“I know what you want to hear,” replies John curtly. “So let me be blunt with you: I will always have an emotional attachment to the past, even if some people of those past are complete bastards.”

She interrupts. “Wow, Collectors. Anything new you want to add to the mission? I mean, if you want to, you know, warn us about fucking Reapers having connections to the Collectors, it would be pretty goddamn helpful.”

Tim’s displeased. “Jane. So good to see you.”

Jane bares her teeth in a grin she’s learned from Grunt. “Aw, good to see you too.”

-

“More dossiers,” Jane complains to Miranda, lounging quite comfortably in the chair now designated as ‘hers’. It is as uncomfortable as chairs in a principal’s office, all metal and little padding. Even Joker’s chair is layered with leather – the actual kind, too. “Couldn’t you have just dumped the entire lot on us at the beginning?”

Cue severe glare. “I am not privy to the Illusive Man’s whims, now would you kindly step out so I can finish my report – “

“Of John and me being complete jackasses?” drawls Jane.

“The phrase may find itself in here if you don’t leave me to my work, Shepard.”

-

Joker balks at the unexpected order to fly to the Citadel, but to be fair, both the Shepard twins had been standing behind his chair like eerie, creeptacular stalkers. Before responding to the Commanders, he spares a moment to scold EDI for not warning him. And then: “Are you sure?”

He’s hedging. Because the Citadel’s essentially an entire collection of bad memories, and maybe the Shepards don’t need that right now. And, to top it all off, they have to dock at Zakera Ward.

With no remorse, Jane fixes a green-eyed glare at the pilot. “There’s a deadline.”

John, thank God it had been John who’s twins with the devil incarnate, nudges her slightly. “More like professionalism on the line, Joker,” he sighs. “But we should report to the Council. And maybe get out of the certified ‘dead’ list.”

“Perks to being ‘dead’, you know,” Joker finally remarks.

“More perks to being ‘not dead’,” Jane counters. “For example, finally being able to cash in on my damn credit chit. You know how many months of pay have gone unclaimed?”

“Ah, I smell shopping trip. In Zakera Ward.”

-

Kasumi Goto is tiny and scary, but not visibly scary. All the Shepard twins have to do is promise the best thief in the business that they’ll attend the Bekenstein party for her graybox. In fact, the woman practically lights up at the sight of both of them, flanked by Garrus and Grunt, who had complained about the Normandy’s tasteless rations.

John intends to treat at least Grunt to noodles and then request several crates of supplies to be delivered to the Normandy – Jane wants to shake down shopkeepers for discounts on behalf of a Spectre who saved the Citadel from burning up in flames.

So Grunt’s not so big a fan of noodles unless they are swimming in an appropriately crimson red soup. John observes in horrified fascination as bowl after bowl starts to pile up, and five servings later, Grunt finally sighs in satisfaction.

The thief shimmers into appearance right behind him, casually tapping him on the shoulder. “Did you know that your sister’s currently buying everything necessary to jury-rig a Claymore and two Black Widows?”

“Claymore?” Grunt perks up.

“Black Widows?” John’s voice is aghast.

Over the communications channel, Garrus’s two-toned voice reeks of second-hand embarrassment. “I really tried,” the turian says in earnest. “But Jane’s… single-minded. Can you – Jane, no, I don’t think your last purchase was smart at all. No one buys fishes unless it’s to eat them.”

Reflexively, John scoots his own purchase closer to his chair and peers in to ensure Terry the space hamster is still alive. “I’ll, uh. We’ll finish here soon.”

A heavy krogan hand claps his back. “If you’re not going to eat that, battlemaster, I want to eat it.”

“No one eats Terry,” John manages to respond after a flabbergasted second. “Or Jane’s fish.”

Kasumi’s already crouching on the ground, looking at the tiny brown fluffball with its beady black eyes. “Why would you name it Terry?” she questions, delicately poking a finger into the cage.

The fluffball rolls itself onto its back and cannot scramble back up. Its paws scrabble fruitlessly in the air.

“How urgent is that party?” John says instead.

“Not for another two weeks, to be honest.”

-

“So how was the entire spiel about ‘hey, I’m Commander John Shepard, this is Commander Jane Shepard, we’re back from the dead!’?” Curled up in the co-pilot’s seat with her knees pressed against her chest, Jane snorts at Joker’s question. It’s practically the ‘witching hour’ of the Normandy’s time-cycle, so the skeleton crew has emerged from the sleeping pods to man the stations and John’s ghosting his way through Normandy, checking in on the sleepless.

“Captain Bailey’s a smart man,” she eventually replies. “Very not-by-the-book. Fastest Customs wait I’ve ever had to go through. Now. Shut up. Let me sleep.”

John suddenly looms over Joker’s shoulder, and yes, it is as creepy as it sounds. “New heading. We’re not going to Bekenstein yet.”

“You tell Kasumi that?” yawns Jane.

“We talked. Joker, go for Illium. We’ll finish up two dossiers over there, then zoom back for Kasumi’s thing fashionably late.”

Joker squints up at the imposing figure, tries to picture him in a tuxedo, a black formal dress suit, or even those strange tunics that passed for fashion in the galaxy. “Uh, John, you do fashion?” He makes sure he words and says this as politely as possible, because, you know. Soldier who’s been through all kinds of hell versus pilot with brittle bones? Three guesses on who wins, and the first two don’t count.

Like the rest of his creepy friends but most definitely not a friend, EDI butts in: “Commander John Shepard does not possess any formal clothes in his closet. It is unlikely he will produce any clothing purchases from Illium by the time the Normandy docks at Bekenstein.”

Deep frown from the man with baby blue eyes. “EDI, your lack of faith in me is kind of mean.”

“I state a conclusion gathered from statistical data.”

-

The Shepard twins treat Illium like a reconnaissance mission, so it’s only the two of them meeting Liara in her office.

Liara looks, more or less, content staying right where she is, so John doesn’t bother trying to persuade her back on the Normandy. Her niche in the ship’s been replaced with EDI’s AI core either way, yet another Cerberus reminder he didn’t quite need. Jane also seems to get that Liara wouldn’t budge from her job as an information broker, and she only gives Liara an approving nod.

The asari asks them if they can hack terminals at the transport area, and John being John (and Jane considering it just one of many favors they’ll do for an old friend), the little quest is finished in minutes. After that, it’s just information on their marks being handed to them.

“Thanks, Liara.” John’s eyes are creasing into a smile, and he tries to keep it professional, but Liara looks as though she hasn’t seen real daylight or been hugged for years. He wraps his arms around her and even lifts her bodily off the ground despite her yelping. “It’s really good to see you, you know?” he tells her earnestly.

“I think she does,” Jane answers dryly for the asari. “Let her get back to work, John. We’ve got an assassin and an asari justicar to find.”

John sets Liara back on her feet and turns to his twin. “You want the assassin or… ?”

-

The captain’s quarters have been enlarged to an almost ludicrous size, considering the bunk-bed (John’s okay with the bottom bunk, because Jane’s overly attached to high positions and he knows she’s got a sniper rifle stashed at the foot of her mattress). Their little office is quite bare, only decorated with two terminals and several empty mugs of what used to be coffee.

Ever since Jane’s taken to writing her mission reports in the tech lab, John’s been hiding out with Grunt, alternatively finishing his reports in blunt military acronyms – there is a bet between him and Jane on who can use ASAP and FUBAR more, and Miranda absolutely hates them for it – and entertaining the krogan with physical training.

(They’ve been banned with outright sparring ever since John crashed into a wall and Grunt was felled by an elbow to his face. Evidently, scaring the engineers with ominous thuds is not a Commander Shepard thing to do.)

But they’ll still come up here to catch a quick nap, or debrief each other about important things that don’t need to be heard by the nosy yeoman. Such as their two newest squad members.

 “You’ve picked up a drell assassin free of charge, sworn to your service till the end of the mission,” repeats John slowly. Bewilderedly is more of the appropriate adverb. Yes. Bewildered is the exact word he should use, because John can count exactly how many crushes his twin’s had in his entire life on two hands.

They don’t, exactly, feel the possessive need to stalk each other’s crushes. Only the burning need to know who. And so, for their entire life, they’ve never kept any secrets from each other.

 “And you’ve got a millennia year old asari justicar sworn to your service, so long as you’re alive.” She’s positively glowing while sitting down next to him on the bottom bunk. “I think I scored the better deal. But if it’s any consolation, Samara looks like she could bring down a mountain range and some skyscrapers after that.”

Miserably, he says, “I think she kind of looks down on me.”

She pats his shoulder in consolation. “If it’s because you were talking about mercy and shit, then she’s got a good reason. It’s the Terminus Systems, John.” Together, they stare at the wall, one in misery and the other in contemplation. “So. You’ve seen Th – Krios, right?”

John blindly grabs for a pillow and then stuffs it in his face, burying the sound of his whimpering.

-

 John can see why Jane’s got a crush on Thane Krios – the drell is almost unfairly attractive, and the fact that he’s an assassin is just a bonus on the pros-list he’s sure Jane’s been compiling in her head. The cons-list is probably nonexistent.

“Shepard’s twin, I’m guessing,” says Thane without turning his back. “She spoke of you.”

“Yeah, probably not very highly. I’m John Shepard.” He aborts the move for the chair – too close to the drell his sister’s crushing on, John might strangle him to no avail because, well, assassin – and instead opts to lean against the window, his back to the empty void. “It’s good to meet you.”

The ink-black sclera is oddly soul-piercing for all it masks the slight shade of green irises. He corrects John, “She only mentioned that you are more… destructive in pursuit of your goals.”

Ah, he’s calling hypocrite next time he sees his twin. “Mind telling me how meeting her went? It’s helpful to know an outsider’s perspective of us.”

Thane hums, and then speaks as if he’s far away. “I’m climbing in the vents. Dark. Tight fit, but not too uncomfortable. Sounds of bodies falling to the ground below me, but no fire-fights breaking out. Must be team of two or more infiltrating premises. Single shots from a modded M-92 Mantis, all of them. Admirable. An M-97 Viper’s rapid-fire, but even more rapid reloads. Then - the noise of heavy boots trying to be quiet followed by the elevator closing.” He pauses. “My apologies. That precedes my meeting of your twin.”

John refuses to touch the subject of ‘wow, what was that’ and shrugs. “It’s enlightening to know that Jane’s accuracy’s still top-notch,” he responds drily. “Do you mind going on?”

The drell studies his folded hands, nods, and doesn’t fall into the intoned monologue again. “After I completed my assignment, your sister politely waited out my… prayers and proceeded to question me. We shared analyses of each other, with each other, and then she explained the Normandy’s mission. I accepted to join the cause, free of charge.”

Short and sweet.

And telling him absolutely nothing about the drell’s personal view of Jane.

Well, he didn’t want to know or even speculate if Thane had been paying… attention to Jane.

John doesn’t need those nightmares, so he strikes up a conversation about galactic literature instead. Evidently, there’s only so much patience in waiting for a shot before one needs entertainment, because he and Thane manage to trade ancient literature recommendations and remark on the few they’ve both read for the next hour.

--

If pressed, Jane will tell you that her first reason for talking to Wrex is because he had a history with the galaxy, one fraught with vital lessons and amusing anecdotes. The same strategy she used on the grumpy old krogan probably won’t work now, especially since it’s an asari justicar, but damn it all to hell if she doesn’t get one story out of the millennia-old asari.

Before entering the observation deck, Jane tells Joker to start gunning for Bekenstein. Kasumi’s sent her and John reminders about the entire shindig, and – crap, they forgot to shop for fancy attire. Maybe they’ll let her slide in Cerberus dress uniform as disgusting as that sounds.

Deep breath. Enter the room. See levitating asari justicar. Almost back out.

