On the Liberating Effects of Alcohol: a Mass Effect 2 Interlude

a Short Story Featuring John Shepard and Tali'Zorah vas Normandy

Part 1

Pre-Body

I'm changing up my usual format in favor of evoking a sense of seamlessness and almost calculating atmosphere. I'm not one for being inconsistent, no matter what I'm doing, but I'm thinking the context of what I'm doing justifies it somewhat. All text embellishments et al will be tracked through the Legends as usual. Whenever Shepard is thinking (he'll be the only person whose mind can be peered into), I won't break into a new paragraph, because his and the narrator's thoughts are parallel, just in different levels of awareness. I'll still break text with more than one speaker into the appropriate lines, though.

Legend

"speech"

Shepard's thoughts

Body

Commander Shepard was uncomfortable with the current circumstances. Scanning the room once more - one more time than he knew was necessary, but surrendered to the indulgence of being doubly sure - and taking into account the numerous phenomena that currently inhabited the immediate vicinity, the marine hesitantly cast his gaze widely at the scene of utter disorder surrounding him while letting out a sigh that he knew should have remained stuck in his throat. This is not what I had in mind when I allowed my crew on a shore leave. This is yet another mistake in my foreplanning I'm not willing to commit a second time.

In fact, he decided the moment this event had begun that it was a mistake he would have given anything not to have committed in the first place. Wherever he looked, the Commander saw only chaos. The large function room - one of the many expensive, fully booked private spaces in Illium he took great personal pains to reserve ahead of time - was littered with drunken bodies either lying down or feverishly defying their body's natural desire to fall over in, physically pulsing their limbs and heads to the beats of what he was assured was music blaring through the loudspeakers. At least I made the right choice of picking the one room with soundproofing.

He squinted his eyes as he continued his observations. Silently, the man wished at that moment that his eyesight were sharper and his hearing duller. It was difficult just seeing where his hands were given the dimmed house lights, and what illumination there was he figured was not designed to improve visibility of a room. Several beams of colored light waved around the space in frantic and erratic motions, mimicking those of the inebriated partygoers he almost doubted were the same colleagues he entered the room with. He could, at best, see snapshots of this alien environment - or at least alien to my senses - and the frozen and deliberately tantalizing poses of several particularly frenzied dancers as they grunted and grinded themselves onto people the soldier knew for a fact were little more than strangers to them.

As the irritating electronica of disharmonic tunes continued pounding at his skull, Shepard continued what he started. With no little effort, he picked out several outstanding details - faces, items, contained events - from the sea of primal desire and irrational behavior displaying itself to him. If no order could be made of the rest, the Ex-Spectre would have it in his thoughts. 3 o'clock - he turned his head to his right - Engineers Kenneth and Gabrielle are bonding, each with a beverage in one hand. Two fifteen: Jacob and Miranda are holding each other in less than professional ways; I'll have to confirm a nagging suspicion regarding their history. 2 o-clock: Grunt's staring at the Cerberus operatives with an expression I can deduce to be the Krogan equivalent of amusement.

He worked his gaze counter-clockwise, crossing his arms and noting a rather large pile of empty liquor containers haphazardly occupying a spacious patch of floor to the side. One thirty: someone seems to have created a makeshift bar and lounge; Mordin's sitting on a stool and likely reading one of those manuals he keeps giving interracial couples on the ship. Half past twelve: Joker's having a card game with Kelly on a well-furnished semicircular sofa; from his expression, the poor guy looks like he's gambling with his salary... and losing. The Commander had to pause at that one to allow himself a smirk. The Normandy's pilot was one of the wittiest, most strong-willed people he had known in the galaxy - which meant a lot, coming from a "Star of Terra" laureate - and he was also very skilled. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his list of advantages, especially when it concerned his personal wellbeing. He's still living down the rumor made after EDI decided to let slip just what was coming out of his earpiece.

11 o'clock: Thane and Samara are near the center of the- what? The Commander was caught by surprise when he noticed the two joining in the spontaneously conceived spirit of the occasion, even despite the darkness he knew both were still plagued with. The drell assassin, father and widower - and currently under the influence - seemed to have convinced the Justicar to accompany him on the dance floor. Thane was moving his arms and torso in very fluid motions that somehow managed to follow the rythm of the music despite his slow pace, a fact that seemed to attract the wandering eyes of a few female admirers, sober or otherwise. The marine noticed his lips moving, and armed with prior knowledge of both basic Drell language and mouth-reading, he translated a phrase that unwittingly caused him to blink: "Do my actions please you, siha?"

