Chapter Text
She always loved sleeping. Cool sheets, whether in soft darkness or dappled sunlight. Stretching out to the embracing lilt of white noise in the background…
But it isn't the hum of a fan that she hears as she wakes up. It is the sound of voices, of people talking and weeping nearby. She opens her eyes slowly and blinks at the ceiling lights of Huarta Memorial Hospital.
She's dressed in mass produced standard hospital clothing. It itches against her skin as she gingerly touches her stomach. It hurts where she was shot but it's not unbearable. It's rather distant and she's thankful for the drugs that make it so. Still, she silently wonders about things until a nurse finally realizes that she's awake. They had stuffed her in a back corridor, saving the rooms for the more severely wounded.
"You'll be fine," the nurse tells her, "The bullet missed all of the vital spots. Well, mostly all of them." A reassuring smile is given to the girl.
She is surprised. She hesitantly admits that she had been pretty sure she'd been dying.
The nurse pats her shoulder, "No, no. Well, maybe. If you hadn't been found things might have been a bit touch and go. But, you were found and that's all that matters. You'll be home almost before you know it."
The girl thinks for a few seconds and decides this is a good thing. Sure, in those last moments she'd sort of gotten fond of the idea of dying. She'd been so tired and it had probably been her only opportunity to not die alone. This line of thought led to an important question.
"Was I brought in with anyone? I remember a drell?" The nurse looks confused so the girl adds, "I think he might have helped me."
The nurse has to leave to find out. The girl pokes at her stomach to pass the time as she waits. Poke. Nothing. Poke. Ouch. Poke. Ouch. Poke. Nothing.
Yes, she's eventually told. She was brought in with a Mr. Nuara. He, however, was transferred to the care of one Dr. Chakwas early yesterday. He had been stable at the time.
Stable. She didn't know exactly what being stable entailed but it was all the information she was going to get on the subject. She's not entirely pleased about that but she accepts. Stable is alive. Stable is recovering.
She spends the next few days as a contented lump. She reads a little and replays the scent and touch of Thane once or twice in her head, like a silly school girl. She grins when she does this and sometimes outright smirks for the coup she has managed to pull off.
Thane is alive. Neither Kepral's Syndrome nor Kai Leng has claimed him.
And she thinks that it is okay for her to be a little silly.
It is okay for her to be happy.
When she finally walks home from the hospital she revels in the breeze that intermittently accompanies her. She figures that this rare treat is the result of the atmospheric processors working double time to clear the last of the smoke from their filters. However, she chooses to find more personal meaning in it as well. After all, she had decided long ago that a breeze was God's way of comforting the lonely.
There is no thought of revels or comforts once she rounds the corner to her apartment, however.
Her front door, hanging off its hinges and the police "tape" crisscrossed over it steal even the ghost of those things far away.
She walks through her apartment in an all too familiar daze. There isn't a room that hasn't been violated in some way. The kitchen table has been overturned and there's a spray of blood against the far wall. Every cabinet has been emptied, every drawer flung to the ground. The living room couch is shredded and the carpet boasts not only a stiffened puddle of red-black, but an abstract series of drops and smears.
Hand prints that never quite got to the doorway.
She can't bring herself to go into Nesha's room. The scent of death there is like nothing she's ever encountered before, not even in the hospital. It's fear. It's sweat. It's something slow and tortured.
It's too much.
She dully opens the door to her own small bedroom instead.
Her bed has been overturned too, and she quietly rights it. Once it's settled again, the room almost seems normal. She has no dresser, her dirty and clean clothing are in cheap crates on the floor. The bedside table has its drawer pulled out, yawning empty but there was never much in there to begin with. Just her old datapad…
Oh God.
The datapad. The data pad where she'd written out her message to be delivered to the Shadow Broker. The one where she'd detailed the Citadel's place as the catalyst and warned about the dangers of that information falling into the hands of the Illusive Man.
She bolts from the room, a choked cry at her lips. It's partially one of pain, for the abuse of a still tender wound, and partially one of rage.
Rage at herself. Rage at the universe.
She skitters down the stairs, holding her stomach, and rounds the corner into the front room. An awkward stumble is the only thing that keeps her from plowing right into the very large, very broad shouldered man standing between her and the exit.
She stares at him.
"Mary Sue?" He asks. He's wearing armor, like that of an Alliance soldier, complete with sidearm at his waist.
She says nothing and he smiles gently. "I understand this must be hard. But you need to come with me. There are some questions in regards to the deaths of your roommates."
Don't move.
Don't move and maybe he'll go away?
"Come on, now. You don't want to be arrested, do you?"
No, no she doesn't. That'd be bad. She can't be arrested. Not now.
She looks around for a way out. A way she can run.
The man has no trouble reading her intentions. He scowls and swears under his breath. Then he reaches roughly for her. She pulls away.
He's quick, though. Quick and very well trained. He's got her arm before she can react and twists it up behind her in some sort of submission hold. She screeches at the top of her lungs, breaking and struggling. Sudden pain makes her cry out even louder and then go very still.
"If you don't shut the hell up, I'll break your arm," he says darkly.
She doesn't mean to disobey, not really. She just panics. "Let me go," she whimpers.
He jerks her arm up sharply.
There's a loud pop, a cracking sound that resonates through the room, and she waits for the pain to go with it.
It never comes.
Instead, she's released and she stumbles forward. Scrambling away on hands and knees, she throws a quick look over her shoulder.
She freezes.
A shadow steps over the body of the fallen man. A very familiar shadow.
The girl stares as Thane silently scans the rest of the living room. Then he looks back at her and reaches out a hand. "We need to go," he says gravely. "Now."
The girl sits in the passenger seat of a hover car while Thane Krios drives it through unfamiliar portions of the Citadel.
She pulls at her fingernails, tearing the thin keratin with mindless fervency, all the while silently giving herself a litany of reassurances.
She's okay. She's fine. Everything is alright.
She's okay. She's fine. Everything is alright.
Except, of course, she's still sitting in a car with Thane Krios.
The man is close enough to touch.
Near enough to smell.
…and she can feel him looking at her.
She wraps her arms around herself, trying hard to ignore the drell beside her.
All she needs to do is act normal, be normal, and everything will work itself out. Thane will drop her off somewhere and she will… she will…
She stops herself, unconsciously and instinctively. She can't think that far ahead. She can feel panic twisting her into something irreparable at the very prospect of it. She just needs to stay calm. If she can do that, then perhaps she'll be able to endure Thane talking to her without bursting into tears or out of existence.
Because he's bound to start talking to her at some point.
