Popadanec in Jane

"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.