The law as performed, Part 1

The new guns tasted weird.

It was the first time shooting at something living, something that didn't eat bullets and shrug them off like a mech did. It was a different world, shooting at a mech seemed like an especially dangerous VR sim compared to fighting something with a pulse. Even a dumb enemy was smart, even a weak enemy was strong. Even worse, you never knew what something was going to do. Take an arm and you might make an enemy collapse, might push them into a **** rage that sent them running at you with live explosives, seemingly in ignorance of pain. It made you hyper-aware of the sights and the smells of things, the taste of metal the lingered in the air while the new chips ejected, the afterburn of the changed rounds. Back in the old days it was heat sinks, the whole gun would start to feel like a live grenade in your hands as it heated up. They were graded not to explode, of course, but so were ship engines. So was a nuclear reactor.

You lived in the moment knowing that any sensation could be the last one before dying. You had time for asinine thoughts while also having every thought fall under an intense time crunch. When an ammo chip popped, it was like a mouthful of blood. The old heat ejection had been mossy, wet and earthy. It was a different kind of combat, a sidegrade over anything else. But the new guns tasted weird in the air. The clips popped hot, giving the heat sinks a second to gasp with soft burn in the air before another one was slotted in. Hands moved quickly, getting the gun back to work, leaving only the hot chunk of metal on the floor and the tangy metal smell and taste in the air. Best not to open one's mouth.

"On your right!"

"I see him!"

It was Vorcha, of course it was fucking Vorcha. They and Batarians had joint custody of the concept of spacefaring shitheels. Jacob slid his head out and ducked it back even quicker, getting it just out of the way of a concussive shot that ate a chunk of the armor-plated wall. Graded for anything a civvie would throw at it. The concussion round turned the gun into a small furnace, one that spat bullets weak enough a shield would catch them. Not something you would know if you weren't used to the process. Jacob ducked back into the line of fire long enough to whip ordinance downwind with a sidearm swipe. By the time he pulled back in to cover, the teeth-shattering crack of an incendiary popped aloud over the din of gunfire. Something screamed, the *SHUNK* of concussive rounds stopped. Jacob was good with his toys. A man after her own heart, at least once upon a time.

Miranda held an entire flank on her own, a feat that had started as impressive but turned downright sad. At first, the Vorcha had seen an opening with nothing whizzing red-hot out of it, their brains had turned up dollar signs. Then they rushed it, bullets stopping and turning in midair, a krogan lifted and burst against a wall like a water balloon. There were no wounds to lick, no returning troops to report the massacre. Charging the gunners was a no-go, charging the biotic was a meat grinder. Maybe worse, Miranda seemed to enjoy her work. Shepard had seen biotics, ones powerful enough to turn you into a red cloud with an errant look. None were as cavalierly brutal as Miranda. There was a quiet, focused smirk on her face. She didn't talk, she didn't move, she was the line. The line held.

The storefront went deathly quiet for a second, quiet enough to be dominated by the crackle of dying incendiary slurry and the clatter of spent clips knocked scattering by shuffling feet. The clack of stiletto black heels punched through the silence. Miranda poked her way between Shepard and Jacob, bodies pressed tight behind a single bulletproof barricade. Close enough for the smell and taste of metallic waste water to be replaced by her perfume. Perfume and heels in a warzone, hell of a woman, if it were anybody but her.

The fire had seemed to take the last of the stragglers, that or better judgment. Even well-paid Vorcha didn't keep their hand on a burning stove. The fact that they'd thrown as many as they had against the wall was something of a marvel. That and the ordinance said these weren't some gang.

Jacob held his hand up, hardening his shields. He took the slow-motion steps of somebody wrapped in the full warping shields that armor was capable of. Moving with that sort of running underwater motion that one needed at full shield. Cadets called it the "suicide swim", you didn't want to be the one doing the suicide swim. He didn't catch any fire. A good swim, considering.

When he made it to the next doorway and poked inside, he lowered his shields, gesturing the two along. Miranda stepped out first, then Shepard. Mary lead from behind, let the Cerberus officers pull her by the nose. These weren't some nobodies, she was in good hands.

"Good, but a little controlling."

The end of the hallway opened into the last proper open space before the clinic. The salarian was inside. Unlike the last fifteen doorways, they weren't opened fire on when they made their way in.

"Looks like we ran out of Vorcha," Miranda mumbled, it was almost a lament.

Jacob cracked his neck, "They don't fuck with the clinic, at least not twice." He gestured to the doorway of the clinic, a dead Vorcha sat propped on the bench outside, his arm wrapped comically around a statue sitting beside him, a cardboard sign around his neck.

It had been an Asari, the one that founded the clinic, most likely. An old Asari, one of the truly ancient ones. The normally nubile body starting to plumpen in the late cycles. Her face, at least what could be seen, had that sort of polite wisdom most of them seemed to exude. Her form was completely overrun with graffiti. The dead Vorcha behind her had his face peeled back in a sneer. Around his neck hung a sign.

"Artist and Masterpiece."

"Some sort of joke?" Jacob grumbled.

"A warning, probably," Miranda responded.

The graffiti was in... Vorcha-ese? At least the written parts. The matronly face was covered in crude phalluses, the breasts and mouth circled like targets. It was crude, juvenile even. The Vorcha couldn't have been much more than some street punk, he didn't have any gang armor. Gang armor might have prevented the crushed section of his chest, concussion rounds, special made for a pistol, must have been a hell of a pistol.