This eventuality hangs in the air for a moment.
The girl finds herself opening her mouth, throat tightening and releasing for several moments before she can get her voice to work. "W-where are we going?" she asks in a whisper.
"Somewhere safe," Thane answers her. Then he asks, "You are not hurt?"
Her shoulders hunch in, almost a flinch, and she murmurs that she's fine. She doesn't want him to ask her things. It's wrong. It's so very wrong for him to talk to her at all much less /ask/ her things.
"You… can let me off," she manages. Then she steals a glance to his thigh, unwilling to risk meeting his gaze. "I… can call security. I won't tell them about you…"
"While I appreciate the gesture, I think that would be a very bad idea," Thane says.
She wants to glance over again but chews her bottom lip instead.
"We're almost there," he continues, "We can talk more once we're inside."
The car takes a graceful turn to the left. She immediately reaches out to the door panel, grabs the inset handle and holds herself like a rock so that she doesn't shift, doesn't sway, and doesn't move any closer to him.
He notices. Of course he notices. She hunches in further, the weight of his gaze tempting her to cower.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Thane Krios tells her, "And I have no intention of letting anyone else do so either."
She's okay. She's fine. Everything is alright.
Her lips twitch upwards and the irony burns.
In some bone deep way, she still hasn't gotten over the loss of houses - true and proper buildings, with eaves and front porches. She's wistful for yards with fences and downright begrudges the loss of wooden slates and siding. Even at the best of times, living inside of the Citadel is like living inside a box within a box. It's a veritable set of Russian dolls, each embedded room more claustrophobic and anonymous than the last.
When Thane leads her to what seems to be just another doorway in a long corridor of doorways, she cannot tell if it goes to a shop, another hallway or even to a storage unit until he opens it. He tells her quietly to stay where she is, and then steps inside. She does as he asks, but wraps her fingers around the door frame as she peers in after him.
It's an apartment, which is somewhat good to know. It's relatively small but has a dividing wall that separates it into at least two rooms. Thane checks both spaces, quickly and professionally. There are no windows and no blinds to close, but he spends an extra moment off to the right, hidden by a wall, doing something that she can't see.
He walks back towards her and tells her that it's alright. The gesture he makes for her to join him has her staring at his hand and wrist. She wonders if they moved as smoothly, as fluidly, when he popped that guard's neck.
Blood flushes her cheeks and she slinks inside.
She doesn't approach the couch until he leaves it, doesn't sit down until he is filling a glass of water at the sink. She balances on the edge of the cushion, staring at her knees and the rusty crimson that has become ground into the fabric there.
That's right, she realizes. The rug had been …
A glass of water is held out to her. She accepts it with a murmur and dutifully sips. She keeps looking at her knees, though. She isn't sure whether this is because it's so horribly fascinating in its own right, or if it's just because it's safe.
"No one told you about the break in, did they?" Thane asks, "About your roommates?"
She shakes her head. "I… no. They didn't." She has the time, the presence of mind now, to be confused about this. "Maybe… I wasn't on the lease. Sussan was letting me… Maybe they didn't know to tell me?" She looks at him for confirmation.
"That sounds likely," Thane agrees. He sits down on the coffee table. He's close enough to touch her now, if he leans in. She's too distracted to realize it.
"I am sorry," he says, "It must have been difficult to discover it the way that you did."
She thinks about how corpses look. The lack of pigment to the skin, the slackness of the flesh. The hospital has given her a frame of reference for that, so it's fairly easy to do. The attack from Cerberus allows her to layer onto that image blood, terror and twisted features. However, that's where she finds herself unwilling to continue. She can't quite mesh those images in her imagination with those of her roommates. Not without deliberately forcing the gruesome juxtaposition in a way that feels morbid and disrespectful.
She doesn't say anything.
"I had come to thank you," Thane says after a time. "For the way you helped me earlier."
She blinks, momentarily at a loss for what he could mean.
Oh. Right.
She looks down and offers a lame, "You were hurt."
"So were you," he points out.
The girl smiles then, exhaling an almost-laugh. The absurdity of Thane Krios thanking her is oddly grounding; his matter-of-fact tone calming. She speaks clearly, if quietly, when she answers him with, "You're welcome."
There's an odd silence that follows and she fills it by taking another sip of water. She's starting to feel as if it might be alright to look at him. That's what people do, after all. She is a person, isn't she? So, she glances up. He's studying her again and that makes her shift her weight uneasily.
"The man who attacked you in the house," Thane says finally, "He was waiting for you there."
She blinks, slowly straightening, "Wait, what? Why?"
"I imagine because, while he and his companions found your roommates there during the attack, they did not find you."
He allows the words to sink in as she stares at him, just stares at him. Then he adds, "Though why Cerebrus wants to find you at all, Ms. Sue, is something I'm afraid you're going to have to tell me."
The implications of Thane's statement first trickle and then overwhelm.
Cerberus killed her roommates.
Cerberus ransacked her house.
Cerberus now has the data pad where she detailed the future so that the Shadow Broker could manipulate it.
Her stomach tightens, constricting as if the black hole that has just been punched in the center of the universe has settled right there in her gut. She can feel it steal the breath from her lungs and threaten to suck away her sanity like so much dirty water down a sink drain. She can't help it, can't stop it. She's ruined everything and the knowledge of that twists her, compressing her into something so dense with fear and grief and loathing and horror that she's vaguely astonished when she realizes she's still standing.
But…
But…
She is still standing…
She scrambles, scratches, and struggles to pull free.
"I… I'm sorry," she begins, fragmented and halting, "I… I was trying to… I… God… It's all my fault." The words are like gears off-set from one another, grinding and gnashing. She can't make them mesh properly to propel her forward, to find a path, to move her out of this moment or explain rationally. She tries again, "I… never meant to make things worse. I'm sorry… Thane… I'm so sorry….I…"
"Tell me what's happened." The steadiness to his tone compels her calm as well as her compliance.
She wants to tell him. More than anything she wants to take everything she knows and just …chuck it away. Let someone else handle it. Let someone else deal with it. It's too much for her and she is too frightened to think straight. But it's not that easy. She's been hiding what she knows and who she is for so long that she has no idea how to do anything else. Her secrets have bled their color into her soul, shaped her, and been the kernel around which she's created meaning for herself. She isn't sure what she'll be without them, and it feels like it would take giving up all hope of wholeness, to find the words to bring them to light.
She just can't.
She hears herself stutter, "I…. I…"
His coat rustles as he places one hand on her shoulder and the other on her elbow. He guides her to sit back down on the couch and sits beside her as he does so.
Then he just waits.
