#also I really like Vas and Belle and Trawley and even if they're not real they're super fun to write

[timptoe]

Here at the End of Everything, Ch. 2

Part two of my “fix my brain by writing about Joker” fic starts the process of looking at why Joker is the way he is, and how what’s happened to him affects the decisions he makes when the Crucible is being triggered. This is the “Joker Can Do It” chapter, inspired by this scene from the first game. It gave me an excuse to write a flashback to how Joker got into Alliance Flight School in the first place, and whoo boy do I apparently like writing about entrance exams and spaceflight because this chapter clocked in at ten-thousand words. First part of it’s below, the rest is up on Ao3.

Chapter 2: You Set Sail Alone

You set sail alone, there is no crew No one on the deck who can help you This is all your own battle to win This is your ship, and you are the captain  - Fin Argus, “Ship in a Bottle”

——

Sol System, Earth, SSV Normandy SR-2 Forty-eight minutes before Hackett’s order

It’s a few seconds before Joker figures out what’s wrong.

As has become customary, he’s got the comm feeds for the ground team open, listening in while he harries the Reaper fleet above Earth. It’s a practice he and Pressly started right after Eden Prime; turns out it’s easier to anticipate a ground team’s needs if you’re listening to their chatter, rather than waiting for them to call you with a problem. He likes to think it’s saved the day more than a couple of times. At Virmire. Over Ilos. Past the Omega 4 relay. As long as the ground team’s talking to each other, they’re talking to Joker.

Pressly called it “babysitting.” Joker thinks of it more as “information gathering.” The more info he has, the better he can help. Not that he wants to be down on the ground with them—far from it, being planetside sounds like a pain in the ass—but they’re a team, his team, and damned if he’s not going to be there when they need him.

He’d been listening in when Cortez crashed the Kodiak about half an hour ago, Shepard’s anguished cry giving way to instant relief when Cortez radioed back that only the shuttle was out of commission, not its pilot. Joker had listened in as Shepard took control of the AA guns, allowing the rest of the Hammer team to land, including the remainder of the Normandy ground team. And he’d been listening in while Shepard split the team, taking Alenko and Vakarian to rendezvous with Anderson at the beam and ordering the rest to act as diversions for the Reaper forces. 

All vital information. And all carefully tracked, on separate glowing haptic panels in the cockpit—one showing the hardsuit feeds and relative positions for Shepard’s team, a different one for the rest of the crew—because Joker is very good at his job.

Not to mention, he’s defending the Crucible by harassing Reaper ships into making mistakes through judicious use of the Normandy’s stealth drive. He is still the Alliance’s premier helmsman, after all, even if it’s also his job to watch out for his team.

Somebody has to, because they keep doing stupid things. 

The comm is a cacophony of chatter, shouts and shots and explosions blending together into impenetrable noise. Occasionally one voice will break through, like Cortez shouting, “Tali, now!”, or Vega yelling, “Liara!” Seems like the plan to blow up a portion of the London Underground went sideways immediately, and now his comm feed is less information and more confusion. He disables the passive feed for a moment, turning instead to his secondary source for on-the-ground information.

“EDI, talk to me, what’s happening down there? Did the plan work?” Joker asks, venting the ship’s heat sinks directly in front of a Reaper destroyer as he does.

“One moment, Jeff, I am currently unable to gather useful data,” EDI responds—over the in-ship comm, rather than through her mobile platform’s tightbeam transmitter. One of the perks of having a girlfriend whose consciousness can be in two places at once, managing the functions of their ship while controlling her mech on the ground, is that she can help him navigate the Reaper fleet and give him useful on-the-ground info. Best of both—

Wait. What?

“EDI, what’s going on? Why can’t you gather data?” Joker keeps the note of panic out of his voice. She’s fine, she’s here, she’s talking to me. She’s fine. The destroyer fires its beam weapon at the cloud of heated particles Joker just dumped, missing the Normandy and instead hitting one of the larger Reaper dreadnoughts. Joker barely clocks the success.

