# Popadanec in Jane. chapter 2

Аноним Темный_кот

A trip with Taylor to the server room.

Chapter 2. The good must be...

At the end of the century, he took and overthrew

An evil person is a kind person.

From a grenade launcher - slap him, asshole!

Therefore, good is stronger than evil!

(E. Lukin)


I remember the first hundred meters of the corridor for the rest of my life.

First, the chest. Not only did his size bounce with every step, but his nipples also rubbed against the fabric of his shirt, causing... causing... I didn't even want to think about what these butterflies fluttering all over my body and some kind of lingering languor in my lower abdomen meant. Damn, half a kingdom for a bra! Secondly, the center of gravity. He was clearly somewhere in the wrong place. My hips were literally doing figure eights, which made me feel like I was constantly skidding.

Creepy, in short! How women with all these volumes walk in a straight line is absolutely incomprehensible. Well, the cool air that ventilated all the places, too... did not add to the mood. But it all went away in an instant, as soon as I went down a level below. It's amazing how much a banal picture from an action movie helps you adapt when you realize that you're not a spectator, but a participant. Somehow, I immediately forgot about my chest, and the center of gravity returned to normal, and my gait gained lightness and elasticity.

Wow, they're all grown up here!

I scratched my head a little, dumbfounded, when I came across a barricade of office furniture, near which lay three corpses in the uniform of Cerberus personnel.

Well, I was worried that they didn't give me a gun, so you're wearing three. Picking up the weapon, he turned it over in his hands, examining it. If I remember correctly, this is our M-5 "Phalanx". It looks massive, but it's actually light, only three hundred grams. There must be an indicator on the shutter somewhere with the numbers "37/1".

Well... aiming at the nearest crate, he pulled the trigger. A soft pop - a hole in the drawer.

It's not a bad thing! The recoil is barely felt, it feels comfortable in your hand. Mechanically, he hit the shutter and the hot cylinder of the thermoclip flew out from the side. Oh, the body's motor memory is awake. It makes me happy.

Stop! What kind of memory?! In the first part of the game, the weapons were without thermal clips, they appeared when Shepard was already in a semi-disassembled state. And where did I get this reflex from, if I've never used thermoclips? Were you vaccinated in a dream? Well, it's unclear. Although ... rather, this is another arbitrariness of the igrodele, to frighten them. In two years, it is impossible to switch from weapons that do not require ammunition to those that require it in principle! It's like changing all the army logistics, training programs, instructions... damn, it's easier to recreate the army. Twenty years won't be enough here. And finally, who would switch? Endless ammunition is the dream of all military men. Natural cheating!

Okay, let's take it for granted that guns require charges and, judging by the memory of the body, they always have.

I looked at the indicator again, where the numbers had now changed to "36/12". Yeah, it's clear. The first is the total number of shots, the second is the resource of the thermoclips used.

He looked thoughtfully at the corpses, wondering what else he could get. Their clothes are covered in blood, so it's pointless to take them off. And in the current situation, such a jumpsuit is no more useful than my shirt, only I'll get blood on it. Footwear... Doubtfully, he turned his thirty-something foot around, squinted at the shoe covers of the smallest of the dead... Yeah, my hooves will dangle in them like a straw in a glass. Barefoot is better.

Okay, I'll collect the thermoclips and the charges for the gun, because there are never many cartridges - I still remember this from the game. There are always not enough of them, it's just that sometimes you can't carry more. The only question is: what's the difference? In the hem?

I imagined the sight for a second: Commander Shepard, with the hem pulled up... and without panties. No, of course, it would be an unrealistically devastating psychic attack, but... Alas, there are robots in the opponents here, they won't appreciate it. So it is better to postpone the use of non-conventional weapons. Before the worst of times. Damn, laughter is laughter, but you still have to take off someone's overalls for the sake of pockets. Sighing heavily, I crouched down next to the body of the smallest Cerberus, fumbling for the fasteners.


It was while I was doing this that I was caught by a black guy who fell out of the elevator.

"Shepard?" he asked, pointing the gun in all directions.

"Doesn't it look like it?" I grumbled, struggling with the contraption of magnetic lightning.

