Chapter Text
As far as Shepard is concerned, the military and private companies working together is never a good sign.
When she first got the memo that she was being pulled back from the relay to participate in some clandestine Earth op, she was baffled. She’s a space marine, an infiltrator, and her job until now has been exactly what she trained for - even if the alien part is, to put it lightly, novel. She shoots a gun. She sits in cover. She gives orders. Not clean-cut, maybe, but at the core of it - simple. It has to be. Friendlies, bad guys, and the mission.
Point is, she’s not a scientist . And she’s definitely not an animal behaviorist. Her and her crew have been shooting the lizard-aliens from their spaceship and on uncharted worlds for over a year now, like something out of a late 1930s' radio drama, and never once failed; she is quick, smart, and reliable, and she is damn good at her job. She knows her superiors know that.
So. The idea of getting grounded in Nevada to work with captive aliens? Feels a whole lot like punishment.
On the ground, of course, they turn it all around. The military is working with a private firm to set up several training facilities, and since they’re supposed to be training for combat, a handful of navy units are going to give context and purpose to that training. They have to be trustworthy, they have to be disciplined, and they have to have at least a year’s experience fighting the damn things--and Shepard’s crew had been among the first sent out. In the eyes of the superiors, they’re a perfect pick.
But it’s an insult, mainly. There are other commanders still up there, who were deemed too essential to bother with this pseudo-scientific bullshit. Maybe it’s Shepard’s own shortcomings, maybe it’s good old-fashioned sexism, but at the end of the day--she knows what she is.
She’s a marine. She follows orders.
**
At first glance, the human who got him is not much different from the others. She - judging from the jutting parts on her chest, she's a female, but he knows that's not always a given - is fleshy, and small, and stocky in the way most humans are. She wears military print like all the others, and her fringe is shaved close to her scalp, translucently yellow in colour.
By the time she gets him, all of his fear, anxiety and anger have faded into gratitude just to be out of the cage. Humans kept a handful of captured turians not in projected enclosures, not some sort of field bubble, but in sturdy, metal cages with thick bars and a lockpad on the front--not tall enough to even stand in, not long enough to lie down. He could only stick his claws out through the gaps, which is almost worse.
In a lot of ways, it feels like the end of the world.
In a lot, though, it doesn't. Maybe it hasn't completely settled in yet, or maybe humans just don't quite know what to do with the turians they capture this way; after all, so far, it's just been cargo holds, rattling containers, and waiting. Always the waiting. He even got used to the gravity; different than on the ship, weird and uncomfortable, but not so much that it actually harms him, thankfully. He tries not to hate himself for being one of the unlucky few that got caught. He doesn’t judge the others, obviously, but somehow he can’t believe it happened to him. It shouldn’t have been him. His military service was almost up. The more he thinks about it, the more it all feels like a cruel joke.
Garrus doesn't know how long it's been--Earth days are different--but a few weeks, probably. The turians he whispered with while they were being moved told him the humans are planning to use them as pets, or maybe weapons, or maybe just for dissection. They told him the war is far from over, and that Palaven will not abandon them.
He believed them.
When the front of the cage opens, he forces himself to exit slowly. He's completely naked, which might've jarred him before all this - but now, he's mostly just cold. He shivers as he straightens up, flinches when the man who opened the door brings down a thick black baton over the top of his head.
Garrus hunches, then settles back down into an awkward crouch on the cool metal hangar floor. The male human says something. The sounds they make are rounded and loud, undampened by subvocals and harsh to his membranes. Even from a distance, overheard, they’d made him frown. Such an ugly tongue.
The human who got him is looking down at him, her thick, muscular arms crossed on her chest. She says something. From experience, he can tell by the way her intonation hooks that it's a question. Garrus, like almost everyone else at this point, had a universal translator installed in both membranes when he was ten; but the way they work, or so it was explained to him, requires more than the actual hard data - that’s the language itself, which humans never uploaded (understandable, seeing as they don’t even know that tech exists) - but also relies on the data bouncing back and forth. With no point of reference, and no recognizable input, the translator simply doesn’t work.
And all he hears are fleshy, wet mouth-sounds.