Waits for her to calm down. Waits for her to find words.
It occurs to her then that everyone is waiting. She's skewed the story, ruined the plot, and the entire universe is waiting for her to start doing something, anything, to put it right again.
Except for the Illusive Man.
He's not waiting; he's sending ships to Thessia. He's informing the Reapers.
The girl swallows hard. Thane let's go of her shoulder and without thinking she grabs for his hand. Sharp. Insistent.
She can't do this alone.
And she only has one chance to get it right.
"I… know things…" she dredges up the words she used to convince Barla Von so long ago. She struggles for a lie that isn't a lie and finds it. "Flashes of things. Paths. "
So far so good, right? She looks at Thane's hand, captured in the cage of hers and hurries to add. "It doesn't matter how, really. I just do. I … was waiting. I didn't want to tell Liara anything too soon, because things change. But I was impatient. I wanted to be careful and know what to tell her so I wrote it all down."
Her voice cracks and she looks up at Thane, tone finally slipping from matter-of-fact to frantic.
"You need to believe me. Please. I can't… I can't fix this on my own. You've got to tell Shepard. She might be able to do something. But the Citadel is the catalyst. The Illusive Man is indoctrinated or nearly indoctrinated now, and if he knows that then the Reapers will come and wipe the station out." Words tumble over themselves now in a desperate babble as she leans forward, "I don't know how long it will be until the Crucible is done and I don't know how you protect the Citadel during that time but… it can move, right? So…. Move it. Get Shepard to get them to move it now and there's still a chance, Thane…"
She begs him until words fail her once more.
He looks back at her, meeting her gaze.
…and there's nothing, nothing at all, to be read in the impassive wall of his expression.
"You know things," he repeats and marks everything about her body language as she answers him.
"…yes…"
"Then you know what Cerberus is capable of?"
She nods the faintest of motions, the frailest of acknowledgements. The gesture is just like the rest of her. Tentative. Hesitant. In fact, the only strong thing about her is how single-mindedly she keeps her eyes locked onto his.
"And you know that Shepard is capable of so much more?"
Her lips twitch upwards. The expression that blossoms over her oh-so-easily read face is very much like fondness and nothing at all like fear. "Yes."
He'd meant it as a warning.
It's very telling that she sees it as a reassurance.
Thane leaves her sitting on the couch, running her hands over the curves of the skin-warmed glass and it's half-inch of tepid water. He doesn't move so far that he can't watch her, either by design or by the simple fact that it's a fairly small apartment.
He doesn't face her either as he taps in a message on his omni-tool, presumably letting Shepard know that her presence is needed.
The girl wonders how long it will take for Shepard to come. How many missions the Commander will complete first or conversations she'll max out along the way.
That's a silly thought.
It's not as if this were a game, after all.
She's repeated that phrase to herself untold times over the past two years. Initially, the words had been thought of like a litany, a prayer, or a geis. Lately, however, the cadence sounds more like something Mary Poppins would use. The lilt of it, the irony of it, in her head now, fills her with wry amusement.
Eventually, Thane finishes his message and the two are left to each other's company. She has never been good at talking with new people and what little glimmer of that skill she'd had was snuffed out long ago.
Hours. She was going to be stuck in a small room, in awkward silence, staring at her knees for hours. Or, maybe even days if Shepard took her time.
She gives herself a hard mental shake. Stupid. No. Time is a gift. She can use it to think, to figure things out, to make it all work again. She'll have to plan what she's going to say and how she's going to say it to have any hope of being convincing. Resolve etches itself over her face again and she begins chewing her lip.
She can make Shepard believe her.
That'll be easy.
After all, with the ammunition of Shepard's dreams in her pocket, it shouldn't be hard to prove that she "knows" things.
The question will be whether she can keep it together long enough to convey what needs to be said…
If she can say what she needs to without muddying the waters by saying what she shouldn't.
She absently turns her arm and runs her fingers over the tattoo on her wrist.
"What does it mean?"
She looks up and blinks, opening her mouth and then closing it again before she speaks, "It… just means to be strong. To remind me how… to be strong."
It probably sounds strange to Thane, given the life he's led.
Perhaps that's why he focuses on the abstract design and its curved lines for a moment, before he nods.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, weight shifting as he moves on to more practical matters.
"Yes?"
"Do you know how to cook?"
"Not really," she admits. Not with the foodstuffs and kitchens on the Citadel, at least.
Thane nods his head towards the kitchen, an invitation before he turns to walk there himself.
Blinking, bemused, the girl stands up and follows.
"Can… I ask you things?"
The domesticity of cooking has been an unexpected ice-breaker. "Pass me this" and "can you find me that?" had teased out answering questions like "can I help with that?" and "what is that stuff?" when normally she wouldn't have had anything to say at all.
"Can… I ask you things?"
She asks and his answer is yes.
So she does her best and tries to be normal.
Do you normally like human food? (I mean, we're having this, so I assume you like it…)
How are you? (I just… I know you were hurt during the attack)
What happened after the Cerberus attack? (I heard that the council was held hostage?)
…and he answers. And, in the give and flow of conversation, he asks things as well. Most of it is fairly benign. Where does she work? He knows she just volunteers at the hospital. Does she like her job? What does she think of the Citadel?
There are pitfalls to avoid in her answers, of course, but she's able to stay more or less truthful.
He is being kind to her. He could ask her questions that would be much more difficult. Questions like those that Shepard is likely to ask.
Eventually, after dishes have been done, he tells her that he's going to head out. He needs to see what impact they've had with their recent actions. She is alarmed but nods and smiles. She feels like she should say something, so she tells him to be careful, and cringes at how inane it sounds.
He tells her that he usually is and advises her to get some rest.
The door clicks closed behind him and she finds herself alone.
It's only a few minutes before she begins talking aloud, planning out how she needs to be, what she needs to be, for when Shepard comes.
She can't screw this up.
She just can't.
She uses the water from her glass to begin tracing out flow charts on the kitchen table with her finger until the tips hurt.
Shepard arrives very late the next day. In a way, the timing is cruel. Through the practice of several small conversations, the girl has finally managed the trick of pretending Thane is just a person and not some archetypal ideal she must both protect and simultaneously shield herself from. The brief knock at the door announces all of that is over just as she's starting to relax.
Thane stands to get the door. The girl swallows hard, silently going over her prepared lines.
"Good to see you again, Thane," Shepard says warmly as she walks in. The combination of her height, armor, and confidence makes it hard to focus on anyone else now that she's in the room. She exudes strength and commands attention. She is not alone, however.