"Somebody wasn't a fan of the makeover," Shepard mumbled.

"Looks like that somebody unloaded a shotgun slug into his chest." Miranda prodded one of his legs with her boot, he didn't suddenly spring to life.

"Too small, custom pistol round of some kind," Jacob observed. Good man, knew his toys well, maybe in another life.

"Probably the doctor. Not sure if Salarians are the sentimental type, but looks like our artist struck a nerve." Miranda said, her tone saying that she was done talking about it.

The door of the clinic opened, revealing a small barricade inside. The flash of a Cerberus insignia was met with resigned sighs, but it was also met with being allowed entrance.

In better times, it was probably a vet clinic or some walk-in specialist center. The posters which might have clued the past nature were destroyed. They found Mordin in the main operating room, tending the sick.

"Close enough. One at a time." He grumbled, "Shepard first, Cerberus officers wait."

"How did you know-?"

Mordin cut Miranda off, "Wearing insignia, don't insult my intelligence. Too busy, too engaged to be fooled."

Shepard stepped in and the door clicked shut before Miranda could protest.

"Good. May take issue, get **** on you later. Will do what I can to alleviate it. No fury like a woman scorned, that woman especially. Need to speak privately with you."

Before Shepard had even started to respond, Mordin approached her with his omni-tool raised, passing it over her and making notes. He put a finger to his lips, indicating that the door had fogged over for privacy. He flicked his omni-tool screen for her to see, showing a number of electrical bounceback points in her suit, bugs.

"Dr. Solus, I presume?"

"Interesting choice of reference. Scientist and doctor, yes. But outsider, religious man, man on mission, man whose name would be used in opposition of what he wished. Liberator of slaves, at least in intent. Possibly Freudian underpinning?"

"It's a colloquialism, I didn't put that much thought into it Doc."

"Not intentionally, maybe, but nothing is without motivation. Thirteen bugs on you, specific number. Twelve could be accident, many species like things even. Feels round. Thirteen unlucky, would be avoided by Cerberus, organization practices many human superstitions. Perhaps twelve chakras? Not sure of connection between Cerberus and new age spiritualism. One chakra purposefully doubled. Impossible to gauge depth, could be any number of body to armor combinations. By location, root doubled, likely tracker in non-original tissue."

"Why am I not surprised that you know about it?"

"Man of science, many different interests in what you underwent. Reversal of **** unimaginable breakthrough, likely already patented and in control of Cerberus. Add onto that complete graft of new genitals with near-complete negation of original, very impressive. Concerns about it not being known elsewhere, deaths of medical staff a little too convenient to be anything but plot to preserve secrecy. Must be careful with new body, only remaining non-classified evidence."

"Okay, slow down doc, there are three or four things I want you to circle back on."

"Later," He murmured, the door slid open. "Cerberus operative in clinic grows impatient in consistent intervals of ninety-six seconds, must not keep your partners waiting too long."

Shepard heard stiletto heels approaching behind her. She grimaced. "We're here to take you aboard the Normandy, are you ready to go?"

"Was briefed. Not yet, need to solve the plague first. Need your help, all three of you."

Miranda stepped in front of her, "Why'd you turn off the bugs?"

Mordin seemed surprised. "Did not expect oversight to be this intensive, Cerberus leash short indeed. Or perhaps an element of personal enjoyment in oversight, Lawson an unknown quantitiy."

Miranda didn't flinch, "I'm standing right here, talk to me like that's the case."

"Apologies, understand indirect references can feel like lack of control. Judging by oversight, control important thing for you."

"Why am I being so heavily bugged?"

"We all are," Jacob grumbled.

"Half-truth, Officer Taylor bugged in seven places, Officer Lawson in three. Bugging of Shepard borders on excessive."

"That's not your place to decide." Miranda finished, she had that special voice that she used to let you know the conversation was over.

"Understood, control of utmost importance. No matter, bugs disabled due to interference with medical equipment. Security precaution, re-enabled as soon as you leave the clinic. Should do that now, plague makes for limited time. Agitating local gangs, making them bolder. Attacks on and near clinic growing more frequent."

"Like the one on the statue outside?"

"Unrelated. Samsara. Clinic founder. Wonderful woman. Shame her legacy is an easily-defaced statue. Vandalized before. Caught the culprit, used the quarantine to make an example. No vandalism since."

"How long has he been out there?"

"Three days? No! Four! Track of time fuzzy since outbreak. Vorcha decay process slow. Should still be out there by time quarantine ends. Should be cleaned up before any odor occurs. Keeps others away short-term. Stories should discourage future vandalism. Won't fix, can't fix, just reduce."

"Why do they go for her so often?"

"Poor security near the clinic, often need to handle own problems. Possible she is targeted for being Asari. Vorcha resent them. Other species spread nasty rumors. Promiscuity overstated, at least most of the time. Element Zero in bloodstream makes them unpredictable. Some maintain abstinence. Some partner with anybody. Soldiers, politicians, doctors even."

For a half-second, a sort of nostalgic smile crosses his face. It fades just as quickly.

"Wonderful woman. Deserves clean statue."

They left the clinic in the distance behind them. Shepard took up a grim smile as she heard Miranda's omni-tool beep as soon as they stepped off of the premises.