There is a beat of silence. Then, the human man shakes his head and brings out a collar.
Garrus does not like that.
He hisses through the gaps on the sides of his mouth, pulling his head back with a jolt. From the side, another man approaches with a metal loop on a pole, and catches Garrus' head with it. It constricts immediately, clenching down on his sensitive throat, and Garrus swears aloud in pain. The other one lunges forward with the collar and snaps it shut around his neck. They wrestle for a second, the man tugging on the chain, Garrus jerking away, but despite their smaller size, humans are far from weak, and Garrus hasn't eaten in... in a long time. He hangs his head, coughing and sputtering, and feels the thinner metal loop release--but it's not really a comfort when he's got that bulky collar on his neck, now, weighing him down.
Oh, but the wonders never cease.
When he looks up, he realises they're bringing something else over. It's a strange shape cut from thick black fabric, and for just a second he's simply confused, wondering what it might be. Then they put it over his mouth and secure it on a band around the back of his head, pressing his mandibles uncomfortably to his face, and the realisation sinks in.
He's been muzzled.
The anger and shame flare up in him anew, and he whips his head to the side, clawing at the mask. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man raise the baton again--until the woman barks out a few words, curt and sharp, and his hand stills in the air.
The woman looks down at Garrus with a firm expression. Then, she takes the offered chain in her hand, and pulls on it lightly.
He slowly begins to stand, and this time, there is no protest. He still keeps his head low just in case, shoulders slumped; maybe it’s better to look as non-threatening as possible, on the off chance she might underestimate him. He is still marginally taller than her. From above, she looks a bit different--a bit smaller, less intimidating. He notices the metal rectangles hanging from a metal chain around her neck, and a patch on her green military jacket that has human symbols on it. He recognises none of them spare for the 'N7', which he's seen plastered on almost everything on the way.
Belatedly, Garrus realises this is the closest he's ever been to a human since his capture. He could probably get her in the throat with his talons, if he put enough strength behind it. He could see that crimson-red blood spill.
He chases the thought away. He's not strong enough, and they'd shoot him right after, anyway. He's not going to die getting revenge against a human he only just met.
The woman pulls, a bit harder this time, and he steps forward, closer to her. Her eyes are not round like a turian's, but shaped almost like their fleshy mouths, with bits of white on either side of the coloured iris.
She says something, aiming it at him. He doesn't understand a word of it, of course, so he just stares at her blankly for a second before glancing around the hangar.
One big exit, where the truck came in, and one small--off to the far side, with a green light over it. There are a few other humans walking around, carrying both datapads and paper lists, and no other turian cages.
Uh-oh.
The woman jerks her head at the small door, and he realises she wants him to walk first. Smart. He lifts both hands to his collar and gulps as he adjusts it so that the chain hangs in the back, then starts walking.
The woman follows close enough that he doesn't have to yank on the chain, but the pressure of her hold is there, a constant reminder of her presence. He stops briefly when the door slides open in front of him, then steps through.
Immediately, two weapons are pointed in his direction. The corridor he's stepped into looks inflatable, with billowing white walls on a metal skeleton; there are two soldiers standing guard by the entrance, both dressed the same as the woman who got him. His stomach lurches and he backs up a bit, ready to use the human like a shield. Human weapons are not laser-based, like every other civilised race's; they spit old metal, which - while not useful in space warfare - is far more deadly in close quarters. A laser shot hits you, you get a burn, maybe need some surface cybers. There is no shrugging off a pure metal bullet through the arm.
To his surprise, he feels the human's hand on his collar. She holds him in place, at her side, her eyes fixed on the two others. In a low, hard voice, she says just a few words, and they're allowed through.
It's clear she didn't buy him. That much he knows. There was no exchange of currency, and she doesn't look like what rich humans look like; if anything, it seems like he's a military asset, or an aid of the weapon variety, sent from somewhere further up the ladder. She’s not wowed, not touching him, not looking; she just leads him, firm but not uncomfortable, her eyes fixed dead ahead.