"Mary Sue," Thane makes the expected introductions, "Commander Shepard, Garrus Vakarian, and Liara T'soni."
"Hello," the girl manages with an unsteady little smile. She fights the urge to stare, once more drawn to Garrus for the juxtaposition of his alien familiarity. Liara is easier to handle. Not only did she never care much for the character, but having Sussan as a roommate meant that asari no longer looked quite as strange to her.
Shepard nods in response, looking her over, evaluating. The girl wonders briefly what the Commander sees, and then decides she doesn't want to know. She swallows and tries not to shy away from the scrutiny.
"So what's this all about then?" Shepard doesn't miss a beat. "I got your message, Thane, but the Council is going to need a little more proof of a problem before they evacuate the Citadel on my word."
No one says anything.
The girl looks up to find all eyes on her.
"The artifact on…" she begins and then back-tracks, "I don't know what Thane told you. But there's an artifact in a museum on Thessia that will prove what I'm saying. The Citadel is the Catalyst. And… it shouldn't be operated with people on board. I… screwed up and now Cerebrus and soon the Reapers will know about it."
"Let's back up for a moment," Shepard says, "A lot of people have been trying to figure out what the Catalyst is and you just happen to have the answer? Tell me again how you know all this?"
"I … can't explain how. Maybe it's a weird side-effect of EZO … but I know things," she says without meeting Shepard's eyes. This is the lie she decided on. It was, after all, conceivable that a substance that could produce telekinetics could also produce clairvoyance. "But, it doesn't matter. What matters is that there's no time now. If you evacuate the Citadel, maybe you can hide it away until the Crucible is ready for it. The council will listen to you. The asari councilor already knows about the artifact and you just saved the salarian's life."
"Shepard's made a career of saving the Council's lives." Garrus interjects dryly, "You'd be surprised how little that seems to count."
"EZO, huh?" Shepard raises a skeptical brow.
"Given what we know," Liara's disbelief is just as unshakable, if not more elegantly vocalized, "I think it's far more likely that she's a Cerberus plant. What better way to sow chaos than force a mass evacuation of one of the last safe havens people have."
"I told you… there's an artifact that will prove…"
"Where?" Shepard asks curtly.
"A museum," she stresses.
"Which one?"
Which one? She has no idea. She looks to Liara, grasping at straws. "The one her mother took her to when she was little."
Liara's eyes darken, "My mother took me to many museums. That hardly narrows down the field."
They don't believe her.
They won't believe her.
Her stomach churns in adrenaline filled nausea. This can't be happening!
The girl extends her hand, reaching out in a gesture that is as conflicted as she is. Her fingers extend as if to point while her palm remains open in entreaty. She can't think clearly, can't remember what she'd planned to say or how she'd planned to do it. All she knows is that there's a lump of emotion, of fear and anger, in her throat and it's strangling her.
"I can't do it!" she blurts, giving up, giving in. "I can't fix this but you can. I'm telling you what's going to happen! I'm giving you a way to prove it without trusting me. I don't understand why you won't just... If you walk away from here without listening to me or…or talking to the Asari councilor to get the museum name I'm… I'm… then no one's blood is on my hands any more, got that? It's not my fault any more, it's yours! All yours!"
Shepard's expression is unreadable, unwavering in her attention. But the girl catches Liara looking away in apparent disinterest.
"And /you/!" she snaps at the asari, furious, "You make sure you put it in your damn time capsule thingy that you had this chance, because it's all that'll be left. I told you!" She casts around for something else to fling, something to hurt the disdainful woman, to get some sort of reaction, "Oh! And the Protheans weren't all good guys either, you know! You were wrong!"
Garrus' bark of laughter cuts the legs out from under her immediately.
"But… I… if… you found him already…. I guess you know that…" Her anger, her energy, sputters, dwindling like a candle in wind only to gut out completely.
"Not good guys? You don't say. Javik is going to be heartbroken," Garrus' drawl makes her cringe.
She's looking at the ground again, chin against her chest and arms wrapped around her torso once more. Strangely enough though, there is no corresponding rush of panicked, overwhelming emotions. She's upset, yes. Frantic, of course.
But she's still functioning.
She vaguely realizes this is probably an improvement.
"Alright, kid," Shepard says after a moment. "I'll talk to the asari councilor and we'll go from there."
"Kei Lang is going to go after it too," the girl looks up sharply in renewed hope, "I don't know if he can activate it without you there, but he'll try. And he's good. The reapers move quickly and since the Illusive Man knows…"
Shepard raises a hand, "Don't worry. I've got it."
The door to the apartment closes behind Thane as he follows the Normandy crew into the hall. It is more than just politeness to escort them from the safe house. Liara's expression had been tight-lipped as they'd left and he wants to know why. He does not need to wait long.
"You didn't tell me your lead was named Mary Sue," the asari's silken voice is tinged with delicate disapproval.
"I didn't know her name," Shepard answers, unphased. She glances to Thane briefly before looking back to Liara. "I take it you know her, then?"
"Mary Sue, arrested in 2183 for indecent exposure on the Presidium," Liara says, "The charges were dropped, however, and she spent the next year and a half in a mental asylum on Earth being treated for various dissociative disorders, schizophrenia, and delusions. She was brought into custody twice after her release from the facility, once for suspicion of theft, another on prostitution charges. She wasn't convicted for either. In late 2184 she used all her resources to return to the Citadel, abandoning her job, reneging on her agreed psychiatric appointments, and going off her medications."
"Delusions," Shepard repeats, "Let me guess? Was she talking about huge scary aliens invading?" There is tolerance in Shepard's tone; a willingness to play with belief without actually claiming it.
Liara has no such tolerance. "No. That would be too easy. She told her doctors that she was born two hundred years ago and that everything that had taken place with Sovereign had been a video game. A game, Shepard, which she had played and controlled through the hero. You."
Garrus was the first to break the somewhat stunned silence, "So we're going to accuse the Asari councilor of harboring a Prothean artifact on the strength of a crazy woman's word?"
"Why do you know all of this?" Thane asks Liara smoothly, but quickly. "How do you know it?"
"She approached the shadow broker, about eight months ago," Liara admitted. "She's proposed what seemed to be a straight-forward information exchange. Given the apparent value and possible source of what she offered, I thought it prudent to find out everything I could."
"What information did she give you?" Shepard asked. "And more importantly, was it any good?"
Liara exhaled, less than happily, "She gave me the Illusive Man's name, identified Eva Mendes as a non-human Cerebrus agent, and urged me to go to the Mars archives." She paused, "In short, her information led us to the plans for the Crucible, assisted me in tracing back several of the Illusive man's resources, and contributed to the fact that EDI now has a mobile platform."