The guy squinted at my bare legs and carefully looked away.

"It looks similar."

Okay, I didn't get it. Did he recognize me by my legs? When did he learn them so much?

"Are you Taylor?" no, it's clear that there can be no other Negro with such a canonical face, but just in case, it's better to clarify.

"Yes, Jacob Taylor. Miranda sent me to meet you."

"It's clear. I am now."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm undressing the corpse."

"Why?!"

"And I'm a fucking necromancer," I panted, finally pulling off my damn clothes. "Ugh! I mean, a necrophiliac. I decided to celebrate my discharge from your institution with a little orgy."

He looked up at the Negro. Yeah, judging by his ashen face, the guy's sense of humor is really bad. Or... hey, hey, is Shepard such a renegade that you can expect anything from her?! Right up to... brrr. This issue should be clarified. To avoid, so to speak.

Straightening up and critically examining the prey, he sighed:

"I need some clothes, Taylor. Escaping by flashing your bare bottom is somehow not comme il faut."

"Ar-ar... mm..." The Cerberus soldier scratched his head. "Down the hall, in the laboratory, there are clothes for visitors to the "clean zone". True, it is disposable, but..."

Giving him a very malicious look in response: "Couldn't you tell right away, nigra lipped?! Can't you see that the lady is in a negligee?"- I was throwing the assembled thermal clips into the trophy clothes and, picking up the resulting knot, nodded majestically:

"Show me your dressing room."


With quiet joy, pulling on a snow-white jumpsuit made of thick paper-like material I found in the laboratory closet (how little a person needs, it turns out, is not blowing in all places from below, and that's happiness), I cautiously questioned Taylor about the current situation, so to speak:

"So I've been visiting you for two years?"

"Yes, Commander, you are presumed dead after the Normandy explosion. Yes, in fact it was. When you were brought here, you looked like a frozen piece of meat," he nodded.

And then he realized:

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it happens," I waved away absently. "And who was talking to me from the ceiling?"

"On speakerphone? Miranda Lawson. She heads the Lazarus Project."

"It's clear."

Well, so far, everything Taylor said fit into the canon: the station belongs to Cerberus, Miss Perfection runs everything here, this ebony oak is her main assistant, the Normandy was shot down by Collectors, and the team... As soon as I opened my mouth to clarify what had become of the Normandy's crew, an omny-tool bracelet screamed on Taylor's arm:

"Can anyone hear me?! Are there any living people here?! Answer me!"

"Wilson, this is Jacob," the Cerberus soldier rejoiced. "I found Shepard. We're in block D."

"Is Shepard alive?! What the..." this Wilson paused for a second, digesting such good news. "Well, it doesn't matter. Get out of there. The service tunnel "D-7", you will exit directly through it..."

While Taylor was talking, I was thinking feverishly. After all, according to the canon, Wilson is the very nit who made this whole mess. Yes, and here he clearly has a snout in the cannon right up to the tomatoes, he was so surprised that I was alive. He's going to send us into the tunnel, straight to the robots. Damn, what should I do?! I don't want to be ambushed somehow. On the other hand, this is the shortest way, there won't be many robots and everything is "Loki" type. That is, they are dumb and flimsy. And if we start wandering around the station, we may well run into the YMIR and the Arctic fox. You can kill this tank with a horseradish pistol, but he'll crush us with his machine gun in no time.

Noticing how Taylor, with the words: "Shepard, we're going here, let's go straight down into the tunnel, and..." - is heading for the door, I barked purely on reflex:

"Freeze, motherfucker!"

Wow, as I can, it turns out. It's nothing like a little voice. Team level.

I looked admiringly at Taylor, who was stretched out by my roar. A man gives a fight! He froze, hands at his sides, his eyes dashing and goofy. A live illustration of Peter's article, in short. It's immediately obvious that he wasn't lying about his years of service in the Alliance.

"Freely."

He froze, looking apprehensively. It even felt awkward. Okay, let's get this straight:

"Is this tunnel wide? I mean, will YMIR fit in there?"

Oh, I was thinking. Well done, he's growing on himself. He figured it out, nodding understandingly:

"No, it won't turn around there."