She brings him into a large inflatable dome, the size of a small ship or building. There are metal ribs along the walls, holding it up, and what he recognises as tech and screens set up along grey tables and desks. Cables run in thick ropes along the floor, suspended under the ceiling, snaking around lamps. It has none of the turian sleekness and effective design; it mostly looks like it's being held together by spit and prayers.
There are humans all over the place, of course. Most of them look up to stare when Garrus enters, but they get back to work just as quickly, busier than salarians. The woman ignores the bustling science centre and heads right, to another corridor.
So far, the layout hasn't been difficult to memorize. He's confident he could rip through the side of the tent, if pressed; the scientists are unarmed. He could--
Eh, but he won't. He's on Earth; he has nowhere to go, and if he escapes, he'll be shot on sight by the first human who spots him. He's trying his damn best to keep brave, but the reality of things is starting to sink in: he's not getting out.
The next corridor leads to a far more sturdy structure, a metal building with a sliding door, thrumming with generator power. It's much neater, all metal and glass, and further in there is a large cargo lift that takes them down a level, into a sprawling, fluorescent-lit basement.
This place--now, this place gives him the creeps. They go through what resembles an airlock - another layer of security - and suddenly, they’re in a large open area.
It looks like a training facility. There's a structure clearly meant for climbing, a pool behind a glass wall off to the side, a sand-filled ring - meant for brawling, no doubt - at the far end. At the very back of the room, behind a wall of thick glass, there is an enclosure.
An enclosure the woman is now leading him towards.
He groans quietly, the sound muffled by the muzzle, and flexes his mandibles despite the tight squeeze. He does not like the idea of being stuck underground, his limits tested for the benefit of human scientists. That's something from a cheap alien horror flick, right there, the kind Solana used to read when she was a teenager.
His shoulders fall. He's tried his best not to think about his family, but the alien abduction nonsense is just such a Sol thing. She will laugh so hard when he tells her. If he ever gets to tell her. (Actually, he’s not so sure she’ll laugh.)
He stops. The woman stops as well, looking up at him.
Then, she gestures ‘down’. Wary, he kneels, and immediately regrets it when she reaches for his face. Without thinking, he swats at her, his opposite hand coming up with the talons flared, and she jumps away with a hiss as they make contact. She doesn't let go of the chain, but the fiercely red gash along the side of her wrist is spilling blood. She curses - that much is obvious - and waves her hand about, almost like she's shaking the pain out of it. It's weird. And sort of funny.
He expects punishment. He's gotten whacked for way less, not looking further than half an hour ago, for straightening up too fast--but, to his surprise, the woman just reaches for him again, much, much slower this time. She says something as she does it, her voice quiet, soothing.
He doesn't scratch. When her hand reaches around and behind his head, he winces a bit - they both freeze - but then, with a quick motion, she unclips the muzzle and yanks her hand back, unharmed. The scrap of thick black fabric falls. In a moment of sheer spite, Garrus swats it away, talons cutting the firm rubbery floor.
When he looks at the woman again, she's got her free hand on the weapon at her hip, almost waiting to draw it. Her stance is combat-ready, her eyes severe, and the hand clutching the chain white-knuckled.
He blinks. He should probably let her know he's grateful, and that he won't hurt her. He doesn't particularly want to be nice, still cranky and aching from the long journey in the cage, but it seems like the smart thing to do; let her know that if she keeps this up, he won’t cause her problems. Or injuries.
Then again, he remembers what was drilled into them at the beginning of the First Contact War; if a turian got caught, it was expected of them to - put simply - shut down. To stay quiet and play dumb, never risk revealing anything that could be used against turiankind, from language to biology.
He lets his gaze drift off to the side. Not confrontational, but not aware, either.
The woman sighs. She takes her hand away from her weapon and leads him over to the enclosure. He stops again in the entrance, digging his heels in and bracing his hands in the doorway.
"Come on," she groans, which is one of the few phrases he recognizes in the human tongue, right next to 'fuck you' and 'hello'. He doesn't know exactly what it means, but it seems to be an expression of exasperation.
She tugs on the chain, walking further in.
"Piss off," he murmurs, the sounds coming out in a quiet chirp and huff.