"So," Thane's words slice into this new silence like a blade, "It seems her information was very good, then."
"So it seems."
She's made the water as hot as she can stand. Not because she wants it that way, but because she feels she deserves some sort of punishment even if she doesn't have the passion to do anything that could be really damaging.
Of course, she ends up curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, giving the water even more time to cool off. Not that she realizes the hypocrisy. She's too occupied with something else.
They are going to check.
They are going to check and they'll be told where to find the artifact.
They are going to check, they'll be told where to find the artifact and they'll find out about the Catalyst.
But that's where she stops, where the road of her thoughts hits a speed bump she just can't get by. She has no idea what happens after that, or whether they can possibly keep the Reapers and the Illusive Man from blowing up the Citadel long enough for the Crucible to be completed.
Even worse, she doesn't know what she needs to do next. She can't remember which missions took place after the Cerberus attack and there's a part of her that doesn't even want to try.
She is tired. So incredibly tired.
They are going to check…
They are going to check and they'll be told where to find the artifact…
She gives herself a hard mental shake. Stop it. Start from the top. Break it down. What needs to happen first? What needs to happen now?
Given the state of her fingers, she needs to get out of the shower. When Thane left with the others she'd been left to her own devices and disarray. The only privacy that was available was in the bathroom and, technically, she was due a shower anyway. It made sense. But hiding under the spray of water isn't something she can do forever.
She stands up, feels the rush of blood return to her legs and turns off the water. She dresses again, combs through hair with her fingers and eventually, edges out into the rest of the apartment.
Thane is sitting on the couch, typing into his omni-tool. He doesn't look displeased, but she's still cautious as she moves to sit, once more choosing the seat farthest from him.
"I hope you don't mind, but I think it's probably wise if I stayed here tonight," he says casually.
She blinks.
"Even if the Cerberus team at your house was acting alone, time has given them a chance to send re-enforcements. While it's highly unlikely anyone could have tracked you to this safe house, there's no reason to take the chance."
There is nothing she can say to that, so she nods fractionally.
He turns off the display on his omni-tool. And even though she's once more studying the pattern of the carpet, she can tell he's looking at her.
She reaches for the relative ease of their previous conversations and finds its hovering just beyond her reach. She tries to think of a nice, friendly question to ask to lure it back again. Something benign. Something not stupid.
"Though, it occurs to me that you probably miss having clean clothing or a hairbrush. I'm sorry. I hadn't realized you'd be staying here, so I didn't plan for it."
That statement makes her shift uncertainly. Clean clothing would be nice. Deodorant and a toothbrush would be even better. "It's okay," she says and smiles once more, "I've been through worse."
"Really?"
The question is easy, mildly curious and attentive. But the flashes of her time in the asylum, of waking up with drool crusted to her cheek and her hair so tangled that it was easier to tear it out than comb, are not things that lend themselves easily to words. Nor is how she'd spent this morning rubbing toothpaste over her tongue as well as her teeth, frantically anxious to avoid the sour taste of neglect. Still…
She shrugs, "I… there were times on Earth… sometimes money is tight…"
"I didn't know you'd spent time on Earth. Is money why you left then? To come to the Citadel?"
Lie. It's easy enough. She'd done it a hundred times before. To her roommates, to her employer. She even knows what words to use. I was looking for an opportunity to move on to something more. To see more things and meet new people.
But she doesn't want to. She swallows and looks up at him. Please don't ask me things like that. I don't want to lie.
There's no sign that he's heard her silent plea, but there's also no sign of impatience either. He's just waiting for an answer. An answer that a normal person should be able to give him.
Then it occurs to her that she just might… might be able to be honest. Or at least, mostly honest.
"I… sort of," she allows slowly. "I wanted to be in a position to help. Shepard doesn't go to Earth. Well, except when she's in prison. And… the only contact I knew for… Liara was here…"
Thane cocks his head to the side, "Exactly how long have you been here?"
"About a year," she says.
"So you arrived not too long before I saw you at the Normandy," Thane notes.
For a moment she doesn't understand. Then the pieces fall together as she remembers. Remembers running to the dock, desperate to find out whether Thane had survived the attack against the Collector base. He'd caught her staring at him and she'd nearly knocked down a stack of crates trying to hide from view. Eidetic memory or not, of course he'd remember something like that.
She pales.
"How's your shoulder?" Thane says quietly, and he's smiling.
No. He's teasing.
He's actually teasing her.
She confirms this with an incredulous glance and exhales the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. Something that had been drawing tight in her chest, tugging at the edges of her, imperceptibly begins relaxing.
Nothing has changed. There are still a thousand things she shouldn't talk about, a dozen weaknesses and stupidities she needs to hide, and a hundred ways that things may come crashing down on her at any moment.
But… somehow…
She's being teased.
And she feels safe.
The girl straightens up in her seat and laughs.
The next few days pass in what should be relative peace and bliss. For the first time in years there is no reason to fear what comes next, what she might be doing wrong, or to be miserably aware of just how out of place she is. She's essentially handed over the bulk of her responsibility to Shepard, and while the specter of what Cerebrus might do with her information remains, there are ways yet to fix it.
And she's not the one who has to make sure it gets fixed.
Not to mention the fact that she is spending a majority of her time in the presence of a very handsome man who seems to honestly enjoy her company. He displays patience with her conversational and social failings and she finds herself frequently surprised at how easy it is to speak now without feeling like a functional idiot. She's getting slowly used to saying hello to him without tying herself in knots over it.
Though…
…the number of times that ease nearly translates into her confessing why she doesn't have a single family member or friend to show for her years of existence, or how a game has twisted her life into something unrecognizable is alarmingly high.
Slowly, what peace and bliss she feels becomes shadowed by dark under-currents she can't name. Seemingly innocent conversations keep taking her to places where she finds herself unexpectedly unsettled, just about to share something, and uncertain about what that might mean or where it might go next.
It makes her anxious and inexorably begins to erode her calm - just beneath the water line, out of sight.
It's somewhat of a relief when Thane offers to escort her out of the apartment for a bit. Shopping or a stroll around the Presidium, he leaves it up to her. Since she's dyed her hair blonde and attacked the resulting near-platinum strands with a pair of scissors, the risk in an hour or so of exposure is fairly minimal. After all, no matter whatever else might be said about the "unusual" style she's ended up with, its worlds away from the inoffensive blandness of her former look.
She doesn't want to take advantage of Thane's generosity, so they end up walking, talking about trivial things as they go.
