PATCHWORK GIRL

THREE HEADED DOG
[ PART THREE, ATROPOS ]
The Illusive Man's Story

When Shepard requires a tattoo artist for multiple sessions, Jack finds herself stitching together the commander's unspoken history.

The pieces were placed in perfect harmony, salt and pepper pawns checkering the board. Jack liked chess, in much the same way he enjoyed aged whiskey and natural tobacco. When he was a young man, chess dominated his free time at the refugee camp. At first, he muled drugs - molding or shaping large rocks of 'produce' into simple pieces, easily smuggling narcotics across North America. He owed a great deal to chess, and suspected no one appreciated that game half as much as he. No one except for Foucault.

The Shepard-doll sat across from him, uncanny eyes fixed on the subject in front of her space. Upon inspecting the robot's optics closely, Jack could faintly see the iridescent reflection of his hologram as it appeared in the Normandy's meeting room (a testament to the gynoid's precise design). He liked to play slowly, fishing for emotional responses from the mysterious soldier. Shepard spoke sparingly, a 'yes' here, a 'no' there, a 'go fuck yourself in the eye' peppered in-between the yes's and the no's.

"Are you going to move?" Foucault inquired dully. She jut her jaw, licked a tooth and flashed a giant pearly grin.

That's... different. Jack sniffed. He lit a cigarette and sipped the smoke between his knuckles. "Should I?"

Foucault frowned and slumped in her seat. "If you ain't playing, then why are we playing?"

"I'll play," Harper hummed, warm smoke embracing his throat and chest. "In my own time."

Shepard frowned and then she pouted. It was childish, really, the way she crossed her arms and jut her lip out. She's actually throwing a tantrum… Foucault's forged behavior urged him to frown, "You are trying to manipulate me."

The gynoid's posture stiffened following Jack's accusation. Her optics narrowed suspiciously then relaxed. The remarkably life-like synthetic skin appeared less organic when paired with Foucault's impassive silence. She ground her jaw and puffed her cheeks, the blue ink expanding and deflating across the proxy's face. "No. You are trying to manipulate me. You've had 48 hours to figure out your move. 48 hours."

"Forgive me if the Normandy's immediate secession from Cerberus kept me occupied," the Illusive Man replied gently.

Foucault shrugged, "You say secede, I say broke out of its fucking cage. Don't tell me you actually believed you'd be able to keep her under lock and key…" The gynoid's optics drifted from the checkered table, stare locked upon him. She stifled a laugh and snorted. It was a genuinely candid moment quickly gorged by Shepard's arrogance. "You did, you really did… you actually thought you could keep my wings clipped. Oh, uberdick - you really miscalculated this time, huh?"

She crossed her arms under her breasts and slacked backwards, rocking back and forth steadily on her chair, chilly grey eyes searing holes through the Illusive Man's costume and Jack Harper's confidence. Shepard was a dangerous creature. He was a human male, once her predominate prey. Hesitation, frustration, even the dilation of his mechanical pupils would be noted by her. She couldn't help it. History coupled with neurogenetic mutations designed Foucault as the perfect hunter of all thinking creatures - including reapers and especially adult men.

Some say the sociopath was the product of rape between a slave and a trafficker. The proof of the rumored origin story was shaky at best and overshadowed by a well documented case where, at some point in the late stages of puberty, Foucault killed men far larger than her and did so with alarming frequency. The Japanese called her Nohime (Lady Noh) - a serial killer who slaughtered influential gentlemen. The nickname spawned after security footage revealed the woman wearing a traditional Noh mask as she killed and carved ravens in flight across the first victim's flesh using a pin knife.

The yakuza, however, knew her by Sasha Leng. A born slave and trained assassin. A gift from the Triple Triad. A gift that had turned into an insult.

"Play your fucking move," Foucault grunted. The prototype squinted its eyes at him, big grey disks that emulated the shocking chromes of Shepard's optics. She was remarkably beautiful, her pale features enhanced by Vakarian's tattoos. She looked nothing like the Butcher of Torfan. Her features, skin, hair, eyes… everything was wrong. The Commander of the Normandy SR-1 was tall, lean and sinewy. Her breasts were small, her hair was black and scar tissue flushed visible bronze skin. Shepard's original body had suffered immensely. Her naked body was a patchwork of broken and burnt skin covered with permanent ink and holes where piercings once were. In the early stages of Project Lazarus, Miranda first re-constructed an artificial simulation of Shepard's physical features. The unfamiliar face spawned the first of many difficult questions. Namely: Who is Shepard?

I'm a soldier Shepard replied when Jack first to asked. D'uh.

