Темный_кот. Popadanec in Jane

Chapter 1. Good morning, Shepard

There is no such thing as a good morning!

("Russian Radio")*

"Shepard! Shepard, can you hear me?!"

"Eh? What? Who! Which one?!" I fumbled in the sheets, fidgeting on the bed, rubbing my eyes. My head was buzzing. No, it wasn't like that - IT WAS BUZZING! Oh, shit, it's been a long time since I've been so fucked up. But we didn't drink much. It seems. And I got home fine. It seems to be.

With difficulty opening his eyes, he sat up on the bed, looking around. Oops, and... er... where am I?! And what the fuck...

"Shepard! Shepard, can you hear me?!" A woman's voice continued to crackle over the speakerphone.

"Uh-huh, we hear you, Kaa" I muttered automatically, looking around with increasing horror and beginning to suspect something was wrong. A female voice, whining "Shepard," something between a hospital room and a laboratory, barely audible through the walls are the sounds of gunfire and explosions... And-and-bingo! Congratulations, you win the super prize - you're in!

"Fuck you, bioware" I hissed and froze. There was some kind of voice... some kind... strange. Incredulously, still hoping it was some kind of mistake, he put his hand on his chest...

Lawson was mumbling something about an attack on the station, that something had to be done there. But I wasn't listening to all this. Howling, I ran around the ward in a panic, bumping into furniture and knocking down racks of equipment. There was only one thought burning in his brain:

I'm Shepard, I'm Shepard... I'm fuck bioware JANE Shepard!!!

In the end, once again running past some kind of glowing thing, I tripped over the cable stretching to it and very sensitively hit my forehead against the cabinet. My head rang, my legs buckled, and I barely managed to lean against the wall before I slid down it to the floor.

That's a hit.

Oddly enough, getting to know the closet was good for me. Although the impact made his head buzz like a beer canister in the morning, he regained his ability to think.

Calm down, Zhenya, just calm down. It's a mundane matter. Big deal, Shepard. Well, Jane Shepard. That's bullshit. How many books have you read about popadans?.. Why, I "read" it, I even tried to scribble something like that myself. So that... Well, those... those... bad inhumans were wrong to put you here. They're out there (wherever that "out there" is), maybe even asexual. They're like Jane or Zhenya. Nerussi, fuck, what do you want from them? And anyway, it could have been worse, because there are intelligent jellyfish here. He'd be waving his tentacles now. So look for the bright side in life.

"Shepard? Shepard?" There was already outright panic in Lawson's voice.

"Look, he's straining," I thought lazily, listening. But, in general, it can be understood. The hope of the entire galaxy, the result of two years of hard work and four billion credits, is the great and indomitable Commander Shepard... Howling like a madwoman, she rushes around the ward. You're going to get nervous here.

"Shepard, can you hear me?!"

Ugh, damn it! She's not going to let up.

"I can hear you, I can hear you," I waved my hand listlessly.

"Finally!" The relief in Lawson's voice could have been bottled and sold like a laxative. Under the motto: "The result from the first drop!"

"Listen to me carefully, Shepard!" She spoke quickly. "The station has been attacked, you need to get out to the shuttles. Be careful! The security systems have been hacked, and now they are attacking the staff. I will send Operative Taylor to you, he will meet you on the level below. Now, go straight down the corridor, then take the elevator down and..."

Her voice was drowned out by static.

"No one attacked your precious station." I grumbled to myself as I stood up. "The staff should be carefully selected, and not shaken by boobs."

He stood up, swaying slightly and holding on to the wall, looked around for a cabinet with armor and weapons. So, according to the canon, it should be somewhere... somewhere... Yeah, right now. No, of course, I understand that in reality no one will put a gun safe in a hospital room, but... what should I do now?! I only have a size three chest for weapons, and a drawstring shirt for protection.

Oh! Or maybe I'm a biotic? And everyone's here right now with one magic, like a blotter! Come on...

He closed his eyes, concentrated... "Feel the power in yourself, Luke."

He stood for a minute, listening to his body... Yeah, "right now" for the second time. Nausea is there, headache is there, super strength... is not there. Here's an ambush.

"You're not right, Zheka," an inner voice reproached me. "All normal popadans have magic dripping, pianos under every bush, secret knowledge of the struggle of Nanai boys and a harem of light elves in any village, but you... have no cowards."

"Shut up, woman," I snapped weakly, because I had nothing to hide. Cowards are really dumb.

I looked around once more in search of something useful: a bed, several cabinets with either reagents or just dishes, racks with some kind of equipment, a couple of chairs... and that's it. Well, then there's nothing to do here, we have to get out. They haven't really come for me yet. For some reason, I want to live. Even here. Even in this body. And anyway, we'll always make it under the lying stone. Having made this conclusion, I went to the door and resolutely poked at the hologram of the lock.

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?

Chapter 3. Miniboss

And when it's easy and simple

I go out to the intersection,

One hundred buses in a row

They stand motionless,

And the cars are honking - a salute to beauty,

Lady, what's your name?

(Mary Poppins - "Lady Perfection")

"Miranda!" Taylor yelled.

"Is that Lawson?" I asked curiously.

You don't have to ask, though. Well, who else can wander around in a latex glove on a naked body.

Looking at the supermodel-like girl in a skin-tight jumpsuit approaching us, I whistled softly. Yes-aa... There's a lot to see here. No, Semenovich has more, of course, but... not much, no. Besides, that one has the quantity, and here... it's eating at my foot, the QUALITY! And another one.

