Role Reversal

Ella Shepard sat slumped in the pilot’s chair while the vessel’s displays blinked and bleeped reassuringly around her. Hours earlier, the Normandy had barely escaped the blast radius of a nuclear bomb - one that had been detonated on the surface of Virmire by Moreau’s assault team. The ship’s hull was, thankfully, still intact.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of her crew.

Since then, Ella had been maintaining a mindless holding pattern while awaiting further directions about where they would be delivering the salarian infiltration team. Having nothing to occupy her attention made dwelling on the loss of her teammate nearly impossible to avoid.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Ash’s last moments, trapped planetside as she’d watched the Normandy fly away. Had she felt abandoned? Scared? She thought about the close-knit family the soldier had left behind. Soon, they would receive the news that they’d lost a daughter, a sister - and their world would never be the same again.

Heavy footfalls rang out on the bridge, and she hastily pulled herself together, sitting up straight and trying to appear alert. The booted steps stopped just behind her right shoulder. “We’re going to drop the salarian team on Ontarom - the STG has arranged to pick them up.” Moreau’s voice was a dull monotone, completely devoid of the sly snark that was his trademark.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Ella replied. He didn’t say anything else, but neither did he depart right away. She glanced up at him, expectantly, but he was leaning against the hull, his brow resting against his forearm. In the reflection of the cockpit window, she watched as he gazed listlessly at the passing cosmic vista.

“Commander,” she said, her voice subdued with grief, “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you - leaving Williams behind like that.”

“There was no other choice,” he answered, flatly, without turning in her direction. “Our mission is more important than one soldier.”

“I’m not blaming you, sir,” she hurried to add, “I just...I don’t know if I could have done it.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.

In the glass, green eyes zeroed in on hers with startling intensity. "That's why I'm in charge and you're not, Lieutenant," he snarled through his teeth. "Now pull your shit together."

With a jerk, she turned away from his image, stung by his vicious tone. “Y-Yes, sir!” she stammered.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and marched out of the cockpit.

Cheeks burning with humiliation, Ella swiped angrily at the moisture she discovered there while setting a course for their destination. Williams had been the closest thing she’d had to a friend on the ship. When it came to gossip and backstabbing, soldiers could be almost as guilty as teenage girls - and Ella couldn’t tolerate it. In Ashley, she’d found someone she’d trusted to say things to her face, as opposed to when she left the room.

And now Ash was dead. Gone, forever - just like that. It was only natural to grieve for her.

And she thought Moreau was a bit of a heartless bastard to call her out on it.

‘Shake it off,’ she demanded of herself. ‘You still have a job to do.’

The rest of her shift passed without incident. They set the salarians down at the rendezvous spot, after which she received a written message from Moreau ordering her to request a meeting with the Council and set a course for the Citadel. When Reynolds showed up to relieve her, she was surprised to discover how much time had passed.

After they went through the rundown, Ella hit the nearly-deserted mess hall for some grub. She and Reynolds were the only two pilots on the Normandy, so they worked ten-hour galactic standard shifts, as opposed to the average seven hours. Therefore, their free time never quite coincided with everyone else’s - another fact that served to alienate her from the rest of the crew. Pondering this made her think about Ash again; about how sometimes the chief would carry her dinner to the cockpit - along with food for Ella - and sit in the co-pilot’s chair, eating and chatting companionably. Her throat suddenly constricting with emotion, Ella rose and tossed her unfinished meal into the trash.

Back in the barracks, she began watching a movie to kill time before lights out - an old romantic comedy that she found neither charming nor amusing - but found her attention wandering. She turned it off, then stood and stretched, working the kinks out of her back. Feeling restless and claustrophobic, she began pacing the small room. Two of the other occupants - navigators engaged in an intense chess match - shot her an annoyed glance as she jostled the table where they were playing. “Jesus, Shepard - go siddown, will ya?” Sanchez, the gnarled veteran, barked at her. “There’s no room to be wandering around in here.” With a frustrated sigh, she flopped back onto her bunk and restarted the movie, resigned to give it a second chance.

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her,”  the actress in the vid said.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Shepard muttered as she violently ripped the earbuds from her ears and cast the datapad aside. She stripped down to her underwear, donned a tank top from her drawer, and crawled beneath the sheets. Jamming the pillow over her face to block out the light and noise, she squeezed her eyes closed and counted backwards from one hundred, trying to relax. Eventually, her breathing steadied and she drifted into a light sleep.

