# Popadanec in Jane. chapter 4

Аноним Темный_кот

Shepard falls into the hands of the medics at the Cerberus station. Reflections on future showdowns with the Reapers.

Chapter 4. To live a life is not to cross a field

When a patient wants to live, medicine is powerless.

(medical wisdom)


I thought that upon arrival at the station, they would immediately send me to communicate with the Ghost, but that was not the case. Already at the dock, we were greeted by an impatient crowd in white overalls, who pulled me out of the shuttle and, howling joyfully, literally carried me in their arms to the medical bay. And that's where it started...

The fact that they took away my heroic combat jacket, giving me a light green hoodie instead, scary as my current life, is still half the trouble, but then... They pumped out a liter of blood, marinated it in a diagnostician's capsule for more than an hour, and the whole crowd danced around, clucking something in their medical language.

In the end, when one of these heirs of Dr. Mengele began to get close to me, somehow looking badly in the direction of the unit that looked like a gynecological chair, I just went berserk and, pulling out a half-meter piece of metal from a piece of shit that came to hand, I began to wave it away from perverts in white coats, promising the first one who touches me, perform a lobotomy rectally.

The devil knows what would have happened if Miranda hadn't appeared and taken my exhausted carcass away from the fanatics.

After escaping from captivity, I looked back at the glass in the wall of the medical bay, behind which the crowd, hungry for my body, was whimpering and scratching with mad eyes over surgical masks, and I shivered nervously.

"Listen, Lawson, where did you get these medical scumbags?!"

"You're exaggerating, Shepard, these somewhat enthusiastic scientists..." The hellhound was boring in a mentoring tone.

"They almost took me apart for spare parts!" I howled.

"Calm down," Lawson continued, unimpressed by my yell. "We had to make sure you were okay. Due to problems at the Lazar station, some procedures were not completed."

I mechanically rubbed my left cheek, which was crossed by poorly healed scars. At least they don't glow red, like in the canon.

"And how? Will I live?"

"The full results of the examination will be ready only tomorrow."

"Then give me a bed, underpants, and a gun today. First of all, the gun, you can live without the rest here."

Lawson pointedly rolled her eyes.

"Why do you need a gun, Shepard?"

"I'll put it under my pillow. I sleep better this way."

***

Having received part of what was required, - they still did not give me a gun, with guard dogs, - I'm finally alone after this whole crazy day.

However, I was never given a royal mansion - a small, six-by-six room decorated with light gray plastic, a similar plastic table in one corner, a narrow bed in the other, a door leading to a tiny bathroom and a hefty half-wall mirror.

Well, I hope I'm not going to be here long, because it looks too much like a ward for the mentally ill.

I threw the tracksuit and T-shirt I'd been given onto the bed, and the first thing I did was empty a small bag, pulling out my underwear.

So, what do we have here? Underpants. I mean, damn, the panties are white. Well, at least not thongs, but quite normal shorts. And here? Topic. And also not erotically transparent, but normal, dense. My mood improved a little. We definitely live.

I was about to grab the ties of my hoodie when I froze for a second, then looked up at the ceiling. The fact that there is video surveillance here means don't go to a fortune teller. So if I start changing clothes right now, some guy will admire my striptease? Hmm, do I care? I listened to myself. Actually, no, but... he turned the laundry over in his hands, looked around once more, shrugged his shoulders. Fuck you, perverted dogs, admire.

Quickly getting rid of the light green cloth, he pulled on shorts, struggled with a tank top (it turns out that this stuff is much more tricky to put on than an ordinary T-shirt) and went to the mirror. Well, I need to at least find out how I look today.