And somehow, those trivial things take them from a general discussion of fashion to the specifics of how she used to have a jeans-vest covered with slogan bearing buttons in grade school. She doesn't even realize it until she's making a joke about how the family dog had reacted to the jangling.
"Somehow, that's not what I thought human children wore at that age." Thane's chuckling, "When was this? What year?"
What was the year.
Not how old were you.
The clues that had been unconsciously jostling together for days now suddenly, joltingly, find their fit.
"Don't do that!" The words come snapping out of her mouth.
Thane blinks, startled, "Do what?"
Her face flushes red – the heat of humiliation and indignation together. "That! That… twisting. If you want to know something, just ask me. You don't need to… to lie… to manipulate me and make a whole conversation a lie to get to what you want to know!"
All of these oh-so-easy conversations. All of the back and forth, the questions and answers…
How much of it had been motivated by genuine kindness or interest and how much had been Sere Krios methodically testing an unreliable asset?
He takes her elbow, proving her suspicions with his silence. He steers their path back towards the apartment just as he's likely steered every interaction since they met. She barely keeps herself from shrugging off his touch.
"We were talking, Mary." Thane says once they are beyond the earshot of other people. "And yes, during those talks I learned things about you, as you learned them about me. That's what happens in a conversation."
Is it? It's been so long since she's had a real conversation, she isn't sure any more. It sounds so reasonable, so sane. Except… Except…
She can feel it. That smothering blanket of emotion, hurt and shame melting into the certainty of her insignificance. She should shut up. She should be quiet. She's right, she knows she's right. She's so small, she's nothing, of course the only reason anyone would talk to her would be to try and figure out what the hell she is. Or she's wrong, she's an unstable lunatic, and it doesn't matter anyway. None of it matters; she can't sort through the storm inside of her to see what's real and what's not. Why try?
Except…
She's not just upset. She's angry.
She is silent as they walk back to the apartment, gathering her thoughts together. Slowly picking out the thin strands of logic from the gelatinous goo that is her emotion. By the time they walk back inside, she's found what she wants to say. As the door shuts on the hallway she walks a few yards away from him, distances herself, before finally speaking.
"I know that I'm just a stranger to you. Not a friend. Not anything. And, I know that it's important for Shepard to … to know what she can trust. But, I promise you, I'm doing my best to be as honest with you as… as I can. So, don't… make me think that you … that…. Just don't create an emotional connection just to get information from me. I swear, I swear, I'll tell you what you want to know without that. Just don't… don't…pretend. I…"
…won't be able to stand it, will crumple, will fall down and never move again…
She has no lack of ways to finish that sentence, but her fragile pride keeps her from voicing any of them.
"I promise. No pretending," the reverberations in his voice are deep and sound so very sincere.
He steps towards her and she backs up quickly. It's mostly instinctive, as is the sharp look she gives him. Once she realizes she's done it, she regrets it. She doesn't like how obvious her body-language is right now, doesn't like how she can't decide whether she's over-reacting or under-reacting to the situation, or even if there is a situation.
So she screws her lips into an approximation of a smile, and grasps desperately for any sort of diversion she can think of. "I….uh…d-did you want to watch something on the vid…?"
"There should be something on," Thane says lightly, after a measured moment. He turns to walk to the couch, ready to flip through channels. Normal, trustworthy, and non-threatening. She takes a breath and moves to join him.
But before the almost randomly selected program is even half-way done, Shepard calls.
A long time ago, the girl touched the bulkhead of a departing US Navy destroyer and asked it to keep her then-fiancée safe. When it finally returned to port, repaired and sea-worthy again, her hands shook as she silently thanked it for doing as she'd asked.
Walking aboard the Normandy makes her remember this and she doesn't even try to resist the urge to let her fingers graze along the bulkhead of the airlock. Her hands don't shake this time, but neither are they completely steady, either.
As they walk into the ship proper, she takes a deep breath to ward off the dizziness. She's learned to better deal with the odd juxtaposition of familiarity and oddity that comes from seeing a computer generated space rendered in reality, but this isn't the Promenade. This isn't a line of shops. This is the Normandy. Thick with personality and presence, it closes around her, enveloping her, and she knows that it has the potential to terrify her if she lets it.
She's on board the Normandy. The Normandy.
And she's following Commander Shepard past the side consoles, by the universe map, and towards that odd little War Room.
"I miss the old ship…" she thinks wistfully and almost, almost says aloud. She'd liked the layout from the second game and had always found herself unconsciously looking for it while wandering around in the third. She swallows hard at the reminder of things she shouldn't know, and looks over her shoulder. Thane is there, tall and alert, Garrus visible a few steps behind him. They'd all come, Garrus, Liara and Shepard, to escort her from Thane's little bolt hole apartment. They'd said little, but it was telling enough to know they were moving her and were concerned about her safety.
Of course, Thane had come along too. If he hadn't, an echo of her pride would have protested at the thought of being handed off like a sack of potatoes, while the raw places in her would have wailed at the abandonment of someone who knew so many of her secrets and had at least pretended to like her.
The hissy fit would have been epic.
She smiles faintly and her mind is briefly filled with comical images of her clinging like a stubborn toddler to Thane's leg while Shepherd, Liara and Garrus try in vain to tug her off. It's enough to make her start to giggle as they pass through the security detector and to cause Liara to turn and give her a hard, cold look.
She recognizes the urge to stick her tongue out at the woman as a particularly unwise one.
But...
She is on board the Normandy.
Sticking her tongue out, strutting about like she belongs there, complaining about the layout not being to her liking… even things that ridiculous wouldn't top the sheer insanity of what is already happening…
She is on board the Normandy.
People that she's never met, but that she's spent hours, weeks of her life invested in, will call her by name, ask her things, and look at her.
And, like it or not, the girl will be in the light. She will be seen.
Because she's on the Normandy now.
And, sooner rather than later, she is probably going to have to find some way to make that feel real.
"…too damaged. We were unable to get more information from the interface. "
"I will take a look at it, however, I am no engineer. We must resign ourselves to it being a lost cause."
"Either way, we got enough. Our only chance to defeat the Reapers is to get the Crucible up and working. And now, coincidentally enough, we know how."
There's skepticism Garrus' voice. Not hard, not defiant. But definitely caution held and openly expressed.
The girl doesn't say a word nor look up. Instead she simply begins to re-count the lines in the laminated wood of the war room table. She always seems to lose track around fifteen, every single time. In her defense, though, the section of paneling she's so intently scrutinizing has a fairly dense grain. It'd probably be easier if she could take her finger and just mark her place, but that'd look just weird, now wouldn't it?