No, Jane tells her spine firmly. We’re talking to her. Gingerly, she stepped forward, and then stopped. Samara’s already standing up, all poise and lethal grace – Miranda’s got nothing on her. That red catsuit clings and is more alarmingly awesome compared to Lawson’s white and black attire.

“Jane Shepard, I presume,” says Samara. “John’s said much about you.”

“Well,” she drawls. “He hasn’t said much about you other than a short ‘she’s the original kickass badass’.”

-

Two hours from Bekenstein, John drags his feet to Joker’s cockpit to find his twin gesticulating wildly with her arms and Joker warily watching the flailing limbs.

“She’s awesome,” he hears her rant. “Did you know – oh my god, I think she told me state secrets. I have never aspired to be so much like an asari, she is badass – “

Joker twists his neck at the deliberately loud sound of John’s shoes hitting the floor, and the pilot mouths: HELP ME.

A wide grin splits John’s face as he complies. “Jane, hope you didn’t eat yet. The dress Kasumi picked out for you is kind of… slim. Very infiltrator.” He pokes at her shoulder. “Hell, any guy, alien or not, would probably stop dead at the sight of you.”

-

Kasumi doesn’t give them any time to get the pre-mission jitters out of their system, piling them into a shuttle before they’re able to protest. The mission goes surprisingly well – excepting for a few minor parts at the beginning.

“Solomon and Alison Gunn are not siblings,” Kasumi had told them bluntly. “But, lucky for you, I’m not a sick person. You two are cousins!” She claps excitedly, little short bursts of glee for the looks of horror on their faces at what they could have been.

Party’s nice. A little overstuffed, and god does Jane want that platter of human-only crabcakes (imported from Earth, holy shit, John let me go you motherfucker I am having those crabcakes), but the two of them manage to mingle well enough.

John’s baby blues, reassuringly deep voice, and natural charisma cajole people into spirited conversations, and Jane strikes out as the newest ice queen.

Standing in a corner because no one’s taught her how to walk in heels.

Of course they get out of the resulting firefight alright – who could take down the Shepard twins and the best thief in the business with a gunship?  The problem comes with Keiji’s graybox, now recovered and boasting of ominous crap Jane and John don’t especially want to deal with.

“You have to let him go,” John says to her gently. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Kasumi clutches to the box to her chest, and her eyes snap up to meet John’s sympathetic ones. “I don’t want to forget him.”

His twin’s voice is devoid of any cruelty, and John thinks that – she might be sympathizing with Kasumi herself. “Kasumi. He wouldn’t have wanted you to stay trapped in his memories. Destroy it.”

The graybox shorts out.

-

Jane’s checked with EDI like three times now, ensuring that the Normandy ducts are still (mostly) the same and that the cooling fans aren’t going to shred her if she hops in them for old time’s sake. She’s tugging at the fitted turtleneck collar of her shirt as she enters Life Support, and then she’s clearing her throat.

“Jane.”

“Thane,” she returns. “Busy?” She flexes her hands in the worn leather gloves, checks to see if they’ve retained their elasticity. And then she’s at the table and leaning her hip against it, crossing her arms and looking impassively down at his curious face. The leather elbow patches are stitched on neatly, a recent addition to the turtleneck.

He blinks. “Not at all. Is there anything specific you wanted to talk about – “

“Up for crawling through vents?” Jane’s shoulders are tense with nervous anticipation – will he even get the hint? She hasn’t been doubtful of her actions for a while, and it digs at her that Thane’s able to make her even feel flushed. “For a game,” she clarifies.

She mourns her ovaries, because Thane’s perfect balance has him leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the table, putting pressure on the back two legs. “I see,” he eventually says. “The rules?”

Jane passes him a child’s gun, a plastic contraption made to shoot rounds of nontoxic paint, and she shows him her own. “Tag. I checked with EDI. The paint shouldn’t interfere with the Normandy’s operations.” Opening her omni-tool, she sends the bare schematics of the Normandy’s insides to Thane. “Alright. That’s as much as I’ve got. EDI will keep us away from any certain deathtraps, the schematics will show you all the vents located on each floor…” She flashes a bright grin at the puzzled drell. “Krios. Tag.”

And she shoots him point-blank in the chest with a glob of pink paint, the color courtesy of Mordin’s chemicals, and then? She sprints.

The best thing? He gives chase.

(minutes later)

The Cerberus crew, sadly unaware of Commander Jane Shepard’s penchant for squirming through ducts and making scary noises when her elbows collide with the metal, are absolutely terrified. “Commander,” Crewman Patel says with a note of urgency. “Shouldn’t we be – “

A banging noise, the sound of liquid splattering. Patel squeaks. “Shouldn’t we be worried?”

John hums. “No,” he answers cheerfully, scanning the planets labeled ‘moderate’ for resources. “Just let them,” bang, “blow off,” another screech of boots gaining traction against metal and the soft rasp of fabric generating friction with a smooth surface, “steam.”

Chambers exchanges a panicked glance with Crewman Hadley.

(in the vents)

Holy shit, Jane hasn’t had such an enjoyable game of hide and seek for a long time now. She cocks her head, listening for the minute sounds of Thane lithely moving through the vents – Jane flips on her back, does half a sit-up, and fires several rounds.

Thane, gifted with an economical sense with his bullets (real or not), saves his shots. He’ll get her later.

With a few minutes gained, Jane opens her omni-tool and squints against the bright orange glare. Her location’s right under Miranda’s office, and oh, this will be worth the retribution. Jane grips her pistol and slams the butt of it several times against the vent’s ceiling. Loudly.

Maybe it’s a clear sign to Thane that she hasn’t moved, but no way will Jane pass up an opportunity to mess with Miranda.

-

In the end, Jane has to admit defeat. They’re at an equal level of accuracy in the vents, and even though Jane has her knowledge about the shortcuts, Thane adapts fast to the cramped spaces. It’s a long haul sideways to push into the vent leading to the AI Core, and a longer way up the ladder.

She’s practically dripping with neon green paint when she’s pulled herself out, spread-eagled on the floor out of exhaustion. John’s dry voice echoes in her comm: “I’m assuming you’re done. Please be done.” Jane responds with a breathless laugh, and then Thane emerges.

His chest is bright pink, but that’s the only clear hit. Otherwise, it’s all just barely scraping his shoulders, his waist, his thighs –

Do not think about his thighs, Jane Shepard, she scolds herself.

Thane sits down beside her, crisscrosses his legs. His spine’s straight, but his shoulders are less tense – more relaxed. “I must admit, Jane,” and shit, why does she always think he’s purring her name, that’s just how drell speak, it must be, “I hadn’t expected this to be so… “

“Fun?” she fills in. Optimistic. When is she ever optimistic?

He smiles down at her, the faintest quirk of his lips pulling up to one side. “Yes. I’m beginning to see how you’ve managed to become the infiltrator.”

Jane raises a finger to point it at his face, but her hand’s still shaky from the trembling muscles of her arms having to haul her ass through vents, up ladders, and down ladders. “One day, Thane,” she vows, “we’re doing this again.” Her hand drops heavily, and she’s perfectly fine with it crashing into the metal floor until Thane catches the limb and gently lays it down instead.

Oh. Brain, restart. Restart, brain.

“I can only hope so,” he agrees easily.

-

The next cycle aboard the Normandy, John’s patiently waiting at the elevator for his sister to stagger out of their quarters. It’s one of those rare days they get out on the CIC together before splitting up for their rounds. She’s clutching her collarbone and making pitiful noises at John when they board the elevator down to the CIC. “John,” she whines. “Paintballs hurt.”

“I know,” he responds, voice dry as ever. “You’ve shot me with them enough.”

A hissing sound precedes the opening of the elevator, and once they are both out, Chambers is calling them over. “Commanders,” says the yeoman carefully. “Grunt’s being – um. More aggressive than usual. And Mordin would like to speak with either of you as soon as possible.”

Chapter Text

Tuchanka looks like a pile of rubble – is, is a pile of rubble. Jane’s read up on krogan history, and she’s made John read up on it too, mostly because of Wrex and later, Grunt. Grunt, who is unnaturally bloodthirsty for his battlemasters’ blood and unspeakably enthusiastic about Tuchanka’s historic warlords, also decides that Tuchanka isn’t worth his time the instant he steps foot into Clan Urdnot’s base.

John can hear Mordin’s sigh, and he trades looks with Jane. So am I going with him to find Maelon, or…

They walk up the rocky slope to the throne where Wrex of all krogan – no, this is expected, they shouldn’t be surprised – is being distracted and annoyed by another, less scarred krogan. And then they’re blocked.

Jane’s reaching for her rifle when Wrex ditches the pestering traditionalist, pushes past his guards, and bellows, “Jane! John! I heard you two were dead!” His grin shows too much teeth to be relieving, and the exchange of forearm-gripping too tight to be casual. “Figures even death couldn’t stop the twins, huh?”

Behind them, Mordin, Grunt, Garrus, and Kasumi make their own comments like an ungrateful movie audience. It’s mostly in whispers and undertones, and the occasional soft snicker that could only be Kasumi laughing at their expense.

Wrex focuses on them with unerring critical judgment. “A new team,” he observes. “Seems like the both of you are still picking up strays. And the brat. You picked up the brat again?”

Dryly, Garrus raises a hand. “I’m right here, Wrex.”

“Yeah, I can see half of you,” Wrex shoots back. He visibly shakes himself. “I’m guessing this isn’t a visit to a good friend.”

Business as usual.

-

The group takes five minutes to debate on who’s going where. Okay, John and Jane debate on who’s going where. The squad tends to agree with whatever the twins say mostly because when they strategize together, it is disjointed twin-speak coming from their mouths. Even Mordin is hard-pressed to follow the line of conversation.

“You need someone on your six,” Jane says. “Take Garrus. I’ll take Kasumi with me to do Grunt’s Rite of Passage.” Vaguely unsettled expression, mirrored by Kasumi’s disgruntled frown. “Does anyone actually know what this Rite is?”

Mordin volunteers the information. “Believe it is multi-leveled test with accordingly increased difficulty. Should bring more firepower.” He glances at John. “Maelon… not so hard to reach with snipers.” As he spots the scowl on Jane’s face, he finishes, “Maelon should also still be alive even if concluding Rite of Passage before.”

There is a horrified grimace from John, and it is glorious for Jane to say gleefully, “Let’s go be Grunt’s krantt first.”

Before the Urdnot shaman takes them to the designated area, Jane headbutts the asshole trying to degrade the tank-born krogan on her team. For good measure, John copies her. Not his smartest decision, and it probably contributed to their future deaths, but somewhat amusing.

The Rite of Passage isn’t that bad, to be honest, until the goddamn thresher maw writhes out of the ground like some unholy beast from the womb of earth. Then it’s just chaos and screaming, and somehow, somehow, they kill it. Grunt gets the honorary finishing blow, but it’s mostly them.

Kasumi takes a photo with her omni-tool: Jane and Garrus are atop the dead maw’s head, sniper rifles casually held in their hands. John is leaning against the corpse with a nonchalant grin, assault rifle point-down at the ground. Grunt, who is grinning like mad, standing easily next to John and holding up a blood-painted sign with Kasumi’s name on it.

Then they’re ambushed by that asshole clan, and Urdnot Grunt is the one to blow the leader’s face off with his shiny Claymore.

-

“John, Jane,” says Wrex cheerfully. “No one’s killed a thresher maw since I did it. Impressive.”

Jane jerks her thumb at John’s lolling head. “Thanks to John for providing bait and cover fire,” she responds, dry. “I’d ask if there was a pool of water or something to wash thresher maw bits off me, but I remembered – “

“You’re on Tuchanka,” finishes the leader, far too amused at Jane’s newly adopted vanity. “What’s the problem the salarian needs to deal with?” Wrex directs the question at John, who startles out of sleep with an interrupted yawn.