Shepard knew the term: it was one of rather intimate endearment. For one as deliberate and disconnected as Thane, he deduced the implications as he silently continued watching the pair. He fixed his gaze at the asari, predicting her general reaction based on what he had already known about the two. Rather than speaking, however, Samara decided to put her reply into actions and proceeded to reciprocate the drell's rather forward advances with her own body movements. An eyebrow raised on the Ex-Spectre's face as she closed what little gap remained of the couple's bodies, and began pressing herself onto her companion's scaly hide with such equal amounts of poise and desire that hinted at her lifestyle before submitting to the Code - a creed that seemed to grow that much more distant from the Matriarch's mind with each stroke of her thinly veiled skin on his - each caress of her probing hands.

The celebrations continue to bring my crew to new heights of irrationality. The stonefaced man closed his eyes and shook his head lightly. As much as he disliked showing his true thoughts through any form of body gesture, he decided that he couldn't help himself. This is really not what I had in mind at all. It wasn't that the marine was adverse to relaxing and letting go of long-held tension; that was both reasonable and healthy for the average impossible odds-beating, genocidal machine-busting Joe, on Cerberus' payroll or otherwise. What he couldn't seem to appreciate in such a carefree way was the manner in which his fellow defenders of the galaxy decided to go about "relaxing". How can people really enjoy themselves by dancing to loud music, drinking themselves to a stupor, and not giving a damn about being unaware of any external threats in their weakened state of vulnerability?

Alas, that was the root of John Shepard's problem. The hero of the Citadel, the victor of the Collector threat, the awardee of the highly vaunted Star of Terra, was a man forged on the belief that every situation provided a non-insignificant number of possibilities of danger. No matter the time, place or person, there was always some way one could let his guard down, only to be viciously attacked by some form of enemy, tangible or unseen. A human being, or any other being for that matter, is an imperfect creature that always struggles for its existence. Every loss of control is an invitation to your enemies. Every gesture can and will be used against you by opportunists. Every mistake in your life will destroy some part of you in some way. Slowly, the man who humanity and the rest of civilization put on his shoulders opened his eyes, feeling every single ounce of his burden weigh against him mercilessly, like a raptor patiently waiting for a sign of weakness to strike him down. He would not give it the opportunity. "Never again."

"Who're you ta-hic-lking to, Sh-Shepard?" The slurred voice of a nearby presence immediately brought the Commander to full awareness, snapping his head towards the direction of the speaker. It was Jack. "Ya know, I wuz pretty fu-hic-ckin' mad atcha when you tu-, turned down my offer t' sex you up down 'n my hide-a-way that wu, that wu, that one n-hic-ight. Aw crap." The barely clothed biotic in front of him half-covered her mouth as she let out a bellowing burp, and the heavy smell of alien-branded alcohol invaded the marine's senses in an unpleasant manner. He tilted his head to the side as the woman began laughing aloud, almost dropping the beverage that was in her other hand. "Goddamn - that felt goo-ood. Mm... So anyway, back ta wut I was say-hic-ing. Ya never left my mind af, after that night, ya know, and I just wantcha ta know that I'm still up fer givin' ya the galaxy's wildest, roughest fu-"

Jack was immediately assaulted from behind before she had the opportunity to finish that last remark, a tackle that the battle-hardened soldier noticed from the corner of his eye and sidestepped. Had he been unaware of the fact that no one aside from the Normandy crew and a few other handpicked individuals were present in the room, he would surely have pulled her to the side as well before proceeding to aggressively ascertain the identity and purpose of the tattooed woman's attacker. But he was no blindly impulsive fool; his suspicions on who the person was were shortly confirmed.

"Come back here, ya wild animal! I didn't tell ya that you could slip away from the galaxy's best hunter, now did I?"

"Oh, shut up Zaeed! Jus' cuz I'm wasted and yer horny duzzn't mean th' I'm let-hic-ting ya stick that pistol inta my holster."

"Who said anything about asking for anyone's damn permission? I got a boner harder than a diamond, and I'm looking to carve you from the inside out."

"...I luvvit when ya talk dirty."