See, early on in the team briefing, she'd made the mistake of looking up. Of seeing expressions and meeting the eyes of the different squad members around the table. The varying degrees of cool disbelief and restrained hostility had quickly bowed her head back down, relentless as hammer blows.
Someone had obviously already told them about her. And it was unlikely that the telling had been padded with any fluff to soften the insanity of it.
Rather than face them, face that, she focused on the table. And she listened.
"…talked to the council. They've agreed to an evacuation. We still need to discuss a cover story, but we have a few days before anything can be put into place."
"There's still the question of where all those refugees are going to go," Vega (Fred, Kanan, Iron-Bull-without-the-attitude) pointed out the problem, "The Citadel alone has thousands of people, and the refugees are still streaming in. Are we really going to leave them all to fend for themselves?"
"We've got people working on that, too. We'll set up emergency services somewhere safe and direct everyone there."
"Yes, but where is safe?"
Silence falls and stretches out like silly putty over the room.
The girl glances up from beneath her lashes, only to realize everyone is looking at her.
She straightens and falls back a step from the table. That's as far as she can retreat, as much distance as she's going to get. She pushes down the nerves and speaks, "Ah… New…. Well, New Eden had a few attacks, but… maybe…Horizon?" Wait, bad idea. Very bad idea. "No! I mean, no. Not Horizon." She blinks, searching, and then like a gift the answer is there. "There's always the Quarian homeworld?"
"If only it weren't crawling with Geth," Tali says, disgust in her voice.
The girl's mouth opens but words fail her. She drops her head again, searching out the specific cluster of lines she'd been working with only to cover them with her hand.
Shepard saves her. "We'll figure that out. Liara, I need you to work with Adjunct Fairbanks on that cover story. We're running short on time, and need to get the Citadel moving within the week at the latest. Edi, see what you can do about finding a safe haven for the people we're going to displace. The council will have opinions on that as well." She straightens. "I know that this is a twist we weren't expecting. But thanks to the artifact, we now have all the pieces we need to stop the Reapers for good. Let's not waste them."
It's a dismissal and everyone takes it as such. Filing out, spatters of conversation continue. The girl hangs back, unwilling to intrude on any of it. She'll wait until everyone is gone to leave. It's best that way.
Except, the Commander hasn't moved from her place at the table.
"Mary," Shepard's voice reels the girl back from imminent escape.
She inches back into her place, shoulders hunching at this one-on-one scrutiny. But, it turns out that Shepard is a little easier to face than the crowd was. She's not relaxed, exactly, but she doesn't feel as shy about looking up.
She doesn't stop to parse out why, she just accepts it.
After all, the girl may worry, she may become anxious, she may even expect things to go badly. But she knows that Shepard will never intentionally hurt her, shred her, diminish her.
After all, /her/ Shepard never went down the renegade path.
The fact that this isn't /her/ Shepard doesn't even occur to her.
The door swishes closed behind the last of the mission crew.
"How are you holding up?" Shepard asks simply.
"Fine." It isn't a real question, so the girl doesn't give it a real answer. It's a volley, an opening thrust to begin a conversation, and she treats it that way.
Shepard raises a skeptical brow but, as anticipated doesn't press. At least not on that point. "You know, Garrus thinks you are a Cerberus agent who has lost her mind. Liara just thinks you're a spy." If she's searching for a reaction in Mary's face, she doesn't find one. None of what is being said is surprising. "Though, Thane is being more … elusive about what he believes," the Commander adds as if it is only an after-thought.
And, of course that hits a mark. The girl folds her hands and chews her lip uncertainly. She's not sure whether to be happy that Thane hasn't outright dismissed her, or upset that he doesn't really believe her story.
"And maybe, if the universe wasn't ending, I'd find myself more concerned with finding answers and nailing down just how you know what you know. But right now, the only thing that matters to me is that we win this war." The Commander pauses, pinning the girl like beneath her gaze. Like a hawk stooping, like Joan of Arc pointing out a peasant. "You are going to give us the information we need to do that, right, Mary?"
It's not a question. Not in the usual sense. There's too much authority in the Commander's bearing, too much strength behind the implications.
No. It's a demand.
The girl's eyes widen.
It's a calling.
Entranced by the offered trust, even if it is only likely skin deep, the girl nods slowly. "I… will. I don't… things aren't going to be the same, though. And I might not remember everything but… I will try. Commander. I promise."
I swear.
Shepard nods shortly, but just as gravely as if she's heard the girl's unspoken addition. She picks up a pad from the table and lightly tosses it over. "Good. The first thing I need for you to do is go through everything you know. Every little detail, including why Horizon isn't acceptable and why you think the Quarian homeworld is. When you are done, get that to me and we'll see what still applies and what we can prepare for."
The girl catches the pad, pleased and a little surprised that she's done so. She's used to thinking of herself as clumsy. "Okay. Can I stay where Jack used to? That little alcove?" Shepard seems drawn up a little short by the request, so the girl rapidly adds, "I don't mind the bunks, but I think I'm not… I think I might not fit in there and if I'm going to be up late writing I don't want to keep anyone up or…"
"Sure," Shepard says, "Alright."
"As soon as I can," the girl repeats gesturing just slightly with the pad to put force behind her promise. Dismissed, she leaves the war room and makes a B-line for her new sanctuary.
And if her steps take her past crew members who eye her or a drell who had been casually speaking with Garrus near the old armory, she doesn't notice.
All she can think of is where she should start. What she should write down.
Oh, God. There's so much.
She grins fiercely and does her best not to howl out her glee.
There's just so much.
It takes her some time to record everything she knows about the future that she's derailed so thoroughly. Old habits die hard, and while she's an adept enough typist, her thoughts still lend themselves to the 3X5 card school of organization. Besides, being able to physically manipulate the information in her hands would have been much more useful than trying to sew together her thoughts on a small screen.
As it is, the moment items in the long list slip from her view, she has a tendency to forget about them. Repeating lines, disjointed events, branching paths based on Shepard's decisions ... She finds herself all the way back in the events of the first game, just to keep track.
Eventually she puts everything into simple bullet points, just transcribing each bit of information as she remembers it. Once that's done, she tasks herself with rearranging those facts into something like a time line and hunting down a decision tree format she can apply. Stubbornness keeps her focused, and she ignores both the clock and her own weariness in favor of having this done.
She doesn't realize she's smiling, and has been for hours, until well after midnight.
All of this information, everything she's kept locked away, everything she's been made unreal for and forced into isolation to protect…
It's all out there now. It all exists, not just in her head but in black and white, right on the screen in front of her.