“Hospital where a salarian’s being kept by a rival krogan clan, the Weyrloc,” John manages to say. “Do you mind if we, uh, clear them out for you?” Wrex’s scowl comes far too easily.

“Go ahead.  The Weyrloc have been pissing at the edge of Urdnot territory for a couple months already, and who would conveniently appear at my home to drive them out but the Shepard twins themselves.”

A smirk pulls up at Jane’s mouth. “Always happy to help clean house, Wrex.”

-

It is agonizingly simple to walk in and kill all the Weyrloc krogan, but then it rapidly becomes a shared desire between the Shepard twins to just blow the hospital up. The human victim is the first of many crimes they will keep track in their head.

Turns out, Maelon’s not kidnapped. In fact, this move to cure the genophage (through morally evil experiments) is just the kid’s emotional response to devastating an entire race from his earlier actions.

Though John agrees with Maelon’s argument that dooming a warlike race to the one-percent chance of reproduction is reprehensible, the crimes are unforgiveable and deserving of capital punishment.

Yet John cannot let Mordin shoot his old student.

“You aren’t a killer,” he tells the salarian, a placating hand on the bony wrist. Stonily, Jane watches with the rest at the sidelines. John continues, “I may not know your history, but I know you aren’t this. Think about it.”

Mordin sharply inhales, then lowers the gun. “Right. Not so cold-blooded.” He turns his head slightly to the male Shepard, still tracking Maelon’s jerky twitching with keen eyes. “Thank you, John.”

“Anytime, Professor.”

John tells Maelon to scram. Mordin even suggests Omega as a shelter.

“Open a clinic. Do more good than you were here,” the salarian mutters, his finger still itching to press the trigger on his SMG. Paying no mind to his old student’s pleas or faint farewell, Mordin instead gazes at the scrolling lines of information and holographic diagrams. “Unethical,” he breathes. “Again, apologies for having given wrong mission parameters, John, Jane.”

“It’s fine,” they both automatically say.

They save Maelon’s data – John isn’t so optimistic to think that this entire experience has twisted Mordin to think the genophage unreasonable, but he believes in preparing for a rainy day.

-

It is a testament to the exhausting events of the day that John and Jane agree to Wrex’s proposal for a celebration. Mordin’s put on the role of ‘Designated Driver’, but really, he’s more of the ‘Sober Friend’ because the shuttle’s automatic. The salarian informs them that he’ll be in the clan’s infirmary for the duration of the party.

Garrus and Kasumi opt to return immediately to the Normandy, and Garrus advises the twins not to drink any offer of ryncol. “Cybernetics or not,” the turian informs them, “if you drink ryncol, your stomachs will be shredded.”

God knows why, but John later takes in hand a canister of ryncol and downs it all – the resulting drunken behavior causes him to wander around the camp bragging about anything that came to mind.  Jane, on the other hand, is eavesdropping on everything from politics to possible families, sipping her own ryncol in-between stops.

They get a varren to eat meat from their hands, and it is named Urz, and yes, they do want to bring it aboard the Normandy, oh my god, Wrex, thank you.

“Urz,” calls John, weighed down on one side with a half-conscious Jane. He squints at the ground, seeing nothing but blurry rocks. Soft blurry rocks.

Someone’s called Mordin from the infirmary, because all of a sudden, the weight dragging him down decreases by a third and he’s stumbling from the abrupt imbalance. “Urz,” moans Jane mournfully. “I love you. Don’t die when I’m on the Normandy. No killing. No – no killing Normandy, Urz.”

Joker’s voice echoes in his ear: “Uh, John. I – please don’t bring the varren on the Normandy. Chambers’s request.”

“But Joker,” says John bewilderedly. “He’s so cute and harmless and old.” He coos at whatever short squat thing is in front of him – hope promises Urz, reality promises a pile of smooth boulders.

“Yeah, not good enough. Get on the shuttle, John.”

Already having deposited his sister in the shuttle, Mordin emerges from the vehicle with a disgruntled frown. “Sister is asleep. Drinking ryncol? Highly irresponsible.” The salarian employs a wiry strength to shove John in and strap the deadweight to the bench. Grunt’s peaceful dozing is occasionally interrupted with incoherent mumbles. “Joker, returning to Normandy.”

“Thanks, prof.”

-

Jane’s hangover cure is in the Life Support Room in the shape and sound of Thane Krios. Her head’s resting on her forearms as a guise of sleep, but she’s listening to Thane recount life on Kahje, which sounds a great deal better than the slums of Vancouver. Speaking is out of the question for her, since it causes sharp stabbing pains in her brain and ears.

“Hey,” she mumbles, and he pauses, expectant. “Ana – analyze game of tag?” Her eyes track the way Thane settles into his chair, hands folded on the table still. Gentleman.

He mulls over the new subject, probably laying out an entire bullet-point list of pros and cons. Eventually, he comes to say, “Your advantage laid in knowing the layout of the Normandy already. Had you pursued me rather than the opposite, the game would have ended earlier.”

“Cheating,” supplies Jane sleepily. “First ambush was just – just a warm up.”

She briefly wonders how John is coping, because her twin doesn’t have a Thane Krios to graciously accommodate a hungover Commander.

-

“You – want to blow up a facility,” repeats John. He stifles a yawn with his hand, and Jack glares at him with hell in her eyes. “On Pragia.” Below Engineering, this little room is seriously way too cramped for an overly angry biotic who comes up to his shoulder.

She opens her mouth, probably to cuss his out, probably to say ‘I fucking need this, asshole.’

John rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.”

Jack shuts her mouth, and her dark eyes narrow suspiciously. “Just like that?” she double-checks, wary of his new good-will. She’d almost had the same expression when John gave her permission to scavenge for information in the Cerberus files.

“Just like that. Just, give us time. Pragia’s always going to be there.”

-

Chambers tells John that Jacob’s uneasy, and knowing that the unflappable operative is actually pacing back and forth in the armory muttering makes John uneasy. Despite the migraine building in the back of his brain, he drops in to talk things out with Jacob.

“Everything alright?” he asks, casually sitting on the edge of a table. The man finally comes to a stop, arms tightly crossed – a movement reminiscent of Jane’s defensive posturing.

“I – you remember me talking about my dad to you?”

So the Hugo Gernsback – awful name, by the way – has finally activated its distress signal, a full decade later than when it should have. John mulls over the information and concludes, wearily, “Time sensitive, of course.” He gets to his feet as Jacob tries objecting to the interference. “Jacob, please. Friend to a friend. We’ll check it out.”

John takes the long way back to the CIC, passing through Mordin’s lab with a cheerful ‘hello’ and ‘get out of my face, John, work to do’.  He traces his way to Joker’s cockpit and finds Jane leaving it, evidently recovered from the entire krogan party.

“We’re going to find Jacob’s dad,” he tells her unnecessarily.

She gives him a fistbump to the shoulder. “Joker’s already got the coordinates. Go fall asleep in the co-pilot’s chair before you fall down, idiot.”

-

Jacob’s dad is a raging asshole, Jane concludes, dispassionate in the face of Jacob’s rising rage and Captain Taylor’s weakening excuses. Beside her, John practically vibrates with tension and oozes an indignant righteousness.

“I should kill you,” says Jacob.

Her hand snaps out to bump Jacob’s wrist, and the gun misses its target by several feet. She thinks she sees a spark of heated blue biotics coiling in his arms and finally tells the man, “Stand down, soldier.”

He’s no longer Alliance, and she’s no longer Alliance, but damn if she and John haven’t lost their ‘Commander’ voices. His is more of a firm, reassuring tone – example, talking down Mordin from killing Maelon. Hers, colder and calculated, strikes more fear.

“Jane,” John warns under his breath.

Garrus and Miranda are facing down the remainders of the male members of the crew, but Garrus twitches at the dangerous undertone in John’s voice. Miranda, of course, hears the subtleties – she just doesn’t react to it.

She can feel the scars burn a little deeper as she pictures leaving Mr. Taylor behind to be savaged and driven mad by this world.

Jane takes a shallow breath and drives it out slowly. “The Alliance will be notified,” she says steadily. “Your father deserves the punishment only a cell can bring.”

“You think the damn Alliance will actually convict this guy – “

“No. But I know you still have – morals.”

John - her moral compass, the reassuring calm before her storm – looks at her and communicates, This is right. Blinking at him, she shrugs a little – a minute thing that could be interpreted as loosening her shoulders.

Back on the Normandy, after one of the most awkward silent shuttle rides they’ve endured (John’s become unusually exhausted as of late and sleeps whenever wherever), Jane calls Joker. “Don’t even give them the tail lights, Joker,” she jests, and it falls slightly short of humorous.

Joker laughs anyway. “Aye, aye, Commander.”

-

Jane is peering from Garrus’s shoulders at the scrolling code operating the newly installed Thanix cannons, and she is mindboggled. “That’s complicated,” she eventually says. “Why’s it indented here – “ Her hand’s moving to point out a section, and Garrus swiftly pushes it back.

“Spirits,” he mutters, and then he points a suspicious glare at her. “You and John could be the death of us all.” He’s sounding a lot more tetchy these days, and Jane’s been told by John that Garrus’s newfound twitchiness is not conducive to handling missions.

She agreed, but, well, everyone needed an outlet. Even if that outlet is looking at code and adjusting it every few minutes or scoring headshots like a vicious, vindictive madman.

Glibly, she says, “They say that whenever you give an ultimatum like that, there’s a fifty percent chance the opposite will happen. Also. John’s horrible at this. More horrible than me, anyway.”

“John knows not to touch.”

“Relax.” Green eyes study the turian. “This isn’t you,” she decrees. “What’s wrong.”

And Garrus being Garrus – and having adopted, however unconsciously, the twins’ bad habit of downplaying life-changing events – he plays it off. “Well, there’s this human, you see, trying to tinker with the guns that make this ship in fighting-shape – “

“One day,” she interrupts him, “I’m going to shove John in here, and he is going to guilt you into spilling your damn secrets.” He offers her a steadfast stare – pft, she knows the turian, he’s probably terrified of John barging in his territory flailing and talking about justice and honesty.

 -

Tropical. John blinks at the sound of rain gushing down in angry torrents, like it knows what the team’s mission is and wants to put the fire out as fast as possible. He clears his throat, and Jack lazily looks at him, like being on Pragia has drugged her senseless. “Get in. Plant the bomb. Get out.” It’s not exactly a question – more like a restating of the mission parameters.

“Explosion,” adds Jack.

“Explosion,” Jane agrees. She’s sitting next to the tiny woman – two tiny women sitting on the same bench, but keeping a good foot apart with the asari justicar in-between them. Mordin and Grunt are at his side of the shuttle, and John stifles the hysterical laugh when he pictures the boy-girl line drawn.

The twins had agreed not to take either of the Cerberus operatives, but Jane had lobbied hard for Grunt to participate on the theory the ‘kid’ hadn’t ever seen rain. In return, John argued for Samara. As a calming force, and because justicar or not, he knows antsy behavior when he see it.

-

Trying to justify why Aresh should live and not die by Jack’s hand, especially after the entire ordeal of exploring the dead bones of a facility that had never even been approved by Tim, is difficult for John. But he cannot allow one more to die, not after cleaning out the Blood Pack members, so he grips Jack’s shoulder.

She tries to shake him off. “He deserves it.”

John suspects he will hear that iteration many times before they finally pass through the Omega 4 relay, and he thinks he will feel Jane’s questioning stare for many more. Samara’s too. Thane, perhaps, would see why John bothered to save the downtrodden, but would also still be puzzled once he considers the futility and endless cycle. Well, yet another difference between the Shepard twins. John returns to the present, where his hand’s stuck to a pointy shoulder.