She pulls again, and gasps when a few drops of blood spatter on the floor at her feet. With a quiet whine, she stops to pull at her sleeve--and suddenly, Garrus realises that the wound he gave her is worse than just a scrape. It might've been only that on a turian, but human skin is soft, pliable. The wound is deep and it is bleeding, thick and red, blood smearing all up her arm as she clutches it with a hiss. Another handful of drops hits the floor.
"Fuck," she whispers.
Garrus... feels bad.
He steps in through the doorway and approaches her, but now she is the scared one; she stumbles back, switching hands on the chain so that she can hold the injured arm close to her body. Her eyes are fixed on him.
She looks like a frightened animal.
He scowls. He can't escape - he knows all that awaits him upstairs is people with guns - so he might as well make life easier for her, just this once. As an apology. He passes her and walks over to the military-issue mattress under the opposite wall, then plops down on it.
It's a very bare room. Nothing really... in here, except a human approximation of a toilet and sink, and a black wall over on the side that looks like a dark mirror. There’s a black box with a flashing red light under the ceiling, might be some kind of camera or recorder. Unpleasant.
He rolls his shoulders and sighs, mandibles pressing tightly to the sides of his face.
When he looks up, he realises the woman is still watching him--and now, she seems puzzled. She doesn't linger any longer, though. With him secure, she lets go of the chain and steps back out. A slam of her hand on the control panel brings down a metal shutter over the glass wall, locking him well and truly inside, and then the door slides shut.
He hears the bolts snap into place.
**
The good doctor whistles faintly, splashing the wound with antiseptic. Only one talon caught her - a long, angled gash over her wrist, curling to the inside of her arm. Shepard winces slightly at the sharp pain. It hurts much worse than the actual slash did.
"It's a defensive attack," Chakwas informs her in that calm, steady voice, bringing out the needle. "The aliens don't use their talons often, and they're not sharp. It's the force behind the strike that actually cuts. Their teeth, on the other hand..."
She hums, drawing the needle through Shepard's skin. It pulls and tugs in all the worst ways.
"He was muzzled," Shepard grumbles, "Given the chance, he probably would've bitten me."
She makes a thoughtful sound.
"You're lucky he didn't. Their teeth are sharp, and the wounds they leave always get infected. This, on the other hand, should heal up nicely," Chakwas finishes the stitches and pats her arm, smirking a little when Shepard cringes at the pain, "You've been out of the field too long, Commander. Look at you, pouting like a little girl."
Her tone is sweet and gently teasing, no bite in it. She applies some antibiotic paste over the stitching, adds gauze, and goes around it all with a bandage.
"There," she smiles, "Lovely. I have to say, it's nice to be working on cuts and scrapes for once. Until I get bored of it, at least."
Shepard smiles back, slipping off the cot and testing the injured arm. The pain isn't too bad, now that it's all pressed down nice and snug. "Thanks, Doc." She stretches a bit. "Didn't know you studied the aliens."
Chakwas sits back down in her revolving chair and skitters over to the trash can to throw her gloves away.
"Not too much, mind you," she says, "But I've seen a couple alien bites on the front, before I was transferred to your crew. They don't do it often, though. They're too proud, I think." She chuckles.
Shepard thanks her again and heads out, to her room. It's been a long day already, and getting longer; get a pet you're supposed to train like a damn Jurassic World raptor, get scratched by said pet... and then stand there and marvel at his surprising obedience when he realises how hurt you are. Isn't that when he should've attacked? She'd been distracted, bleeding.
And yet.
Every piece of information they have on aliens proves one thing: they get stupid in captivity. They don't understand orders, don't pay attention, and don't learn. Mostly, they just curl up and die. The goal here, according to Miss E-Cup’s brief, is to prevent that. Captivity can't have that big of an effect on them, after all, they've got opposable thumbs and know how to pull a trigger. Even if they're not sentient the way humans are, they're not animals.
The goal, ultimately, is to see if she can train this thing. Make it follow orders.
She sighs, exhausted. That’s enough new experiences and sensations for one day.
The training facility was built in a fevered rush, and as a result it's cramped and awkward. Shepard and her team sleep in two-person rooms on the upper level, while the science team have the opposite wing. She goes there now, her arm pulsating, and drops heavily onto her bed before the door even shuts behind her. She groans into the pillow.