“My mobile platform is currently buried under an unknown quantity of rubble.”

“What?” There’s the note of panic.

“I cannot risk moving at this time, as I am bracing the rubble from crushing Dr. T’Soni, therefore I am unable to—“

“Shit!” Joker pulls the ship into a tight turn, corkscrewing towards the planet below. He re-enables the passive comm feed just in time to hear Vega shout, “Lift on three! One, two…three!”

“Jeff, the Normandy is ill-equipped to assist my platform at this time. There is no need to divert from the ship’s primary mission.” EDI’s voice is inhumanly calm, like she’s not trapped under a mountain of fucking rubble right now.

Deep breath. She’s not human. She’s not trapped. She’s right here.

“Fuck that, it’s time to get you out of there. I’m betting someone’s about to call for an extraction anyway, and—“ Joker quickly checks the primary team’s location “—Shepard’s almost at the beam.”

Like clockwork, Vega chooses this moment to yell into the comm, “Yo, Joker! I can’t raise any of the other teams, but we need an extraction! Get us a shuttle, a transport, anything!”

“Right on time, Lieutenant,” Joker mutters. He feels a pulse flutter along his back through the haptic nodes in his chair—EDI’s silent way of expressing both frustration and amusement. He toggles the comm to Vega. “We’re already on the way. ETA, two minutes.”

“Jeff, given the debris in the air and the number of Harvesters sighted in the immediate area, it is inadvisable to bring the Normandy in.”

“Well, it’s not up to you because I’m pulling rank,” Joker responds, pushing the drive faster. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d faced impossible odds.

He can do this.

——

Alliance Recruitment Office, Arcturus Station 13 years before Hackett’s order

The first lesson that Jeff Moreau learns in the Alliance Navy is that there’s no way he belongs there.

The sympathetic face on the recruiter sitting across the desk from him says as much, as do the spread of her hands and the way her eyes keep flicking to the crutches leaning on the back of his chair. Also, her words.

“I appreciate your interest in the Alliance Navy, Mr. Moreau, but I just don’t think you meet the physical fitness requirements for enlisting,” Sergeant Draven says with a sickly sweet smile.

It’s annoying, but nothing he isn’t used to. Eighteen years of awkward glances and carefully worded sentences have prepared him for this moment. 

“Well, shows how good you are at thinking, then.”

Just because he’s prepared for it doesn’t mean he’s good at responding to it.

“Look, Mr. Moreau—“

“No, you look, Sergeant,” he says, exasperation heavy in his voice. “I get that I’m not exactly your normal recruit, but I don’t want to run around on some random planet with a shotgun and a hardsuit. I’m not here to be a marine. I’m here to be a pilot. Surely I don’t need to, what, bench press a krogan and outrun a turian to fly a ship, right?”

“It’s not that simple.“

“Why not?” He wills his voice to lose the note of pleading. “I guarantee you I’m one of the best pilots out there. Just let me take the entrance exam, I can prove it to you. I’ve been flying since I was 14, mostly transport shuttles between the station and some of the smaller colonies. But one time I actually got to co-pilot a frigate while—“

The recruiter holds her hand up, and he stops talking. It’s not the hand that does it, though. It’s the pity in her eyes.

Jeff hates pity.

“Your interest in the Alliance Navy is commendable, Mr. Moreau, and we appreciate you wanting to serve humanity and the galaxy in this way.”

Jeff blows out a breath, recognizing the canned response for what it is. “But you don’t think I can do it.”

She gives him another smile. “Tell you what. Let me talk it over with my commanding officer. If he thinks there’s a way to accommodate your…unique circumstances, I’ll let you know. Alright?”

Jeff’s shoulders sag slightly. He knows a rejection when he hears one. He’s certainly heard enough over the years. So he gives her his best we both know you’re fucking me over but I’m being the bigger person smile and says, “Alright.”

Read the rest on Ao3.