And if it can be real, then by God, so can she.
By the time she sleeps, she's not only pleased with her efforts, she's outright exultant.
Exultation, like dreaming, tends to fade in the cruel cruel light of day. Or, in the case of the Normandy, the precisely wattaged glow of mid-morning. When Samantha Traynor descends the metal stairs to wake the girl, her response is a pitiful whimper followed by a heartfelt groan.
"I'm sorry," Samantha says after introducing herself, "It occurred to me that no one has probably told you about the galley hours. You can go back to sleep if you'd like, but breakfast will only be available for another forty-five minutes."
The girl sits up, squints and then looks down at the data pad she placed on the floor by the cot. As soon as possible, she'd promised Shepard. And the galley would certainly have coffee.
The prospect is enough to bring her to her feet. She voices a quiet thank you and gives Traynor a closed mouth smile.
"I brought you a spare set of clothing and some toiletries," the specialist gestures to a bundle on a side crate. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing. The head and galley both are on the Crew Deck. I can show you the way if you are ready?"
The answer to that has to be yes, even if the girl might have preferred finding her own path on the familiar ship. Declining would just be rude.
The walk isn't too taxing and Traynor points out a few areas of the ship as they pass by. Then she drops her off outside of the restrooms, presumably to return to her usual duties. The open shower stalls mean that the girl washes in record time, despite an earnest desire to linger and scrub her skin red. There's a little hesitance when it comes to putting on the clothing Traynor has provided. It seems to be identical to what she's seen on the other crew members who aren't wearing armor. Even if the girl hadn't been scolded by her husband years ago for wearing his discard-pile dungarees to the store once, she'd know that you don't wear a uniform you haven't earned.
Her husband…
She slides one leg through the pants and watches her toes splay on the tile as she shifts her weight back onto that leg. Then the other foot leads her other leg through the fabric, and she's shimmying to bring the tight material up over her hips to fasten it shut.
It's only once she's pulled the shirt on over her head that she realizes there are no rank insignia to be found.
That should be okay then.
There are no claims being made that she is something, someone, she is not.
She exits the restrooms, data pad held loosely at her side, and walks into the galley area. There are a few people lingering at the tables, but it certainly isn't crowded. An unfamiliar face is behind the kitchen area and she follows the logical assumption that he must be the giver of food.
Whoever he is, he seems neither impressed nor disapproving when she meekly asks for something to eat. In the tradition of curmudgeons everywhere, he just tells her the choices and waits with slight impatience until she takes her tray and leaves.
She can't blame him. Slinging hash isn't exactly exciting duty.
She chooses a table as close to the corner of the room and as far away from everyone else as she can. She devours her meal absently, and then wipes slightly soiled fingers on her pants so that she won't dirty the pad's screen too much as she manipulates the data. Within moments, she's engrossed in her review.
The thump of a tray being set not-entirely-gently on to the table across from her startles her. She actually jumps, catching her breath audibly as she jerks her head up to take in the dark skin and broad shoulders of one James Vega.
"Hey," he says and sits down without ceremony.
Her eyes widen.
"So you are supposed to know the future, eh?" The very muscular, very big man picks up his breakfast sandwich and takes an unconcerned bite.
His chewing must be fascinating. She can't seem to blink, can't seem to tear her gaze away.
He smiles.
"You know, we got a mission coming up," he gestures with the sandwich. "Heading out as soon as we hit orbit in an hour or so."
She struggles, searching for something appropriate to say, some way of engaging in this incredibly sudden conversation. "What is it?"
"Don't you know?" the retort is immediate, said with such ease that Vega had clearly had it at the ready. At her silence he continues, "Come on. What good is it to have a crazy psychic chick aboard if she isn't going to weigh in on the life threatening situations?"
She shifts her weight and licks her lips, "I don't … see things like that. If you told me what the mission was, I could tell you what might have happened on it… if I hadn't told you about it. But in telling you about it I'd probably change it so …"
"Sounds like an easy out to me," Vega says with a snort, "And if you don't know anything we can use, it sounds like you are more a weirdly packaged distraction than an asset. No offense."
No offense.
There is nothing she can say to that. And, even if there were, there is nothing she wants to say. Vega isn't quite an unknown quantity, but to be honest she could only stand to play the third game through once and she'd never really used him on the squad. She remembered liking him alright, but that was about it.
Her brow furrows and she thinks back to the movie that had focused on him. There'd been some vital information found, a colony in danger, and Vega left to choose between saving the data or the people.
He'd picked the data and the colonists had died. Children had died.
"Okay," Vega says slowly, raising a brow. "Add slightly creepy to the description."
Oh. She's staring at him. Intently.
"Good morning." The reverberations and familiar tone immediately relax her. The girl smiles, a quickly hidden flutter of a thing, and looks to Garrus as he sits down. "So what are we talking about?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," Vega shrugs "Just whether Mary can tell us what's waiting when we go in after those Cerberus scientists." He takes another bite of his sandwich, "Surprisingly, she's got nothing."
It's not the distinct thread of sarcasm that prompts the girl's mouth to drop open (though it is noted and her cheeks redden as a result), but rather the recognition of the mission being described.
"Really?" Garrus drawls, "Because it looks like she has a thought or two."
She twitches in her seat and begins looking around the room for an escape, for some way out of this. While, technically, it should be an easy enough thing to talk about the mission as she remembers it, she still clings a little to the feeling that she should keep quiet. She was going to give the information to Shepard and then not have to worry about it anymore. That was the point, right?
"Oh, really?" Vega rests an arm on the table now. "Then spill it."
"I don't have details," she begins to explain.
And she might have gone further, might have explained why she was hesitant, and might have even explained that she wanted to wait for Shepard because the Commander should probably be the one making the tactical decisions.
But Vega is already rolling his eyes in very clear disgust. He looks at Garrus as if to say "I told you so."
And a switch is thrown in her head. Consequences be damned.
"But Jacob's there," she says easily, "He gets shot, but is okay. He's got a girlfriend and if he hasn't gotten her pregnant yet, he will. And there are turret gun thingys that'll need to be repaired before you can evacuate everyone."
For a heartbeat, there is only silence. She stands in the wake of it and raises her chin. "Good enough?" The honey-smooth note of mixed challenge in her voice isn't perfect. It's flawed by a trembling that makes clear how Vega's response has gotten to her and a twist to her lips that betrays temper.
But she is remembering how to use words as a weapon, not thrown in wild defense but wielded with sharp purpose. And as she quickly retreats from the table, she realizes that it's the first time she's used what she knows in such a way.
It feels…. good.