 Finding words, powerful words to sway one of the most stubborn people in the galaxy, makes him temporarily speechless.

Then, grasping onto the last dregs of her humanity, he takes a chance.

Fifteen minutes later, Aresh is running for his shuttle, for his life. The Shepards have herded their team back onto their own shuttle after planting the juryrigged (and clearly overpowered) bomb in the center of the facility.

They are several miles out, and Jack is flipping the catch on the trigger. On. Off. It clicks incessantly, but even Grunt appears to understand the underlying tension.

Jack catches John’s blue eyes and nods, John inclines his head and then he bangs the door leading to the cockpit several times.

-

“I wanted to do it,” Jack tells Jane. “You have no idea how close I was about to fucking kill your brother for even trying to stop me.” The woman is positioned on her bed with her legs together and her hands folded across her stomach, nothing like the expected sprawling of limbs.

On the other hand, Jane is standing with her back to a wall, arms folded. “How’d you stop?” she questions, because these things happen to be important when concerning a member of their own strike team. “Why’d you stop,” Jane amends, because ‘how’ is easy to answer.

Jack sits up, and it is by the grace of everything holy those straps do not even budge. “Well, I remembered that you standing right fucking behind me. And I know you don’t have shit aim.” Her face twists into a grimace, a classic result of interacting with Jane’s twin. “And your brother being your brother. He’s a real pansy-ass motherfucker, you know that?”

The words startle a genuine laugh from Jane. Forget Zaeed replacing Wrex as the foul-mouthed old man; Jack’s mouth covers all the bases (other than that she is still a young woman).

A snort accompanies Jane’s cackling, and then the two women are laughing together.

-

“Hey, John,” says Kasumi cheerfully. “What’s up?” The thief watches him pad his way to the bar and mix several drinks together. Quite a potent solution too, wow, he must really want to get drunk.

“Kasumi,” intones John, shaking the canister vigorously. “I need to wipe my memory.”

Ooh, blackmail. “Of?” she returns happily.

He looks at her with haunted eyes. “I walked in on Jane laughing with Jack, I think they’re planning my death.” Blindly, he untwists the cap to the canister and swallows a mouthful. Then, he stumbles over to the couch beside the thief, the one not facing towards the observation window, and he collapses on it. “I think I’ll find her giggling with Miranda next,” he confides.

Fascinated, she watches him continue drinking in misery, and she cannot resist adding more to that burden. “Huh. You know, I thought I saw her with Miranda the other day comparing wish-lists.”

John moans and smacks himself in the forehead with the canister. “Oh, god. I don’t want to know anymore. Stop.”

-

They are actually headed for the Citadel when Chambers tells both John and Jane that Garrus and Thane want to talk. Consternated by the new development – Jane is actually relieved that Garrus is finally opening up about what’s up his ass now – they do a swift Shepard huddle in the elevator to discuss strategy.

“You talk to Thane first,” John says. “Then go talk to Garrus. I’m sure he’ll be traumatized by what I say.” He directs a raised eyebrow at his twin, and she makes a face at him like she cannot believe he is accusing her of anything.

“Fine,” she responds, and then before they go their separate ways, she snags his sleeve. “Hey, are we still arranging – “

“Yeah, of course.”

It’s a clean and clinical talk with Garrus, even though the entire issue with Sidonis tears him apart inside, but as John presses the issue, the turian clams up. Damn it, another bad habit picked up from them. Either way, John acquiesces to hunting down the traitor.

As John passes by Jane on his way to talk to Thane, she takes hold of his forearm, her brow furrowed. “He’s going to tell you the details,” she says. “I’d tell you to say yes, but I know you’re already going to say it. If only because you’re a fucking bleeding heart, John.”

Caught and unable to move forward without the feeling of four sharp fingers digging in the soft flesh, John obligingly tilts his head in a nod. “Pry Garrus out of his shell,” he returns. “And just so you know, I told him not to consider revenge.”

She frowns at him. “You idiot, you said that in front of his face?” Her grip loosens, and John wiggles out of the hold.

“Why not?”

-

Talking to Thane is always an experience – today, he seems exhausted, already wrung out with having to explain the situation to John’s twin. Hands in pockets, John leans against the wall and tries not to tip his head back against the cool metal.

Kolyat Krios. Abandoned son, left to grow up with relatives after Irikah had been buried at sea and Thane had embarked on yet another period of battle-sleep. Wannabe assassin.

“You didn’t – was Kolyat given to the hanar as part of the Compact?” Yes, there’s trepidation in John’s voice, because Thane Krios alone happens to be an unstoppable force. Two Thane Krioses sound like a nightmare to contain.

“No,” Thane immediately answers. “Irikah and I were not obliged – no.”

Well, thank god. It is a wannabe assassin they’ll be dealing with.

John offers the drell a small smile. “We’re headed to the Citadel anyway – the crew was getting cabin fever.” He studies the way Thane paces, a controlled three steps forward and back, hands tucked at the small of his back. “Jane will probably accompany you,” he suddenly says. and that stalls the drell from moving.

He lifts his shoulders up a bit, and then back down as he admits, “Garrus has a grudge-match he wants to settle, and I… need to oversee it. Anyway. Jane will go with you.”

-

“Ah, Zakera Ward,” says Garrus in a faux fond voice. “My favorite place on the Citadel.” John slides past the bulky armor the turian’s taken to wearing and briefly wishes that he and Jane were back on the old Normandy and had free reign on designating armor.

Garrus in pink and white Phoenix armor is a sight now lost, and that is a grievance to the galaxy.

In stark contrast to the heavily-armored turian and John, Jane’s fitted dark armor and Thane’s leather coat lends them a shadowy aspect.

No one else is accompanying him and Garrus, because this is a personal (too personal) matter for the turian, and John’s unsure of who has enough delicacy and flexible morals to come with. Of course, Jane and Thane are perfectly capable of dealing with Kolyat by themselves.

They talk to Captain Bailey.

John exchanges a swift handsign to his twin – one of those archaic twin-things that they should’ve grown out of but never really did, because hey, a secret language is cool. Split, he signs.

Go, she discreetly flicks her fingers.

Several hours later, John leans against a window and watches Garrus interrogate Harkin with no little amount of trepidation. Being on the sidelines and voluntarily not interfering burns, literally and figuratively, and by the time the turian has a heavy foot planted on the man’s neck, John grabs hold of Garrus’s arm.

He’s having to do a lot of this lately, grabbing other people’s arms. Dr. Chakwas has him labeled as ‘tactile’, which is pretty much the same as saying ‘needs hugs’.

“Don’t overdo it,” he advises lightly. “You know suspects tend to lie if under too much pressure.”

Under the grip of his fingers, the tense muscles relax, and Garrus hums in contemplation and lets Harkin splutter his way back to living. After they get the appointment established, though, John sees Garrus look at his rifle thoughtfully and then raise it –

Reflexes shoot his hand out to jar the shot up at the ceiling. “He’s done, Garrus.”

It figures Jane would give him the hard job. He’s not even complaining about the physical demands of the mission, it’s the moral ones. Because John would go and seek revenge, if a traitor had caused the deaths of those he loved.

He’d probably go berserk if it had been Jane.

It is within the span of an hour that he finally drives their rented car to the meeting area Harkin has set up – before Garrus can slide out, John sends a prayer up to that Heaven Ashley believed in and ventures, “Garrus.”

“Don’t try and sway me out of this one, John,” snaps Garrus. “Sidonis deserves this.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

But because John has always persevered to find that solution to save everyone after Torfan, whether through diplomacy or sheer reliance on fortune, he pursues the line of questioning. To make Garrus Vakarian doubt in his black-and-white world, he absentmindedly muses, is a hard task indeed.

Sidonis looks utterly miserable despite being dressed in glaringly garish Citadel colors. And he sounds hollow, frightened, and remorseful.

John briefly wonders if Garrus can hear the undertones of his fellow turian’s trembling voice; he proceeds to do what Jane will later label ‘the most fucking stupid hero moment of all times’. He stays in Garrus’s crosshairs and prays that the turian likes him enough (or fears Jane’s retribution enough, either or, he’s not picky) not to shoot him.

-

Jane and Thane are sitting across from one another at a noodle bar, whiling away the time as the turian senator continues speaking crap about humans and their consequential stain on the Citadel’s reputation.  Unlike her usual order at places such as this – thick noodles soaked in steaming hot soup with a side of mystery meat – she indulges in the human specialty of cold soba.

It is disgustingly healthy.

The bill’s already been paid in advance, so all she and the drell do is sit patiently, eating cold noodles.

She poses a question. “So supposing that you and I were small enough to fit in the Citadel ducts, do you think we’d finally be on even ground for a round of tag?”

Thane tips his head. “I believe so,” he eventually concludes. “Though, I’ve never seen you having to adapt to such areas.”

“Please,” scoffs Jane. “I’m flexible.” The innuendo is completely unintentional, and she’s already feeling her face heat up when he blinks, startled. “Uh.” Thank fucking god, that damn xenophobic turian senator candidate stops talking. “Let’s – move.”

They agree to split – he’s in the shadows, she’s up on the railings. In her ear, she hears his voice rumble prayers, and for that minute she spends listening, Jane invokes a little prayer of her own.

Like they could fail, though, at tailing the equivalent of a civilian turian and his krogan bodyguard. There’s a tense moment with her and a new busboy, but the faint red glow of her cybernetics (she’s not so vain to spend platinum on the medbay to heal her fading scars, damn it) must spook the kid off. Plus the terseness of her voice as precious time slips and Thane’s tone kicks up a worried notch.

Kolyat Krios is a startling ocean blue compared to his father’s rich green coloring, and his face is much more drawn and angular. But he’s still young, and though Jane can see the simple solution – kill Talid.

It’d be so easy. Simple. No talking necessary. Unlike how she and Thane had done the good-cop-bad-cop routine on Kelham and spent priceless minutes on worming information out of the man until she’d finally lost her patience.

Jane Shepard has hell in her eyes, and very few can resist flinching away from it – namely, John, Garrus, and more recently, Thane. Even though Jack holds eye-contact, the flash of red highlighting the deadly green is terrifying.

But –

“Your father,” she tells Kolyat, “has a few words to say. So pay some damn attention to him.” Jane disarms the boy easily, and she passes the gun on to a speechless Thane before she faces down Captain Bailey’s C-Sec squad. “Captain.”

“Commander.” Is it just her, or does he sound a little like her brother – exhausted, exasperated, and vaguely amused at the same time?

“Arrest Talid, he’s made a couple of mistakes,” she returns. “And – ” Jane glances back at the two drell, see tears sliding down Kolyat’s face and Thane carefully hugging him. “A private room for them, please.”

-

Back at the C-Sec station, Jane practically boots Thane into the same interrogation room they’d used for Kelham and tells him to sort things out with Kolyat as best he can.

She hears John – slumped in a chair – snort at her antics, and in retaliation, she drops her entire body weight on him – armor included. He coughs, the air punched out of him.

“I hear twinicide is a real thing,” says Garrus mildly. She squints at him, upside down, and concludes that the turian looks a little better. Stitched at the raggedy edges with a shoddy hand, but definitely better. “What.”

“I hear turian liver is a delicacy on Tuchanka,” she responds sweetly.

John prods at her cheek. “Hey. How’d it go?”

“As well as it could.” Jane heaves herself off of her twin and gets to her feet. “He’ll need a few more minutes, I think. I got to go arrange Kolyat’s comeuppance, be right back.” Bailey’s waiting at his chair, occasionally sparing a glance at the locked cell door.

Evidently, Jane’s more tired than she thinks, because Thane appears just over her shoulder like her own shadow as she secures just community service for Kolyat. Behind her, Jane hears John mutter something like an expletive and Garrus laughing softly.