Jack frowned. He exchanged his cigarette for a stick of cannabis. It soothed his nerves and relaxed his thinking; It also aided as a sort of mask, temporarily dulling the communications across his nervous system; Shepard had a harder time reading him after he consumed some quantities of THC. He licked his lips and smelled it, the sweet tones of citrus and sugar. He lit the tip and sipped on the marijuana cigarillo, tasting it more than inhaling, and only exhaling on rare occasion. It was a select product from his own private reserve - descendants of the very same marijuana plants he once smuggled between camps as a boy.

"You aren't obligated to finish this game, so why do you keep playing?" The Illusive Man inquired.

She was still, a chin draped across her hand. He enjoyed watching her think. Her eyes relaxed and her lips naturally bowed into a resting smile. Sometimes Shepard whispered conversations to herself.

The Illusive Man sniffed, index finger idly circling one of his Queen's pawns. The ivory felt soft under his nail. He spoke, idly picking at the piece. "Curiosity. Humanity's great awakening and weakness. It is what drives us and it is what kills us."

Shepard frowned.

The Illusive Man nodded, whips of smoke haloing his silhouette. "I want to know how this ends as well."

"It will end my way," Shepard blurted. He lifted his brows and pinched the edge of his cannabis cigarillo, disposing the remaining paper in an ashtray. He admired her tenacity, although he often disagreed with her convictions. Rather than point out the obvious dispute to that claim (namely his successful acquisition of the proto-human reaper), Jack elegantly crossed one leg across the other and watched Foucault as she 'watched' him. Her beauty was striking. Not but an hour ago, Shepard sprinted through the Milky Way's core. But you couldn't tell just by looking at her. No blood, no bandage. Just those blue tattoos.

Oh Miranda, you were right. He lamented. She is dangerous.

Dangerous or not, Shepard's aversion to losing proved to be an excellent muzzle.

"Did everyone survive?" Harper asked.

"No. No that's not how this fucking works, Jack." Shepard growled, cutting the air with her arm. The movement was very uncanny, graceless and mechanical. He tapped his fingers, signaling a problem with the gynoid's function. There could be nothing short of perfection with an infiltration unit - one slight mistake and the house of cards would come crashing down. The reapers would see to it that life would once more be subjugated to an ancient, humiliating cycle of stagnation. Or it would all start anew, were it up to Shepard.

"Of course that's how it works," he gently reminded her.

Shepard frowned. She was thinking again… "Liar," the woman quickly concluded.

Jack tapped his finger across the antique chess piece, admiring the cracks and fissures across the aging horn. "You know, I've been told you have a beautiful singing voice."

Her expression remained utterly impassive, hands supporting her lower jaw. She was in all black except her face, a pale cream oval divided horizontally by bright cobalt blue paint and framed by brown hair. Her eyes focused on nothing. Jack could tell that Shepard was already receding into her mental space, detaching herself emotionally in order to deflect his opening attack during the delicate dance of power between them.

Her shrug confirmed he was moving in the right direction.

"I'm willing to finish this game right here, now before my next appointment," He sniffed.

The tip of Foucault's tongue touched her front teeth. She's thinking…

"Bullshit. What do you want?" Shepard snapped.

The Illusive Man fanned his fingers across his chin and stroked his jaw. His gaze fell upon the game board, focus jumping from piece to piece across the checkered field. Shepard offered her knight as a sacrifice. It was easy bait. Shepard's autism may not have stripped her of independence but it also didn't help her obsessive behavior. Jack knew Shepard, and she loathed stalled games.

"You only have to sing a song for me and I'll move," Jack answered nonchalantly. "And before you start bleating 'Mary had a little lamb', I have a condition..."

"You choose the song," Shepard seethed.

She's taking the bait… "I choose the song," Jack confirmed. He narrowed his eyes and leaned back in the silence that stretched between them. His wrist watch chimed, encouraging a smug smile. "My next appointment is in ten minutes, Shepard."

"What exactly did you want me to fucking sing, assface?"

"'The Parting Glass'."

Shepard's bright grey eyes widened and her jaw tensed. The robot shuddered. She stared at him with wide-eyed bewilderment, startled by his request. He worked hard to chip cracks into the thick icy walls locked around her heart, so the reaction satisfied him. "How do you know about that…?"

The Illusive Man smiled as he stood up. He walked in a great arc towards the liquor cabinet. Jack wanted something smooth and clear, something to reward the moment. Perhaps a vesper. "You have every right to know how I picked up that tidbit." He scratched his nose and noisily gathered the various liquor supplies required for the just dessert. "The Normandy recovery team managed to uncover several personal logs from the dead ship's crew. Not everyone on your ship wrote daily, but there were a disproportionate amount of entries ship-wide about Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams's death, more specifically, the hour she died."