"Oh, like you've got it bad," a voice comes from the doorway, and she realises Joker has rolled in in his wheelchair. The door shuts behind him.
She moans and turns onto her side, watching as he lifts himself up and shakily walks over to his bed, one hand trailing the wall.
"Stop complaining, you know it's better for you," she mutters.
"You know what would be better for me?" he sits on his bed, opposite hers, and takes his cap off, "If I could, you know, do my job. That would be 'better'." He throws the cap at her. It makes contact with her butt with a quiet thwump.
"Come on, man," she groans louder, "Orders are orders. I'm not the goddamn alien whisperer either, but we've got new jobs to do, and we're gonna do them."
Joker straightens at once, annoyance giving way to interest. He leans forward on the bed.
"It's here?"
"Yeah," Shepard pushes herself up on her elbows and sits, "I picked him up from the hangar today. Got a new battle scar, too."
She waves her injured arm around. Joker furrows his brow, mildly concerned.
"You all right?"
"Yeah, it was my fault," she sighs, "I spooked him."
Joker shuffles further onto his bed, so that his back rests against the wall and his legs lie straight before him. It's one of her favourite things about being stationed here in the ass-crack of nowhere, Nevada; in a lot of ways, it's been like a summer trip with her team. They're training for interplanetary warfare, sure, but it's less depresonalized than waiting for orders in orbit or near a relay, night after night spent alone in her cabin.
Well, that came out wrong. She's not screwing Joker. Not that she wouldn't, if she weren't his commanding officer, but it would probably just make things weird anyway.
"So," Joker shrugs, "Proper training begins tomorrow, huh? How are we feeling about that, chief?"
"Stressed," she admits, "Year on the front or not, we don't know anything about them, really."
"Well, what's there to know?" he squints, "I mean, didn't the nerds downstairs say they don't even have a language? That they just chirp?"
"They did. And I know," she shrugs, "But it's a different story when you're alone in a room with him." She kicks off her shoes, one foot working them off the other. They thud loudly onto the metal floor.
"I guess so." Joker lets it go, then perks up again. "Hey, do you think I could see him?"
Shepard pulls her legs up, knees wide open and arms loosely rested against them.
“This isn't a petting zoo, Moreau," she chides.
"Who said anything about petting? I just want to get a look at him." He scowls, making grabby hands at his hat. She throws it back to him. "It seems kind of weird by now that I've never seen one up close and personal. You guys get to punch them, and what do I do? I--"
"I said no, Joker," she pushes, "I'm not putting any more stress on him than absolutely necessary. Nobody likes being gawked at."
"Yeah, yeah," Joker scowls.
A sharp pang of cold goes through her. “Jesus, Jeff. Sorry.”
He blinks, not quite pacified, but at least he's not upset. "So, you're really taking the alien whisperer thing seriously, then?"
Shepard doesn't move. The alien she got from headquarters, he's... big. She knows they wear armor, but this one had been naked. His plates are a silvery shade, a pretty rare one from what she's seen, and he has wide blue markings over his cheeks and nose. Those tattoos - or whatever they are - are common, actually more common than bare faces, but they haven't been studied thoroughly enough to decode.
It's another reminder of how painfully little they know about the aliens. They don't even know where they came from, much less if they have a culture, and if so--if it's similar to human at all.
Oh, and he's got blue eyes. That, she's never seen before. The aliens' eyes come in shades ranging from brown to red, maybe yellow, but she's never seen ones like his. They're almost... pretty, if anything about these huge, spiky space-lizards can be pretty.
And maybe it's just his unique appearance - her searching for something that's not there - but he seems... odd. Not exactly what she was prepped for in the brief. She's had dogs before, trained them to sit, to follow, to be quiet at meal time. They're predictable, most of the time, you can read their intentions from where they're looking, how their body is positioned.
She gets none of that from the alien. One second, he's watching her intently, almost like he can understand; the next, it's as if she doesn't exist, his eyes studying the room. Weird. Erratic. And that's just day one.
But, well, she knows what she is. She’s a marine, and she follows orders. She looks up at Joker and nods.
"I've got a job to do."