People shake hands, and they’re finally done with business at the Citadel – the Cerberus crew will have another day of shore leave, and then it will be off to do what is always requested of the Shepard twins: sacrifice.

However, just before she and Thane board the Normandy (John and Garrus practically jump into the airlock and slam it shut, leaving them behind), Thane pulls her to the side where the windows display all the shuttles coming in and going out of the docks. He’s holding her gauntleted hands in both of his, and it’s probably just her imagining the heat of his skin permeating through his half-gloves and her gauntlets. Right?

Brain, restart.

His head is bent, and Jane hears the barest whisper of a prayer.

He squeezes her hands just the once, raises his head, and offers a smile. “Thank you, siha.”

Restart, brain.

She manages a sound something like ‘geh’, and twin-psyche has never been more helpful as she loudly and mentally starts begging John to interfere before she fucks up.

Their comms crackle. “Jane, Thane,” John’s voice is dry. “Unless you’re picking up food for the skeleton crew, stop hanging around the airlock. You’ll give Joker heart attacks.”

Joker pitches his own two cents in. “Commander,” he says drolly. “When two assassins hang in the same area with their very lethal sniper rifles on display – “

The distraction allows Jane to finally respond to Thane. “Anytime,” she says far too candidly, so she covers it with some good old-fashioned humor. “I think my translator glitched. ‘Siha’?” In her ear, Jane hears Joker booing at her choice of words and the sound of actual money being exchanged.

“Mmm. Remind me to tell you later.”

Thane looks just as murderous as she feels, and if that is not a sign that they are compatible, what the fuck is?

-

Tim gives them the dossier on Tali, and all the Shepard twins feel like doing is flipping the bird – four birds, to be honest – at the hologram and saying ‘fucking finally’. Of course, Tali is across the Milky Way, borderline tiptoeing the edges of geth space on Haestrom.

Haestrom, Tim informs them with a note of glee, happens to be close to a star-but-not-a-star and has supermassive radiation waves that make technology (e.g. shields, barriers, communications) bug the hell out.

Jane cheerfully tells Tim that he’s a grade-A asshole.

-

Somehow John’s found himself in Miranda’s office, facing a distraught Miranda. Bewildered by this unnatural behavior – she’s pacing, back and forth, like a cornered wildcat and that’s generally never a good sign – he mentally reviews their past interactions.

It can’t be her complaining about her turns on the mission roster, he concludes. Planetside missions are the Shepards’ way of testing different team potentials, and while Jane and Miranda share a mutual loathing of each other’s tactics (John imagines Jane’s newer tactics in both diplomacy and decision-making are only to spite their XO), the roster is fair.

“Problem, Miranda?” She’s obviously not going to start the conversation – oh.

Miranda Lawson has a heart. In the shape and form of a twin. And now Oriana Lawson’s in danger from their father’s clingy hands.

Yeah, John sympathizes. How can he not? “We’ll set a course for Illium before picking up Tali, then.” He struggles not to let any pity show, because Miranda does remind him of Jane for all of their differences, and Jane hates being pitied. Even so, his voice is gentled.

She hugs herself and appears lonely against the void of space and the winking stars, and John impulsively says, “Interact with other people.”

“What?”

If there is a difference between this crew and the last Normandy’s crew, it lies in the precision strike team that John and Jane have cobbled together from dossiers and fortune. He’s never seen Jack enter the elevator and bitch with Garrus in the battery about the Shepards’ fondness of sending them into suicidal missions (discounting the overhanging Suicide Mission). He’s never seen Grunt emerge from Engineering except to participate in missions that end in bloodshed and adrenaline-packed escapes.

Mordin barely steps out of the lab. Samara’s content with her solitary meditation. Zaeed holes up in Engineering. Kasumi might roam the Normandy’s insides, but she never does it visibly. And Thane knows his reputation makes him sound less of a being, more like death’s shadow, so he stays where he is too.

Last time, their strike team hadn’t been so spread out over the ship. If anyone had been isolated, they had done it because the initial team dynamics were awkward out of the field. Garrus, Wrex, Tali, and Ashley had warily shared space in the shuttle bay and the drive core room, but over the time the Shepards took to chase Saren, their motley crew had developed a unique sense of camaraderie.

Wrex had once lifted a smuggled canister of unknown liquids – John now suspects it had been ryncol – and toasted Ashley’s sacrifice.

John longs for the sole poker tournament they held back on the SR-1.

“I’m not saying to go room to room,” he amends, taking note of her startled expression. “Just – come out to the mess hall every so often, dress in something more casual. Come on. For the sake of team-building.”

“I’ll… I’ll consider it.”

-

“You changed my shotgun,” Grunt accuses Jane, injured. He extends the Claymore to her, handle first, and Jane stares back at him, hoping he’s not expecting her to take it because that shotgun weighs as much as her plus some more and cybernetics only go so far. “Battlemaster.”

And they say krogan don’t whine.

“We’re going planetside soon,” she replies. “Just me, you, and Zaeed after the thing with Miranda’s done. And we’re going to have a bet.”

Deadly blue eyes blink several times, and he finally takes the Claymore back. “Why?”

Jane heaves a sigh. “What, you’re not bored? You need a challenge, I need something to shoot, and Zaeed is getting bitchy.” She grants the krogan a toothy grin, something she’s learned at Wrex’s side. “Highest kill count. Concussive shots only, Grunt. Winner decides what bet happens next.”

He scowls at her. “I’ll win,” he states, and unable to resist, she punches his shoulder.

“If you don’t, then I’m only letting you attend missions that require me to talk more than shoot. If I suffer, you suffer.” Grunt protests this ultimatum fruitlessly, until Jane finally wrangles him into a sparring session.

It’s less throwing each other into walls and tables and more ‘Grunt, catch me if you can’ to the krogan’s dismay.

-

It’s a brief stop at Illium, and Miranda pushes the Shepard twins hard until she suddenly stops at the sight of her old childhood friend betraying her. It’s not John who talks her out of shooting him, but Jane.

This is not sympathy, Jane says to herself, but empathy. Niket had obviously been left out of Miranda’s desperate plan to save Oriana, and so he thinks he is doing the right thing by returning the Cerberus operative’s twin back to their father. Without the background info Miranda had told them herself, Jane would be doing the same thing, returning the girl.

It doesn’t matter whether Miranda shoots Niket or not, because the Eclipse mercenary shoots him point-blank. John sees it like Garrus’s vendetta against Dr. Saleon – save one man’s life here, betrayed by him later over there.

“Talk to her,” John urges Miranda as they spy a safe and sound Oriana mingling with her adopted family, blissful and happy in all the ways Miranda is not. “She deserves to know she has a sister.”

Jane steps up next to Miranda’s other, not John-occupied shoulder. “Don’t let this slip into basic facts, Miranda. You’re still human, and you need some other fucking ties to the galaxy besides Cerberus.”

Flanked by the Shepard twins and being hounded towards the right decision, Miranda can see why these particular Spectre Commanders are so relevant in the galaxy. Apart, they exist as a force of nature. Together, they are unstoppable.

Miranda inhales and exhales a shaky breath. “Right. … Thank you, I’ll just – need a few minutes with her.” And that tremor in her voice is the last nervous tell, because she is then confident and perfect Miranda Lawson once more, striding over to her twin sister.

In sync, John and Jane step into the elevator and head for Nos Astra’s port. John crosses his arms, and Jane holds them behind the small of her back, hands clasped. They look at each other at the same time, and then they are breaking into grateful laughter.

-

On the way to Haestrom, the Shepards’ terminals receive a message from Liara. It is an encrypted folder of suggestions for resources, more Cerberus intel, and a plea for assistance once they have returned from the Omega 4 relay.

“It’s sweet of her to think we’ll return,” Jane comments to Jacob. She’s perched on one of the tables holding the cleaned guns, legs hitched up and a datapad balanced on her knees. “From the relay no one returns from.”

Jacob offers her a small smile. “If anyone in this entire galaxy could make it through impossible odds, Jane, it’d be you and your brother. That being said, I have my doubts too.”

She frowns at him. “You were sounding real confident until that last sentence.”

“We’re not too tight on shielding, Commander,” he dryly informs her. “Last time, the Collectors ripped the Normandy apart.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to remind me.”

Joker’s tense voice comes alive over the intercom systems. “Jane, there’s a situation you have to defuse. John’s already on it, but, uh, this is one catfight I don’t think he’s escaping from unscathed.” She’s already discarding the datapad and holstering a small pistol when it occurs to her to ask who the fuck is making a ruckus on the Normandy. “Jack and Miranda, Commander.”

John looks like he’s at the end of his rope when Jane comes on scene, and he signs desperately, Tag out. The two biotics are at opposite ends of Miranda’s cabin, but both have the faintest blue glow winding around their wrists like cats coiling around ankles.

You stay the fuck there, she signs back. It’s a complicated mixture of pointing and usage of her middle finger. “Uh, what’s happening?”

Jack and Miranda give a lot of bullshit about who belongs where and who deserves what, and in the end, Jane is not surprised that John found himself struggling to calm down both. This isn’t the situation he specializes in defusing – it’s hers.

“Both of you,” she hisses, “grow the fuck up. Jack, I know Cerberus has been a total bitch to you since you were a kid and that shit is fucked up, I agree. But Miranda’s not the entirety of Cerberus. Save your shit for later when we go blow up Cer – crap.” Yeah, not a good idea to promise blowing up Cerberus assets in front of the loyalist.

Miranda’s looking far too smug, so Jane rails on her too. “And you. Everyone on this ship has been vetted by myself and John, and despite your role in reviving us, that doesn’t give you jackshit in deciding who stays and who goes. This mission comes first, so take any elitist thoughts and bring them out later when we don’t have the human race relying on all of us to save them.”

At least Jack gives her an approving glare before leaving with a raised middle finger at Miranda, who scoffs before returning to her desk.

“John, we need to talk. About Haestrom.”

That’s a cover-up – she can tell he plainly does not want to be caged in with the woken tiger.

-

“This place is worse than Rio de Janeiro,” says Jane incredulously, skirting the sunny patches of Haestrom and seeking safe patches of shade. “Like literally, what the fuck is with this sun?” It fries their technology dead, like a hot pan will cause an egg to go from liquid to burnt crisp the instant the cook says ‘oh fuck the heat’s too high’.

Grunt makes a snorting sound at her complaints, but it’s not like she doesn’t see him scurrying for the shadows either. Thane keeps pace easily, lightning-quick and poised for action already. Apparently, not even their origins as desert-species grant them some immunity from this bastard sun.

“It wants to go supernova,” answers John drolly, “but it’s not big enough to go supernova.” Shit, is he even lying? Jane can’t even tell when this goddamn ball of fire in the sky is bleaching the ground a vengeful white and casting glares on every shiny surface.

“If you’re lying,” she responds after a few seconds, “I take back everything I ever said about you and poker.”

It’s not Tali they find, but rather the remnants of her quarian squad strewn around the place like haphazard offerings. Tali guides them from the shelter, and then they lose her and discover the last survivor of Tali’s squad facing against many, many geth.

Kal’Reegar is no Garrus Vakarian, but he’s got the guts to make up for that gap with the rocket launcher in his hands.

“Yeah, no,” says John automatically after hearing the quarian’s got a shoddily-repaired breach in his suit. “You’re staying here, buddy.” Jane concurs; Kal’s brass-toned voice is shaky with exhaustion. Risking one man for a small chance to defeat a geth armature is so infinitely stupid, she can’t even believe he suggested it.

Killing geth happens to be pathetically easy when the squad is composed of two accomplished assassins – N7s are not all bulky soldiers like John and Anderson, nor do N7s only get missions about smashing through obstacles – and two tankers who fling themselves into the fight with louder and louder war cries.