Jack poured three measures of gin, one of vodka, and half a measure of Kina Lillet into a chilled chrome container covered in ice. He began to stir it, cubes swirling and bouncing around a wand whirling around the elixir. He dipped a pinky into the drink and tasted it, satisfied. It was very strong, very cold and very well-made. Jack plucked a lone lemon at the bar, flipped open a sharp pen knife and gingerly flayed the lemon's rind. He sliced a thin strip of yellow peel, leaving it aside to strain the ice-cold nectar into a deep goblet, gingerly garnishing the chalice with the lemon peel.

He heard a slow intake of air behind him before perfect pitch embraced his office.

"Oh all the money that e'er I spent… I spent it in good company."

Jack promptly lost his appetite for alcohol.

"And all the harm that e'er I've done, Alas, it was to none but me."

The alarming intonation resonated with heartbreak and grief, a bizarre combination channelled by a clear voice and reconstructed vocal chords. The juncture no longer felt victorious, nor did it surprise him. But for some reason a sinking fear submerged from the core of his body and wrapped itself around him as her voice pierced the room's interior.

"And all I've done for want of wit. To memory now I can't recall."

He peered past his shoulder and watched her sing. The robot's calm countenance hinted nothing reflecting the melancholic melody. Shepard secured eerie serenity across her countenance; In contrast, her soul whimpered.

"So fill to me the parting glass. Good night and joy be with you all."

Jack remained speechless, prompting Shepard to pause. No. I have to see this through… He turned to her full attention and gestured for her to continue. The gynoid's nostrils flared and her ribcage expanded. Her eyes stayed on him, and his on hers.

"Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had… Are sorry for my going away…"

Shepard's serene stillness signified the strength of her song. The static hinted at the SR-1's unified experience. To imagine what it felt like, listening to that lullaby lulling you to your death...

"And all the sweethearts that e'er I've loved… Would wish me one more day to stay…"

And as she lay dying, she asked you to sing with her. You refused. Then she started to sing. And your voices met on the radio.

"But since it falls unto my lot. That I should rise and you should not…"

Everyone listened. Everyone.

"…I'll gently rise and I'll softly call. Good night and joy be with you all."

Jack Harper understood human fragility and loathed it all the same. He did not like being reminded of his own body's natural failings, nor did he enjoy confronting the faults and defects of possessing an organic nature, such as rotting and dying. The song was a declaration of unity for this struggle. We live and we die but boy, how have we lived - it said.

"Tell me, Shepard. Did you have to sing again before this meeting?"

The question pierced her. The robot's optics quivered. Synthetic tears cut streams flush across blanched cheeks. It was a bizarre experience, puncturing the barricade dividing the woman from her humanity. Her quiet lament verified his unpleasant victory.

The gynoid stood up from her chair. adjusted her clothes in a very no-nonsense fashion (A hand definitely went under her vest so she could shift her left breast's place, though the act was less erotic and more matter-of-fact). She hopped back into the chair, and draped one leg across the other. The chair the gynoid was sitting upon sank as the robot lifted both feet from the polished ground, crossing a leg over the other. "Your curiosity hurts people," Foucault reminded him. She did that a lot.

Jack steepled his fingers and chose not to answer her. She was right. His curiosity did have a penchant for hurting people… but so did hers. He reached across the board and pinned Shepard's knight to his king, giving that king a square on d8.

Like clockwork, Shepard moved. For eight minutes they played in a flurry, each player already familiar with opening books. Despite his best, Foucault still bested him.

There were no words between them as she parted. No goodbyes or warm reminders. Shepard just stopped being there. Soft brown hair hardened, blue ink receded and pale flesh converted to chrome. Pulling out a handkerchief, the Illusive Man leaned across the table and blotted the silk across the unit's cheeks.

There was no consoling a doll, but the action still comforted him.

'Sir. The proto-reaper will be docking shortly.'

Jack sighed, running one thumb across the shell's soft, synthetic skin. He knew he was right. It was an unpleasant victory, but a victory nonetheless. Reluctantly, he removed himself from the arrangement, slowly strolling forward, towards the dying star that washed the glass room in spectrums of warm and cool colors.

"Goodnight and joy be with you too, Shepard," He whispered into space.

Author's Note:::

I know. It's been a long while - but that's what happens when you have a demanding career. Regardless of how long I take, I will always keep writing away. This story remains unfinished - so I will keep plugging away at it because I promised myself that I would wrap this baby up.

Next is a Legion story. 3