I wonder how she puts on that suit of hers? Does she lather up every time? Or... slo-wly smears himself with oil, then slo-wly, moving his hips and arching, pulls on this latex... And all this to the music... swallowing, I glanced down purely mechanically to check if some part of my body was giving away my thoughts. I looked at the chest, remembered that the detail was so-and-so... and almost howled. Damn, what a mess, huh?! Mother, mother, mother! Eh... so, calm down, Zheka, calm down. It could have been worse. Think about the Hanars. Did you remember? Imagined it? Did you get into it? He-re. So put your face in neutral and welcome Miss Perfection.

"Shepard, Jacob," Lawson came over and nodded slightly, acknowledging our existence.

I just shook my head: what an upbringing - she single-handedly made her way through half of a station literally teeming with robots, and her voice sounded like we were at a high-society reception. He's going to ask us how we got there, if we got seasick on the way....

"Commander, are you okay?"

"I'll live," I muttered.

"Jacob, is anyone else out?"

"I don't know, we only met Wilson."

"Wilson?" Miranda's eyes narrowed uncomfortably. "Where is he?"

Taylor looked at me and hesitated.

"Shepard... uh..."

"I shot him." I decided to make it easier for Cerberus to admit. "I didn't like him for something."

Miss Perfect raised her perfectly shaped eyebrow:

"I can tell you have a good intuition, Shepard."

"What?" Taylor looked at her, puzzled.

"Wilson betrayed us. He activated all the backup robots and reprogrammed the security system."

"Miranda, are you sure? We've known him for years, and... suddenly you..." Taylor glanced at me again. ".. Were you both mistaken?"

Lawson looked at him coldly and said:

"I'm never wrong. You should know that, Jacob."

"Mm, did you hire this Wilson by any chance?" I asked innocently.

"He wasn't a traitor then," Lawson countered calmly.

I just chuckled. Well, yes, an ironclad argument.

"Okay, what's next?"

"Let's get on the shuttle and fly away," the hellhound snapped.

"And the others?" I asked. "While we were running around, we heard gunshots. Someone is clearly still fighting back."

Lawson waved her hand a little impatiently:

"Rescue teams will take care of them, they are on their way. Our task is to get you out of here. My boss wants to talk to you, Shepard."

"Yes, Commander, the most important thing right now is to evacuate you from the station", Taylor warmly supported her. "And the staff... we all knew what we were doing when we agreed to participate in the project."

Oh, I'm sobbing with emotion. But my cynical mind feels that these two are so unanimously taking care of me, not out of great love, but because they are afraid. Yeah. They are the most important here and, therefore, they are directly responsible for this whole mess. And if the Ghost Station still forgives them, then the loss of my valuable carcass worth four billion ... is unlikely. Wait, do I really care? The main thing is to get out of here, I'm already fed up with this place. So, okay, so be it, save me, nasty ones. I'm kind today.

"Well, then let's fly away," I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm tired of being here. Cold, hungry, shooting. No personal life, again."

And with a smirk, glancing sideways at Taylor, who flinched at the mention of Taylor's "personal life," he headed for the shuttle.

***

Once I was finally relatively safe, I sprawled in the seat and stared blankly in front of me, trying to figure out how reality corresponded to the game. If you think about it, then, with the exception of absolutely epic nonsense, like a gun safe in a hospital room, everything goes according to the canon. Although there were no Cerberus rescue teams there. Miranda was just making a short speech about how the station staff wasn't important, and then the episode in the shuttle was already going on. And here... But this is quite understandable - abandoning a station with a huge amount of equipment and very valuable information without even trying to figure out what happened there is the height of idiocy. And the local Miss Perfect doesn't look like an idiot at all. Her character is the same as in the game - a smart bitch.

"Shepard, why are you looking at me so strangely?" Lawson asked with a hint of displeasure.

"And?" When I came out of my reverie, I found that my unseeing gaze had landed squarely on Miranda's upper `well into the nineties.' "Uh..." swallowing the `Are they real, but can I touch them?' that came to mind, he shook his head:

"I'm wondering why Cerberus needs Commander Shepard so badly".

Lawson sighed and turned to Taylor:

"Oh, Jacob, I knew you couldn't keep quiet."

"Miranda, I didn't say that Lazarus is a Cerberus project!" The African-American immediately excused himself and stared at me suspiciously.

"Shepard?"

"Wow, what we've become!" I looked with emotion at the couple burning through me with wary glances. Her eyes sparkled, and her hands reached for her weapon...

"Miss Lawson, the next time you conduct a covert operation... don't forget to remove the organization's emblem from your peerless uniform." I cheekily poked my finger at the clearly visible Cerberus logo on Miranda's chest. "Yes, in your terribly secret station, these emblems, in my opinion, are even printed on toilet paper."

And, looking mockingly at the embarrassed Cerberus soldiers, he drawled sarcastically:

"Conspirators."

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.

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Аннотация: Another one hundred thousand-hundredth hit in Mass Effect as Captain Shepard. "Calm down, Zhenya, just calm down. It's a mundane matter. Big deal, Shepard. Well, Jane Shepard. That's bullshit... And anyway, it could have been worse..."

Темный_кот Popadanec in Jane

Темный_кот
Popadanec in Jane