She and Thane are on a shielded ledge, exchanging spare heat sinks and shaking their heads at how John and Grunt engage the geth equivalent of cannon fodder. Their job is to weaken the armature enough so that the two tankers below can get in close and gritty to finish it off and to assist the tankers in their mad battle.

“Watching their six has never been so literal,” Jane mentions, squeezing the trigger and watching a creeping cloaked geth collapse on the ground. John doesn’t even flinch at the proximity, only shouting at Grunt not to trip over the synthetic.

“Indeed,” Thane returns. He pops out of cover, takes a brief second to steady his aim, and fires at the trooper trying to overtake Grunt. Then he presses himself back into the shade. “There’s another to John’s left, siha,” he comments.

She grumbles, “John’s way too attractive to geth and I have no idea why.” And then she edges herself back in the sun’s glare and takes the shot. “Still haven’t explained the nickname, Thane.”

“I had been waiting for a more opportune moment than the battlefield. Though I suppose here is appropriate as any.”

Thane doesn’t get to clarify anything though, as they finally get the armature to shut down and get inside the building.

It’s all happy reunions from that point – clearly, Tali wants to hug Kal for surviving, and then both of the Shepard twins for ensuring Kal’s ass was never in the fire in the first place – and Tali takes a brief leave from the flotilla to join the Normandy again.

“Cerberus or not,” says Tali cheerfully when they are inside the shuttle’s cool air-conditioning, “I’ve always loved the Normandy.”

John feels something like worry sprout in his chest, and so does Jane, because the both of them try to tell Tali that there’s more than a new team aboard the ship but neither can find a good icebreaker so they leave it to Jacob.

-

“You have an AI,” states Tali in disbelief. “I thought the Cerberus operative was joking, but he’s really not. The Normandy’s equipped with an AI.” She shakes her head. “Keelah. And Joker was okay with this?”

John hedges, “Well, it might not have been a recent addition. One could argue that it came with the Normandy for free? And I think Joker’s going to like it. Eventually.” Joker’s been slopping oil onto the cockpit’s security cameras because he knows it pisses EDI off. He’d liken it to a boy pulling at the pigtails of a girl he likes, but that sounds much more like abuse and John’s planning to put a stop to it soon.

He just needs to find the right combination of words.

Tali’s sigh is little more than pure vocal disapproval. “And I hear that the Normandy needs upgraded shields – I have the schematics for one. It’s used on some of the flotilla’s ships.”

It’s desperation to change the subject to lighter topics that John mentions his ship models again. “I have a couple unbuilt models from the Citadel,” he says.

She blinks. “… You actually managed to buy them?”

“Hey.”

-

They’re required to go to the Collector ship, and that it is only a couple hours out from their current position pisses Jane off. “Tim planned this,” she insists to John, who is sitting cross-legged on the communications room’s long table with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on tented fingers. His back is to the door like hers, and they are facing the outside schematics of the Collector ship.

“No shit,” he evenly says. “But it’s not like we can say no. It probably is empty, and it probably is a trap, but we owe it to ourselves to check it out.”

“There is no fucking way it’s empty,” Jane protests. “You honestly think the turians managed to make a goddamn dent in that?” She throws her arms in the air. “What we should do is send a reconnaissance team first, and then bring in our own team!”

“Too risky.” John’s not dismissive, only blunt. “We can handle recon and attack, and one of us is worth at least half a squad each.” His twin paces until finally coming to a stop near him, putting her hands flat on the table, palms down. She’s staring at the hologram. “Jane?”

Jane exhales. “Man, Tim’s such a dick.”

-

 It’s bogus, of course. Jane and John spend at least an hour exploring the innards of the ship and ultimately gaining jack information (other than what EDI can salvage) before having to head out. As Tim calls them up to talk, the twins silently agree to bitch as much as possible before he inevitably gives them their next assignment. There’s still Collector gore smeared on their armor.

To be fair, Tim bears through ten minutes of being called increasingly worse expletives when he tells the twins to fetch the Reaper IFF from a dead Reaper. Oh, ha ha ha.

“Fool me once, shame on you,” Jane mutters, glaring at someplace other than Tim.

“Fool me twice, shame on me,” John finishes, narrowing his own blue eyes at the hologram.

-

Jane would drag Thane out into the mess hall, but in the mess hall, there would be too many eyes watching and judging. So here they remain in Life Support, sitting across from each other once more and passing a datapad back and forth.

“What do you think?” asks Jane. “John’s of the opinion it’s another trap, and I’m inclined to believe the same.”

“And you feel springing it would be the best solution.” The drell studies the datapad, scrolls through the limited information they’ve been given. “The situation is not exactly ideal; the Cerberus team, have there been any signs they remain?”

She hums. “No. Any channels the yeoman tries to open won’t respond with anything but static, and Joker’s attempts didn’t go any better.”

“Walking into the corpse of a Reaper blind,” he muses. “Again, not ideal, but I am guessing inevitable.” Thane catches her eyes. “But you know this already, siha, so what did you wish to talk about?”

Walking into the corpse of a Reaper blind would be so much more easier than navigating this conversation – the last time she’d been in Life Support, they’d wound up talking about Irikah and all that entailed.

In the end, Jane takes a page out of John’s book – she shrugs. “Still haven’t gotten a translation for ‘siha’ yet,” Jane teases. If she’s practically red in the face by the end of his explanation, it definitely beats the other excuse being ‘just wanted to hear your voice.’

-

John sits next to Samara and patiently waits for the justicar to gather her thoughts. He and Jane had been expecting a mission request from her for a week now, ever since Chambers had informed them that ‘Samara’s been wearing down a trench in the floor, Commanders, with all her pacing!’

But they don’t confront Samara, no matter how much Jane would like to. Well, that’s why John’s here. To be patient and wait out the storm.

And Samara’s eerily gorgeous, outshining Miranda in style and classiness. John feels faintly lucky that he has been firmly wired the other way and finds no appeal in asari, because she is far, far out of his league. The pedestal the Normandy has put her on is tall, but she’s stood atop it without ever wavering.

Seeing her like this is vaguely discomforting.

He learns about the Ardat-Yakshi, and of Morinth, the wayward daughter. And he hears of how she hunts, and her current location on Omega.

John has never feared to show his bleeding heart to his squad, and the fact that they know how to take advantage of it doesn’t really bother him as much as it should.

-

Tali and Garrus pull John aside before he joins Samara and Jane outside the Normandy. Neither of them are very good at making expressions with their faces – and they know it, because they’ve always tried to use that advantage in poker and Skyllian Five – but their voices are plainly concerned.

“John,” says Garrus. “You know that you’re not exactly – ” He snaps his jaw shut, embarrassment overtaking the concern.

The quarian takes the reins. “John, you’re not very date-worthy.”

He’s injured. “Not date-worthy?”

She tsks. “Vakarian, you bosh’tet,” hisses Tali. “This is where you explain it.”

One of Garrus’s tells is that he prefaces a lot of sentences with a lot of impact with ‘well’. “Well, from what I heard from Samara’s description of Morinth, you’re… not her type.”

Alright, now John’s indignant. “No shit, Vakarian. I still know how to flirt, though, c’mon, give me that.” At their mutual silence, his shoulders slump in disappointment. “Wow. Really? You guys – really? Jane’s taking point anyway.”

-

Morinth, Jane finds out shortly after playing the Ardat-Yakshi in conversation, happens to be fantastic at sounding real. They’re both on a pristine couch in Morinth’s apartment, which hopefully has never been stained with any… aftermaths, and Jane has stalled for as long as possible for John and Samara to bust their asses in here.

“Not today,” deadpans Jane as Morinth asks her to embrace eternity. Everything’s a bit of a blur after that, until Samara and her daughter are locked in the biotic combat she and John absolutely hate involving themselves in.

It’s a no-brainer who they support, and it’s a no-brainer what Morinth chooses to scream at the twins before her timely death. 

-

John walks into the captain’s quarters and walks right back out yelling a mortified ‘oh my god I’m so sorry’ as he flees to the elevator. He’d meant to tell Jane to take a break as he dealt with Tali’s political problem aboard her flotilla, he just hadn’t expected the drell to also be in there.

Thankfully, not nude and not engaging in whatever, just – pressing foreheads together while still fully-clothed. In a way, it’d been cute for all about two seconds.

In another way, he wants to scratch his own eyes out.

-

He arrives at the conclusion that two of four of the attending quarian admirals are ambitious jackasses, one is an okay guy when not pursuing his own agenda, and the last is a noncommittal jackass who had to abstain for her relationship to Tali.

Speaking of, she’s in Port Observation. The aftermath of the (albeit, successfully won) trial combined with Rael’s death is a hard blow to endure, but John has faith in her to stand back up. Kasumi’s politely taking up space in the Armory (invisible, of course) eyeing Jacob and leaving Tali to her solitude.

“I want to be alone,” she hiccups.

“I know.” He sits next to her on the couch and stares off to his side into space, expecting the next big bad to pop up out of nowhere. The atmosphere is blanketed with silence and no expectancy to talk, and John almost falls asleep to the sound of nothing.

Tali breaks the quiet. “How – how do you and Jane do it? How did Liara do it? Move past the grief?”

John makes himself comfortable. “Firstly, please don’t use Jane and me as good role models in dealing with emotions,” he jests. “Garrus is already trying to be as taciturn as Jane, and it’s working way too well as it is. Secondly… “

The smooth sheen of her mask turning to him startles John out of his memories. “Some advice here, John, keelah.”

“I guess we accept it and move on. Find something or someone else to fixate our attention to.”

She makes a frustrated noise. “It can’t be as easy as that.”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s not. If you ask us, we’ll tell you that we focus on the mission and grieve later. I guess that’s how Liara pushed through. If you specifically ask Jane, she’ll tell to suck it up and yell, scream, or find an outlet.”

Tali laughs. “Sounds like Jane and Garrus.” She relaxes back into the couch as well, fingers curled loosely into fists. “Before we hit the relay,” she says, lazily, “could we still hold that poker tournament you and your twin promised? I’ve been brushing up.”

He snickers. “On not letting your voice wobble?” The swat he receives on his chest is worth the newfound cheer bubbling in the quarian.

“Oh, and you think your voice doesn’t crack, you little bosh’tet?”

They spend the next hour trading old stories about their respective childhoods – she speaks more than he does about it – and laughing about events on the old Normandy. John ignores the fact that they are due to explore the SR-1’s crash site tomorrow, but hopes Jane is at least finding some solace before she steps out with him.

-

Jane and John walk out of the Normandy alone onto Alchera. A barren wasteland, snow and sleet blown into their armor – there are no sounds to be heard except their hollow footsteps and harsh breaths. Twenty dogtags are picked up, one monument is placed down. The Mako hangs listlessly at its side, stuck in a mountain of ice, and the Shepard twins stand together, staring up at it.

They find John’s old N7 helmet and Jane’s burnt collection of shoes bought on clearance. Her visor is snapped in half, but at least she can bring it aboard and claim sentimentality.

“Let’s go,” says Jane brusquely. “We have a Reaper IFF to fetch.”

Somberly, John agrees.

-

Truth: John and Jane hate geth, especially the bitchy geth who remember that cover is their friend and hides from the bullets they shoot.

Fact: A geth wearing pieces of N7 armor has just saved their lives and said, “Shepard-Commanders.”

The twins look at each other and mouth, ‘what the fuck’. Then all these shitty husks and their shitty upgraded buddies that have an unfortunate tendency to explode start scrambling over the railings to swarm them, and they are busy saving each other’s asses, Jack’s ungrateful ass, and Team Sniper’s asses.

Team Sniper being Garrus and Thane basically being snippy toward each other – god, the amount of bets Jane’s overheard over the channel is even more ridiculous than her bets with John.