"Well, let's go then. Just be very careful."

***

"Your Masha, biowari! So that you can be there..." Swearing through my teeth, I ran on all fours behind some boxes. These robots are dumb, but they're accurate. And there are a lot of them here!

"Shepard, now!"

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Running again. Stick out your hand with a pistol without looking to shoot off the thermoclip, attracting the attention of the piece of iron to yourself. Wait for the bullets to hit the shelter....

"Taylor, let's go!"

Ugh, we got out. Jam the door and you can catch your breath. Well, Wilson, you're a stunted dog, I'll get you.... Wait, but if you follow the canon, you'll get caught. "Canon, let there be a canon in this!" I pleaded.

Taylor, breathing heavily next to him, began to torment the omny-tool:

"Wilson, where are you?"

"Server room, block "B"! Hurry up! They are uncontrollable! Help me!"

Look how he screams, he's scared, the bastard. Hmm... "uncontrollable"? Did he expect to exclude himself from the list of targets of the hacked system, an unfinished hacker? Okay, we'll figure it out later.

Damn, what a shortcut! It seems like we've been running around this base for half a day now. But now I understand what billions were spent on - it's necessary, for the resurrection of one person, such crap was cut off. Oh, another door.

The guy sitting behind the box waved at us:

"Jacob, Shepard, over here!"

"Wilson?" Taylor rushed to him. "How did you get here?!"

"I was trying to regain control of the defense systems. But everything is destroyed there, and there are a lot of robots. Those bastards shot me in the leg!"

"There are piles of robots everywhere," I chuckled, examining the bastard of local importance. He's an unpleasant guy, bald, dead, and he looks like that...

"Okay, we need to get out of here," Taylor gave out a fresh thought, digging into the omny-tool again. "Two crossings, and we're at the docks."

"I can not. My leg," Wilson groaned. "Shepard, please help me, at last."

Can I help you? For you? With pleasure! I raised my pistol and shot him in the forehead.

"Shepard, what the hell?!" Taylor howled.

"I don't need a violinist," I snorted, looking at Taylor with obvious surprise. "And what? He asked for it. To help. To put her out of her misery."

"But... he's... a "panacelin"... a first-aid kit..."

I'll have to explain anyway. Otherwise, he'll decide that I have a problem with my head and shoot me in the back. Well, I mean, yes, I'm not very smart, of course, but... That's no reason to shoot at me, who is so beautiful. Taylor, tell me, was this freak," I lightly kicked Wilson's corpse, "by any chance in high nobility, or was there... in readiness to lay down his stomach for others, was he not noticed during his lifetime?"

"No," the Cerberus shook his head, still looking at me dumbfounded. "An ordinary egghead. On your own mind.

"Yeah. And so, this one is ordinary," I drew quotation marks in the air, "risking his life, breaks into the server room to save everyone? By the way, you didn't expect to see him here. And how surprised he was when he heard that I was alive.... And the robots in the tunnel, where did he send us? And anyway," I bent down and picked up Wilson's pistol, "they shoot wounded horses."

Well, it seems that my performance was only a partial success. That is, Taylor thought about it, but he is now convinced of my complete renegade behavior. Well, to hell with it, by and large.

"Speaking of panacelin, where's your first-aid kit?"

"Eh?" the Cerberus soldier emerged from his heavy thoughts. "Over there, on the wall."

Following the wave of my hand, I went to the red box and opened it. So... here it is, dear - red cylinders with the inscription "Panacelin" and the instructions printed directly on them: press them to the skin, press the button. Briefly and clearly. We will act according to the instructions.

He put it through a gap in his clothes to his leg, pressed a slightly protruding button...

Oh-oh! Bli-in! Yes, comrades, I would put up a monument to the one who invented this miracle, honestly! Just a couple of seconds after application, a cool wave ran through the body, carrying away the headache and nausea, and the abrasions were covered with a dried crust. Definitely a thing!

Feeling, if not reborn, then at least pretty hungover, I took out all the "panacelin" from the first-aid kit and stuffed it into my pockets, turned to Taylor:

Well, are we moving out?