A short young woman, about twenty-five years old, was reflected in the mirror. It's strange, like Shepard turned thirty-six now, but she looks... Oh, yes, there are an average of a hundred-something living here, so it's okay, I look like my own. His body was a little thin, of course, and two years on the lab table had definitely not improved his health, but on the whole, it was very, very good. The waist is thin, the chest is high, and the proportions are good, the tummy is flat, without stupid cubes. My hips, however, could have been bulkier, but that's okay, if I get out of here, I'll take it off. The face... wasn't exactly ugly, but it wasn't beautiful either. Average, in general. Sharply defined cheekbones, a regular lip line, a neat nose, eyes... strange. They seem to be black, but at the same time they give the impression that they are cast in red. It looks a little scary. And the left cheek, disfigured by cracks of scars, also does not add charm. And finally, the hairstyle is also strange - straight blue-black hair, shaved right temple, and shoulder-length mane on the left and back. There's something to it, though. If you flip the strands like that, they completely cover the cheek, and the scars are almost invisible.

Turning automatically in front of the mirror, I found an orange diamond of the Cerberus emblem on the right side of my underpants and almost laughed. Damn, Cerberus men are such Cerberus men.

Having already calmly finished dressing, he blissfully collapsed on the bed.

Since I've been left alone for a while, I'll do the self-reflection and reflection that is obligatory for a Russian person.

So, how are we feeling?... I listened to myself. Strangely, there is no fear. I understand with my mind that this is not a game and there are no saves, but it's all the same. I remembered how I tore off a combat jacket from a fresh corpse and only winced that it was stained with blood, as I crawled under bullets... Damn! I killed a man! Just like that, I took him in the forehead... I have to... Well, I don't know... they say they're generally throwing up on this case.

I tried to remember in detail: I walk up, raise the gun, pull the trigger.... Well, of the sensations, only a malicious satisfaction - it serves him right, The fre-ak.

Sitting up in bed, he automatically wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them.

Op-pa, my body is freaking out again. It's not my position, I've never sat like this. And in general, it is uncharacteristic for men. I got ready, stretched out to my full height, but... damn, it's kind of cozy, but... yeah! He threw a blanket over himself, wrapped himself up, fidgeted, getting comfortable... First, it's fine.

So, what was I thinking about... Oh, yes, about reflexes. They're not mine. I think about it a little bit, and the body behaves completely strangely. On the one hand, it's even good - and there's less chance of getting burned, and men's reflexes in a woman's body... can be embarrassing. But on the other hand, it's kind of scary- fuck knows what kind of habits I inherited. Well, becoming a woman is also kind of... damn, "becoming", you might think, Zheka, you have a choice.

I got under the covers, pulled back the collar of my T-shirt, admired the two indisputable proofs that "there is no other alternative," sighed, we remove the question as irrelevant.

Let's move on. The eternal "What to do?" and "Who's to blame?" Well, it's useless to look for the guilty. Although, of course, you can try. Some popadans do. And they even beat the guilty ones in the face.

For a couple of seconds, I was lost in sweet dreams - how I find the bastard who threw me such a dirty trick, and I dig my nails into his face. He sighed sadly: oh, dreams, dreams.

Okay, the second question is, "What should I do?" In about a year, the Reaper invasion will begin here and everyone will get very bored. And for me, first of all. Because if everything goes according to the canon, then I, Commander Shepard, will be a sharpener in every kidney here. Do I want to do this? No, I don't want to. But you have to. Because, firstly, they won't leave us alone, and secondly, explaining to the Reapers that we ourselves are not locals and were passing by at all is obviously useless.

Unless... Hmm, maybe we should go somewhere to a very underdeveloped planet and sit it out?

I turned this idea over in my head: to live in a cave, hoeing a patch of corn all day so that there would be something to eat... And so on for the rest of my life. I shuddered at the prospect - no, we don't need that kind of hockey.

Total: you'll have to wallow, and then you'll get out like a curve. However, if everything goes according to the canon, then I have a couple of years left to live, and then the conversation with the Catalyst and the epic arctic fox in three versions. Well, yes.

Although, what kind of arctic fox is there, as they say, you live first.

And then the problems begin with "living out", because I know a little less about the everyday side of this world than not at all. I sighed miserably again - I was in full growth.

Okay, let's turn to folk wisdom. What does a hitman do when he doesn't understand shit? That's right, he goes behind the nearest bush and...