After grabbing the Reaper IFF, they wrangle their squad to destroy the drive core with them (Jack takes some persuading but acquiesces). The pathetic heap of geth on the floor stirs John’s pity, and he reflexively takes an arm to prop it up.

“John,” says Jane in exasperation. “The Reaper’s imploding. No.”

He blinks at her. “But it’s an intact geth.” Pragmatism from him is a dirty tactic, usually because she doesn’t expect it. He wiggles a limp arm at her. “C’mon.”

“Oh my god, you’re a baby. A freaking baby.” She takes up the other arm and glares at the bemused and amused gazes. “Alright, stop staring. Just move out.”

-

Like hell they send the disabled geth to Cerberus – nah, John just activates a barrier and asks EDI to boot it up. Settling business down with the newly designated Legion is refreshingly easy for him and Jane. The only hiccup occurs when they ask about the N7 armor.

Legion shifts in place. “The chestpiece was yours, John-Commander, and the pauldron is yours, Jane-Commander,” it confesses. Similar to the crew, it had abandoned formalities using ‘Shepard-Commander’ and adopted the two new titles for convenience.

“Why both of us?” asks Jane, deactivating the barrier to look closer at her old pauldron – the red N7 stripe is scraped almost to a point where dignity would demand it to be repainted. “Why not just John’s? It looks like my armor’s a tight fit.”

The geth stays silent, then: “There was a hole.” Its voice is lowered, modulated to a tone that speaks wonders for a synthetic lifeform. John studies Legion – the hole covers the right side of the geth’s chassis, and the scrappy chestpiece welded on barely covers it.

He wonders why the pauldron, though.

“But it didn’t have to be our armor,” John points out. “You traced us to every planet we’ve visited, and you said you were shot at Eden Prime. That’s about a dozen uncolonized worlds with metal deposits you could have used. So why at Alchera?”

The bright optic – white in the center, edging into blue on the perimeter – dies down a little. “No data available,” it intones.

What does a machine do when faced the illogical?

-

“Am curious about geth,” Mordin agrees to Jane’s observation, “but far too busy as is. Suggest talking to it, though. May offer unique perspective on synthetics.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “There’s apparently two types of geth now – heretic geth, and then regular geth. Heretic geth being the geth we usually destroy.” Jane tosses a stubbornly encrypted datapad to the ‘give to Garrus’ pile and starts decoding another one.

“Chances of meeting non-heretical geth low.” He hums a little ditty, another one of his patter songs she has yet to request – the first song he sings ranks as one of the best, though. His head suddenly jerks up, and his next scandalized words: “Decrypting in public area? Logically unsound.”

-

While EDI works at installing the IFF, John and Jane are left to their own devices making the rounds, and it comes to a point when Legion once again brings up the heretic geth. John’s got no idea whether it had been planned by Legion to corner him alone – why the crew likes to swoon and alternatively look down on his ‘bleeding heart’ is a question never to be answered – but here he is, in the AI Core, feeling weirdly cornered by the geth even though his back is to an unlocked door.

“Legion,” he cautiously greets. “What’s the occasion?”

It cocks its head. “There is no special occasion this cycle, John-Commander. An issue has occurred with the heretic geth, and we wish to disrupt their plans.”

Alright, so it’s going to be those kind of conversations, where John has to pull the information out piece by piece.

-

Legion has to be one of the most infuriatingly manifestations of the human astrology sign Libra ever. As they move through the Heretic Station, John wrestles with the choice of destroying the heretics or rewriting their code. He’s unable to reduce the heretics to mere numbers, though, and can only see them as sentients.

This requires the second party: Jane.

“If you rewrite them, I will literally shoot your foot and leave you to the vacuum of space,” Jane immediately says. “And then I’ll pay for Miranda to revive you again, and then I’ll shoot you one more time on the other foot.”

“In space?” John wants to know.

The banter puzzles the geth. “Shepard-Commanders,” it buzzes. “Do we rewrite the heretics or destroy them?” It sobers the atmosphere, because the geth sounds, of all things, conflicted. 571 programs for destruction, 573 programs for rewriting. Even the geth need a majority to decide on a path of attack.

Maybe it’s easier for the 573 programs to say rewrite, because what are geth but machines coded with the instinct for survival?

“Destroy them,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, Legion, but we can’t risk it.” And in his cheeks, he feels the scars – healed to a degree where it could pass for an old wound – set fire to his flesh. John bears through it and faces the geth with regret in his eyes.

Legion is silent. “They are heretics,” it says eventually. “Given the opportunity, the heretics would rewrite us. Matthew 12:25b: ‘Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and every city or household divided against itself will not stand.’ To preserve the geth, we would be rewritten.”

John tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “Destroy them,” he repeats.

The three minutes to evacuate trickle by slowly, and John Shepard downs the angry Prime with an angry roar of his own. He hates lose-lose situations.

-

John’s at the medbay for his ‘physical checkup’ with Dr. Chakwas when Joker calls. “Hey, John.” The notes of an underlying worry bely the cheery tone. “Remember how I needed to get Jane to save you from the catfight? Now would be a fantastic time for you to enter the soundproofed AI Core and settle the fight before I drag Jane from her – uh.”

Chakwas narrows her eyes at John suspiciously, like he’s been hiding some cat-related injury, and he waves her off.

Concerned, he asks for details. “I thought Tali was just making friendly.”

Joker sounds incredulous. “Commander, Tali was doing the angry stalk-walk, not the happy bouncy walk.”

“One can dream, Joker,” grumbles John, clambering off the examination table. “And what’s Jane doing?”

“Important things, Commander.”

Had John the time, he would be in the elevator to the CIC demanding a real answer. As it is, he settles for letting the AI Core door hiss open. Automatically, he barks, “Stand down!” Legion immediately hunches and takes a moderated step back from the extended SMG Tali’s holding. “What’s going on?”

Tali speaks first, and at the very least, John can say he’s glad this isn’t some petty offense. It’s a major one, to be honest. But –

He looks at Legion expectantly. “I’m sure you have a reason, Legion,” he says. He hopes.

It’s a good reason, and one probably unintended to strike a chord in John’s conscience, but he sees why Legion would ‘panic’ about learning the flotilla had been conducting weapon experiments on geth.

Might as well put a swift end to this ‘tomfoolery’ now.

-

Jane spies her twin hiding out in Joker’s cockpit, limbs sprawled just about everywhere.  “How close are we to finishing the installment of the IFF?” she asks Joker, her voice subdued. The pilot is slumped against his own chair, gingerly applying pressure to his elbow and leaning on a closed fist to rest his head. “We have sleeping pods for a reason,” she adds.

Not to be outdone, Joker retorts, “And you have those huge captain’s quarters, yet here John is, sleeping like…” The man casts a dubious glance at his other Commander. “Well. He’s sleeping here instead of there.”

He still hasn’t answered the question, and she’s too tired to engage in a verbal dance, so she turns to EDI. “EDI, how soon until the IFF’s ready for a test-run?”

The slight pause almost alarms Jane, but then the steady feminine voice rings out, “In a few hours, four hours if rounded up, the Reaper IFF will be ready.”

John snores, and she absentmindedly knocks his head to the side to stop him. “Alright, wake John up in an hour if you’re not going to the pods, Joker.” Critical stare of doom. “Are you?”

Meekly, he responds, “Uh, yep, no, staying right here in my chair. In the cockpit. Next to John. Yep.”

-

Jane seeks solace in the Starboard Observation deck, where Samara is consistently meditating. Silently on cat’s feet, she slips to the floor and sits, watching the stars with a dispassionate gaze. Her legs are drawn halfway up, and she’s hooked her arms around her knees to lean her weight forward.

“Meditation works better when your body isn’t as coiled like a snake preparing to strike,” Samara points out in a mild tone. The offhand comment about snakes is remarkably common – if varren have become the cockroaches of the Milky Way, snakes have become the irritatingly deadly flies.

“I’m not trying to meditate,” bites Jane. “I’m trying to think if John and I have done anything wrong.”

“You and your brother have gained the loyalty of an entire crew of miscreants, war veterans, and lawbringers, including me,” remarks Samara. “I hardly think either of you have committed a mistake somewhere along the line.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jane turns to the justicar and indicates the persistent scars, faded as they are. “They burn every time the galaxy thinks I’m doing the wrong thing.”

The justicar drops her biotics, finally deigning to touch ground, when she leans in to study the cracked skin. Jane’s cybernetics are a roiling red, and it shines through a little when she commits a (totally justified) reprehensive deed. Like destroying the heretic geth – why is rewriting any better? Brainwashing is supposed to be better than a clean end?

“You humans have a saying about the road to hell is paved with… ?”

“Good intentions,” finishes Jane, and she laughs in disbelief. “I don’t think I still have these because I’ve been trying to do good things the wrong way.”

Samara gracefully shrugs. “What has your doctor said?”

“Positive thoughts heal, negative thoughts hurt.”

“Perhaps you’ve heard this often, Jane Shepard,” notes the justicar, “but you behave quite differently in comparison to your twin.” A bemused smile pulls at her lips. “He came in here yesterday to invite me to a poker tournament?”

It sparks a memory in Jane’s head, and she snickers. “Yeah, on the last Normandy – the last time John and I had gathered a team like this – we played to raise our spirits. Speaking of, that’s in an hour or so.” Jane stands, stretches. “We’re holding it in the Port Observation Deck, because we didn’t know if you’d agree to attend or not.”

Samara smiles. “I believe I shall.”

-

John staggers into Port Observation just in time for Jane to start dealing out hands. He graciously takes a seat next to Grunt and Jack – Legion’s agreed to play middleman and watch for cheaters or those counting the cards, because he’s been banned (even the geth concurred his status as a lifeform operating off of algorithms would only lead to his dismemberment by the more violent members of the team).

“Poker or Skyllian Five?” He stifles a yawn, and sees a glass being filled by an invisible pitcher of alcohol. “Kasumi, you’re not playing?”

The thief decloaks and pushes out her painted bottom lip in a pout. “It’s poker. Jane said that I wouldn’t be able to control my hands.” She gestures to the pitcher. “So here I am, playing waitress.”

“And what are you getting out of it?”

“This drink’s on the house, but,” her head swivels to face a boasting Massani, “other drinks need to be paid for in money. Half-full’s fifty credits.”

He stares at her, then at the team of whom most were not being paid to participate in their suicide mission. “Did Jane give them funds?”

“No shit, John,” Jane calls from across the table. Thane’s obligingly sitting beside Garrus, away from the dealer. “Alright, people. What stakes are we having?”

The clothes-stake is, surprisingly, volunteered by Jacob. He’s probably already drunk, because there’s no logical way for the clothes to come off of everybody. John cranes his neck to see Jacob’s glass being constantly refilled and the flicker of a tactical cloak approaching Jane’s side.

Jane mutters something under her breath like ‘we are not doing it for your voyeuristic pleasure goddammit Kasumi’.

“Bullets,” suggests Massani. It is immediately shut down for having probable consequences.

“Ryncol,” John says blithely to Grunt’s pleasure. “Every time you lose your bet, you lick ryncol off the bottom of a sterile glass.” And for Tali’s sake. “Or you mix it with your food.”

Garrus tosses him a dirty glare. “I didn’t come for revenge only to be threatened with a hole in my stomach, John.” He turns to Jane and pleads, “Classic creds in an automatic transfer. Legion can monitor. I am itching to see John broke.”

“Everyone starts out with twenty thousand, Garrus,” Jane returns, amused. “But sure. Everyone’s good with creds?”

A chorus of approval, and the game is on.

-

God knows how or why, but Samara ends up winning most of the other team’s credits before two hours have passed. And being the ascetic justicar she is, the asari gives most it back with an indulgent smile.

“Next time,” Jack says darkly, “I am going to get fucking drunk before playing with all you fuckers.”

The intercom crackles. “So, Commanders, when am I getting in on these games?”