As the second odd couple of the night forced themselves upon each other, falling down in their drunkenness in the heat of liquid passion, Shepard carefully walked away with the intent of finding a better location to keep his self-control in check when so many apparently allowed their own to drown in liquor. The room itself feels like it's losing the will to remain an innocent object of the world, what with the oppressive atmosphere. If I didn't know who or what was in charge of the controls, I would have to suspect EDI. The Commander nimbly slipped through the throngs of dancing or otherwise collapsing masses of flesh and bone, acutely aware of the hot, humid air threatening to choke him in the vapors of spirits and sweat. No matter what obstacle hindered the soldier and tempted to arouse him to aggravation, however, he would keep his composure. He wouldn't give anyone an opening, a weakness to leverage. His face hardened, and he lightly pushed an off-balance dancer back to her center of gravity, leaving an open cavity behind when the embarassed partygoer turned around to give her gratitude.

After a few moments of absently displaying small acts of kindness on his way to a new spot - catching a toppling glass in mid fall, temporarily paralyzing the arm of a wasted crewmember trying to be a little too forward to an Asari guest, slapping a crying Salarian into sobriety - the marine noticed a single chair seemingly pushed by the wayside, near a flight of steps that led to a fairly unpopulated plateau of floor space. He couldn't have asked for a better vantage point. Giving a small nod of approval, he grabbed the chair with a hand and ascended to the miniature mezzanine, placing it in its new, elevated position. He figured that sitting down was a better idea than aimlessly observing the crowds. It had taken him a while, but Shepard finally conceded defeat to reality: there was no system among the chaos of the party, no method behind the madness of the music. They danced, they drank, they touched and kissed and let go of themselves to feel better. "Perhaps I wasn't meant to understand."

That may have been an acurate statement, it may have even been true. That doesn't make it sting less whenever I think about it. The great Commander of the most advanced ship in the known galaxy had come to realize one painful weakness he simply could not overcome solely with the power of thought: loneliness. His mind was the one reason that he was still alive to this day, the most valuable asset that he took great lengths to exercise and hone to near perfection. He needed it more than anything. Apparently, even more then my life. There was no way the Lazarus Project could have succeeded had they not discovered the man's brain almost entirely intact, and some reports even mentioned how, when they began operating on him, they noticed almost imperceivable electrical signals firing in the organ before even touching it. Living a life where one had to account for every conceivable threat and learn how to counter it did indeed have its benefits... but how I prepared for death with the impossible odds of resurrection is another story.

Yes, his mind was how he remained alive, and also how he lived. His average day was a series of events, all planned out from the first waking minute to the last conscious hour, with every meticulously planned event analyzed for mistakes and adjusted in realtime to account for new variables, a shift of status quo, and even the discovery of unknown and otherwise unrelated events. I don't even want to get started how pissed off I was at Wrex when he practically threw that damn Thresher Maw at me. And he didn't even nearly get into a fight with his old friend because, well, because it was a Thresher Maw - it was because he felt his trust betrayed when the current head of the Urdnot Clan casually omitted that little fact with the full knowledge of how the marine prepared for battle. Like he was deliberately trying to mess with my foreplanning. In hindsight, he shouldn't have gotten as upset as he did about it, but more than he cared to admit was the fact that the well-meaning krogan was one of the few he had felt comfortable enough to trust, and to have that sort of intangible bond tested, even just a little and out of good faith, even when Wrex knew he could handle himself...

That is what sets me apart. That perspective in life is what blesses me and curses me at the same time. During wartime, when the objectives of the mission were clear, Shepard thrived. He was the Commander. He was the N7 marine that single-handedly defended a position that no one else thought could be held during an invasion no one else expected could be thwarted. He was the Spectre that brought down an indoctrinated rogue comrade. He was a hero of worlds, the hope of sentient life... But when there is no mission? When no enemies were visible, when they were indistinguishable from the innocent, and the innocent could so easily be wolves in sheep's clothing? Shepard upheld one rule, one which he would never break, no matter what the price was: I never get innocents involved. Ever. If he gave up that one principle in his life, he would be no better than Saren, or the Geth. As it stood, however, his mentality alienated him already. No one understands. No one appreciates their own ignorance, their lack of awareness. They wouldn't understand me, and it's only fair to say that I wouldn't understand others as well.