Speaking of bushes. Once I remembered, I immediately wanted to visit a local institution on a small matter.

He got out of the blanket, muttering:

"But there are no warm toilets in caves, so whatever they are, underdeveloped planets."

He went into the tiny bathroom, pulled down his underpants and sat on the toilet.

So, what am I talking about... oh, yes, it means that a hitman goes behind the bushes and sees... I automatically looked up and froze, slowly blushing.

Holy shit! What kind of bastard thought to install a full-length mirror right in front of the toilet?! Designers suck, damn it! You just need to design toilets!

The first thought is to jump up and pull on your underpants; the second is damn, it's late, that's early; the third is to close your eyes and think about England. Trying not to look in the mirror, he quickly finished his business, rinsed his burning face with cold water and stormed out of the toilet.

Already wrapped up in a blanket as usual and pulling my knees to my chest, I thought gloomily - but again the reflexes of this body, in a previous life I did this standing up. Well, "Stirlitz has never been so close to failure."

That's enough sad stuff, let's think about much sadder things. Where were we?... Yeah, a normal person walks behind a bush and finds Master Yoda, a kind wizard, or an elven princess with a supercomputer, who quickly teaches him all the local wisdom. Like... what kind of hand is used to pick your nose here, how much does a ticket to a strip show cost, and how to do a "koo" in front of the Emperor. But since I'm some kind of unlucky hitman, I don't have such useful bushes. Instead, there's a damn toilet with a full-length rearview mirror. This is one of the disadvantages.

On the plus side, I know the main events of this world and the general characteristics of the key characters. Which, in itself, is a huge bonus. However, considering that they didn't really believe my original either... All that remains is to call yourself Cassandra and perform in the squares. The result will be the same, that is, none.

Hence the conclusion: it's no good waiting for favors from nature, you have to make a fuss yourself. I need someone to help me acclimatize and believe in my after-knowledge. That's what makes us dance.

Hmm, let's see who can help.

The Citadel Council is either the local UN or NATO. Disappears immediately. These ostriches mu-mu stuck their heads in the sand and commanded us to consider the "Soverein" a superget. Like, yes, there was one, we don't deny it, but it self-destructed. That's all. We don't know anything else and we don't want to know, go ahead, Commander Shepard, get out, finish off the Geth, since you're sick in one place.

The Alliance of Systems is a native, damn, humanity. The same balls, only in profile: we don't know and we don't want to.

Besides, there are some political squabbles and the leadership is more concerned about how to get into the galaxy without soap. These people don't need Shepard at all. When the Normandy was shot down, they quickly disbanded the crew, scattering the survivors to different ships and garrisons. And with that, Shepard was safely beaten.

"Cerberus." More precisely, its head is a Ghost. These people need Shepard. They not only believe in the Reapers, but they are also ready to act. They can help, and they have plenty of resources and opportunities. Everything seems to be wonderful, but ... the Ghost is a rare racist and a complete fanatic, ready to do anything for the sake of the triumph of the human race. And really for everything. Experiments on humans, for which someone was hanged by the neck in my time at Nuremberg (it's a pity that it wasn't by the balls), are generally a small thing for him. Besides, this maniac is convinced that the Reapers can be controlled. It's his idea, it's just a fix. And this idea will lead him to a bad one. More precisely, a very bad one: Cerberus will turn into a kind of Collector - puppets of the Reapers. Can this be avoided? Who the hell knows. I just don't have any real ways to influence a Ghost. Even if I tell him everything and he believes in my infidelity, then... I will spend the rest of my short life communicating with a dozen vivisectors in a very closed laboratory.

No, I don't give a damn about such impressions. My nature is now feminine, and therefore fragile and vulnerable.

Well, it turns out that none of the big guys will help me. In general, welcome to the real world, kid, where the rescue of drowning people is the work of the drowning themselves. Well, there is such a command in the navy: "Save according to your ability!" - that is, everyone is saved to the best of their abilities and abilities. So we'll do it.