Jane squints at the ceiling. “If more than half of this squad can break your bones with a slap to the shoulder, you can join virtually,” she offers. “We’ll even reserve a spot for you between Tali and Miranda. I think John’s shoulders are close to being dislocated.”

“Hold that thought, I’ll stay in the cockpit. I think Miranda’s a card shark.” His voice sobers. “The Reaper IFF’s installed, but not yet activated. The thing has some advice for you.”

Mildly, EDI says, “Thank you, Mr. Moreau. Commanders, I advise taking your team into the shuttle prior to the Reaper IFF being activated.”

John stirs from his seat, his brow furrowed. “Thanks, EDI, but take every precaution while activating it. We’re in a rush to get to the Collectors, but not so much that we need to risk the Normandy.”

“Acknowledged.”

Mordin hums. “Will be cramped aboard shuttle. Capacity not meant to hold more than sixteen.”

The salarian’s right – it is unnecessarily cramped in the shuttle, and John has never envied his twin’s lithe build more as he’s squished against Garrus’s curved back and the hard lines of Legion’s armor.

-

Joker’s lost the crew, but he hasn’t lost the Normandy. To be honest, John doesn’t know how to react except to place a reassuring hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “We’ll get them back,” he promises. “No harm done.” The pilot hunches down further, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m expecting some more anger in your sector, Commanders,” says Joker with a half-hearted laugh.

Jane jerks her chin at Miranda and the rest of the squad to disperse. “We’ll call you back here when we discuss the plan on how to hit the base,” she says tersely. Miranda’s mouth is a tight-lipped line of disapproval and anger at Joker, so Jane glares – deadly green against shards of violet-blue. “Dismissed.”

The door hisses shut, and Jane hops onto the long table next to Joker. “Why didn’t we scrub it?”

John’s already spread across the width of the metal surface, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. “Even AIs aren’t infallible,” he answers in Joker’s place. Optimistically, he adds, “We still have the Normandy, though, complete with upgrades.”

“And the team’s as pumped up as they’ll ever fucking be,” sighs Jane. Lightly, she bumps one of Joker’s shoulders with her own. “Pick yourself up,” she advises, “and don’t fixate on this.”

“You say it like it’s easy,” the pilot responds, and Jane tips her head back to stare at the ceiling.

“We died, Joker,” she finally answers in a blunt manner, and Jane ignores the flinch. “Don’t apologize for it, sometime later in our career we probably would’ve gone out together anyway, be it in a firefight or lost in a blizzard.”

“God forbid I be stuck with you in a blizzard,” mutters John, then he clears his throat. “Joker – Jeff. We need the Normandy’s pilot right now, and maybe he’s screwed up, but it doesn’t mean he can’t make it right again. So pick yourself up.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Joker peers at Jane, and then at John’s knees. He heaves a sigh. “Don’t treat me like glass, I’ve gotten enough of that,” he tells them. “I guess being told that getting over dying is as great an incentive as any to get over failure.”

-

John really needs to stop walking in on these scenes, like what the fuck, Jane. However, instead of screeching hell like his maidenhood’s been threatened, John assesses the scene and silently walks back to the elevator.

His twin’s being kissed by Thane, and the careful way green fingers are cradling her cheeks and jaw is enough to reassure John that she’s one hundred percent safe.

Completing the rounds without Jane at the other end puzzles some of the squad, but when John hedges at the subject, they seem to completely understand. Garrus, barely paying attention to John’s entrance, says to him, “I don’t need the details.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” objects John.

“You’ve got your ‘my twin kicked me out of the room’ face on, and yes, that is exactly what your face looks like,” Garrus informs him, a note of smugness thrumming in his subvocals. “I wouldn’t blame her, I’d want privacy too.”

John replies to that with a horrified, “Don’t tell me what your fantasy scenario is, please, that’s an area we should never, ever touch.”

The turian waves for him to go. “I’m calibrating the guns, John,” the turian drawls. “And statistically, my productivity rate increases when I’m alone.”

“And your mood sours in tandem,” John shoots back, but he complies with the unspoken request. “Get some rest before we get there, Garrus. Wouldn’t want you burning out on us, or overusing stims.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Garrus quotes Jane without looking up.

-

An hour before they finish passing through the Omega 4 Relay, John and a glowing Jane rounds up everybody to meet in the briefing room. Legion’s tasked with going through the vents, Miranda’s going to lead the diversion team, and the Shepard twins are taking Tali and Mordin as backup. 

After what had to be one of the most exhilarating and adrenaline-inducing journey to crash-land on the Collector Base (zero casualties, which by now is the Shepards’ first priority), it’s a nonstop battle from there to freeing the Normandy crew (somehow they’ve gone from Cerberus crew to Normandy crew in the Commanders’ eyes, and they’re not sure when that happened) and Dr. Chakwas.

“No casualties,” John tells Joker, his tone bright and happy despite the fact that all of them are located in this nightmarish hive. “And Mordin’s going to bring them back to the Normandy, so you better be there, you hear?”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

Loathe as Jane and John feel about leaving their heavy-hitters and strongest biotics behind, they acknowledge that this is the best chance in all of the squad surviving against the massive wave of Collectors swarming behind the doors.

They take Legion and Thane to infiltrate the central chamber, and lo and behold –

“That shit is fucked up.” The expletives are completely unintentional, so she belatedly adds an apology for disrupting the stunned atmosphere. However, the rest concur with her statement – the human-reaper-larva-husk thing is an abomination. “Shoot it down?”

“Shoot the tubes, first,” John corrects.

The larva falls a long way down. It’s – Jane doesn’t want to jinx it.

“This is too easy,” muses John, and he winces as she reflexively hits his stomach. “Sorry, sorry.” Thane looks murderous at the sound of John’s words, but Legion’s tilting its head.

“John-Commander is correct. Infiltration into Collector Base completed with ease despite intelligence of Collectors’ masters.” It pauses, then tentatively adds. “The platform core is ready for use, Shepard-Commanders.”

Tim tries to dissuade John from exploding the facility, and then tries to persuade Jane to talk her twin out of his ‘idealistic actions’.

“Do you think he read the dossiers?” she asks John, and he snorts, fiddling with the core uselessly.

“Legion, help,” he says plaintively. As the geth crouches beside him, guiding John through the steps rather than doing it itself – a gesture of trust, perhaps, because Legion had advocated for the preservation of the base – Tim makes one last valiant argument.

“The Reapers are coming, Commanders,” says Tim, “and this base could be the one thing that will promise to preserve the human race.”

John flips him off without even glancing back. “This would become one of Cerberus’s tools,” he points out evenly. “Not the Alliance’s. Not the Council’s.”

He’s taking too long, even with Legion’s help – ah, her brother had never been the tech man (neither had she been, but she could pick up commands better than he). Jane ushered John away and started flicking through the code as fast as Legion could voice directions.

Thane cuts off the transmission and passes her the explosive, fingers brushing her gloves, and she reflexively frees her other hand to grab his. A small smile tugs at a corner of her lips, and then she’s planting the explosive and starting a countdown –

Alright, so the human-Reaper baby hadn’t collided with the ground with a splat.

On the other hand, it’s nice to have several large glowing targets perfect for three snipers to hit and a twin brother wiling to play both tanker and bait.

“I hate you,” says John while she reloads her sniper rifle. He’s breathing hard, but the thrill of battle is yet to be replaced with the thrill of ‘oh shit I’m going to die’.

“Scoot,” she responds with a grin.

-

“Everyone’s out alive,” Joker’s voice is panicked, “and we’re all waiting on you four. So, Commanders, if you don’t mind the insubordination… get up!”

John startles to consciousness and groans, then he freezes as he hears the faint sound of beeping and Collectors buzzing. Shit. He shoves himself out of the rubble and lifts a slab of stone from Thane’s body. Jane also stirs awake and wriggles out from her confines, proceeding to prop Legion on its feet.

Everyone’s alive.

“Move it!” shouts John, and he’s pushing Thane, Legion, and Jane forward to sprint. It’s desperation fueling them, and fatigue is the last thing on their minds as the walls start rocking and the ground starts shaking.

He stumbles, hilariously enough, on a rock. It’s enough to lose his footing, enough to cause his death –

An inhumanly strong hand grasps his arm and hauls him back to his feet. “John-Commander, this is not a time to trip,” Legion admonishes, urging him to move.

The Normandy’s airlock is open, and Jane forces Thane and Legion to move ahead while she kicks her brother into third-gear. A brief reprieve, and then Jane’s gasping, “Ready?”

“Go!” They push hard at the ground – he’s digging his feet in and propelling himself forward by momentum, her light weight allows a swift and graceful fluidity of movement. Jumping together, John can feel time slow.

Oh, fuck, he thinks, looking down at nothing but air.

They cling to the edge of the airlock and look at each other – and they breathlessly laugh. Thane tugs her into the airlock and immediately presses their foreheads together; he’s muttering prayers of thanks, and she’s drinking it all in still (holy shit they’re all alive). Legion’s implausible strength yanks John’s dense soldier physique up, up, up and inside as well.

John crashes into Legion’s frame. “Ow.” He adds as he steadies himself, “Sorry, Legion. And Joker, good catch.”

They both respond with a distracted ‘you’re welcome’, and then Joker’s moving swiftly into the cockpit.

“EDI, let’s go, let’s go!”

-

The communications room is a mess, wires and loose cabling everywhere spitting up sparks. Still clad in their scraped armor, the twins step into the highly expensive technology that lets them communicate with the asshole known as Tim.

“You’re in the habit of costing me more and more time and money, Commanders,” says Tim testily.

Eloquently, Jane snaps, “And you’re a tool. You used us, we used you. I think most of us got what we wanted from each other.” She waits. “And fuck you too, asshole.”

John shushes his twin. “The Reapers are coming, you’re right,” he agrees with Tim, “and this war we’ll have is going to cost a lot. We’ll need funding if we’re going to beat them.”

Tim makes a snippy remark on how John’s an idiot and proceeds to rant about unhelpful things, so the twins simultaneously make a bored sigh.

“Lose the channel, Joker,” John orders.

“Ha, gladly.”

-

Everyone’s getting ready to go their own ways, and it is nostalgically similar to the time when the SR-1’s strike team departed. At least this time, their motley crew is gathered together in the armory, checking weapons.

“So who’s going where?” asks John, watching Legion check the efficiency of his rifle. “And when? Because Jane and I have a few things to iron out with Cerberus and an old friend before we turn ourselves in.”

Most of the room seems aghast at the idea.

“You’ll be put on trial,” protests Tali, scandalized. Understandably, since she recently went through her own trial at the Fleet.

Miranda joins in. “For being associated with Cerberus, they could imprison you for who knows how long. And the Reapers are coming, John, Jane. You can’t abandon us now.”

Jane raises her hands. “We’re the goody-two-shoes, Miranda,” she drawls. “And the patriot over here says we should do the right thing.” Green eyes shoot him a glare. “That and Admiral Hackett told us to get over to Earth as soon as possible.”

Her twin’s expression is of injury. “Hey, I promised we’d check in on everyone before then, right?”

Over where Garrus is dismantling his rifle and oiling the barrel, John hears the turian scoff. “That’s just going to make them angry.”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “I am so open to ideas not concerning a return to Earth, you have no idea,” she assures them, crossing her arms. “I told John we’re going to be incarcerated for at least five years, and he just shrugged like it was no deal.”

Surprisingly, it’s Mordin who offers a suggestion. “Try refuge in Terminus Systems? Not guaranteed solution, but… mostly safe from Alliance.” He frowns. “However, difficult to prepare any world for Reapers while isolated.”

Lose-lose situation.

John breathes in deep and lets it out slow. “We’ll deal with it when it comes.”

His twin hisses at his optimistic choice of words.