Shepard leaned forward from his seat, taking a deep breath. He thought of many things during the day. He would look at a room and pinpoint the areas of weakness, the potential spots useful in an espionage mission. And Thane was wrong; there were 15 weak points. He would glance at a person, analyzing his or her body language and tone of voice, judging in an instant what strengths and weaknesses that person had should he find himself in a fight with that being. He would speak to someone, absorbing all the information he could get while exuding a personality that his conversation partner desired, found calming. He memorized everything worth remembering, filing the traits of every person he had ever met in his mind, always ready to rely upon that knowledge at a moment's notice. Shepard lived and breathed survival for so long that he could live no other way. I guess it's a trade, to have to live a lie that others want to see me as - being a hero, being a savior, being an icon - in order to achieve the common good. To achieve the benefit of organic existence.

He looked upon the entire event from his new angle of observation. The crowds seemed to continue their lively intermingling, oblivious to the brooding of a single man. And why would they? They're happy, and I'm grateful. I've given them what they want; a friend's advice in times of trouble, a helping hand in times of doubt, a message of victory in times of darkness. By all rights, they deserve this celebration. And I get what I deserve, too. I should feel better about what I've done for them, what we've accomplished. But he knew it wasn't enough. For him, it still felt lacking. He wanted to scold himself. He was being selfish. I'm just one man. It doesn't matter what I want, especially if it interferes with the wellbeing of anyone else. Dammit, I'm just one man. The more he repeated this simple fact in his mind, the more Shepard felt the tugging of a longing he knew would never be sated pulling at his heart: he was still lonely.

A slight pressure on his shoulder almost caused the soldier to jump in his seat, wincing at the thought that he was caught unaware. Again. "Shepard," a filtered voice came from his side, and he looked at the cause of the pressure. What he saw was a gloved, three-fingered hand, a sight that brought some measure of comfort to him. "You shouldn't be up here. Alone. Why aren't you having fun with everyone else down on the dance floor?"

The Commander raised his gaze, absently following the slender fingers and hand of the fully-suited Quarian, tracing the markings along her arm sleeve, before locking his eyes onto the pair of shining circles that hid mere millimeters behind her head visor. Time to don another mask for the greater good. "Geez, Tali, you scared me," he replied in a deliberately apologetic tone, giving her a grin and a chuckle. "I could have sworn you just popped out of the wall; I never noticed you sneaking by."

Her reply was quick. "You're avoiding the question, Commander. What are you doing here?" Her voice had a quality Shepard never noticed in it before, and that meant that was the first time she had ever spoken to him in that way. His facade of innocent humor faltered slightly as he accounted for this new, unexpected variable. Her hand gave him a soft squeeze; he enjoyed the feeling. "A man like you shouldn't be wasting away up here. Alone."

"What can I say?" he smoothly said, raising a hand up at an angle he learned indicated casual indifference. "The music's pretty loud, the dancers have a tough time keeping their hands to themselves... Losing my senses in booze and women don't seem like my idea of having a good time." He flashed a warm smile at his companion. He wasn't lying to her, but his body language was; he disliked any form of obstructions to his self-control, a driving motivation behind his decision to become as tolerant as humanly possible to many mind-altering substances, not the least of which included alcohol of any race-brand, of any toxicity level. He made sure not to display anything other than feigned irritation, though. "But you're here now, so I guess I'm not alone anymore, huh?"

Tali gave a soft chuckle, but unlike those the soldier had previously heard from her. It was a deep, almost seductive rumbling of her diaphragm that vibrated through the hand on his shoulder and caused a physical reaction in him that he was unable to keep in check. He felt his cheeks slightly redden, and immediately willed the blood to return to their rightful places in dismay. Damn. "That's right. And I like it. That I'm the one keeping you company. Just me." She slid her hand further down his back, leaning into a sitting position, and it took all of the marine's willpower to keep every single "physical reaction" that suddenly decided to occur at the same time from replying to the body whose supple bottom just landed on one of his thighs. Crap. "Now we're alone, Shepard. Just me... and you. And here I am, resting on your body. What are you going to do, Commander...?"

To Be
Continued

Post-Body

By the way, I almost forgot. For all you writers out there, EDI as a character has recently been added to the Mass Effect Character Selection list, so if you're making any stories with her in it, by all means use it. And spread the word. Everyone's favorite AI (besides Legion) is selectable as a character!