She jolted awake sometime later in the darkness, convinced she was suffocating. Angrily tossing aside the pillow, she glanced at the glowing terminal on the other side of the room. Oh-two-thirty. She lay on her back, staring at the upper bunk for a while, but quickly came to the realization  that further sleep was going to prove elusive. Flinging off the tangled sheet, she quietly pulled on her workout gear and headed down the hall to the gym.

After the darkness of the barrack, the bright lights of the gym caused her to squint, and thus it was the noise that first alerted her to his presence. As her pupils contracted, she zeroed in on the source of the rhythmic sound, and discovered the commander using the heavy bag, his back to the room’s entry.

“Oh,” she said, hesitating in the doorway, “I didn’t think anyone was...”

“S’okay,” he grunted, without pausing his exertions. “Plenty of room.”

Undecided, Ella watched him work the punching bag while she tried to make up her mind. It wasn’t a real heavy bag, of course - which usually weighed about 31 kilos and took up a lot of space - but rather, a simulated one. The inflatable canvas cylinder was suspended by adjustable tension bars that mimicked the resistance of a standard bag. When the user was done, the entire contraption folded flat for compact storage.

But Ella wasn’t looking at the bag. The commander was shirtless - wearing only baggy blue nylon shorts and scuffed cross-trainers - and she was appreciating the way his shoulder muscles bunched and flexed as he punched, the reverberations travelling up his biceps and triceps as the padded gloves made contact with the bag. The frame of the exoskeleton he wore encased his limbs and surrounded his ribs while traversing the length of his spine, lending more power to his blows while protecting his bones at the same time.

From the way his skin glistened with perspiration, she could tell that he’d been at it for a while.

“In or out, Lieutenant?” he huffed between blows, and Ella realized that even though he hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction, he knew it was her. Perhaps he’d recognized her voice when she’d spoken to him upon entering the room.

Resolutely, she marched to the farthest end of the room and called up a treadmill. Popping the earbuds she’d stowed in her pocket into her ears, Ella warmed up at a slow jog. After a few minutes, she increased the speed until she was loping along at a steady pace.

She waited for the endorphins to induce the elusive “runner’s high”, but it didn’t happen. Still hoping to outrun the misery of the day, she pushed herself into an outright sprint, as if Death himself were chasing her. She ran until her legs trembled and her lungs heaved before bringing the machine to an abrupt halt. Doubling over, she gasped for breath as sweat dripped from her face onto the platform beneath her.

She was barely able to hear Joker’s voice over the music. Yanking the earbuds out, she snapped, “What?”

He was still steadily abusing the bag. “I said, if running doesn’t help, try hitting things.” Pausing for the first time since she’d entered the room, he faced her and added, “Works for me.”

“Help with what?”

“With whatever brought you in here in the middle of the night. Unless running at oh-three-hundred is your usual cardio routine?”

Still breathing heavily, Shepard stepped off the treadmill and approached him. “Okay, fine. I’ll try punching. But not that thing,” she said, giving the fake bag a dismissive nod.

His eyebrows shot up. “You had something...or someone...else in mind?”

“Scared?” she challenged.

He gave her a wide-eyed stare of entirely simulated fear. “Why, yes, Lieutenant. I’m only N7-qualified and still new at this whole ‘Spectre thing’ - which we both know they hand out to just about anyone. And even without this metal cage I wear, I have at least 20 kilos on you - but that’s likely just useless flab. So, yes, I’m terrified.”

Shepard found his mockery to be infuriating. “With permission to speak frankly, sir, let’s cut the shit and do this.”

With an incredulous bark of laughter, he tossed her a pair of fingerless training gloves. “Ready when you are,” he said, trading his boxing gloves for a similar pair.

Ella slapped the button to stow the treadmill, watching it collapse and fold into the floor. Moreau did the same with the boxing apparatus, and they were left standing on a firm mat with plenty of open space to maneuver. With an irritated motion, she yanked her dampened t-shirt over her head - leaving her in just a sports bra and shorts - and began visualizing the fight about to happen.

All of Moreau’s brash assertions were true - but she also knew they didn’t matter. In a real fight, she had no doubt he could take her down with one well-placed strike. But sparring was different. The goal was to defeat your opponent without crippling them. You had to land the most blows, wear them down - bring them slowly to their knees.

She knew he would likely underestimate her skill level. That would be an advantage for her, along with her speed and agility. Also, she mused, he would be holding back for fear of seriously injuring her - wouldn’t look good to put his pilot in the medbay.

She’d won her fair share of hand-to-hand combat bouts during basic training using a similar strategy. She had no doubt that Moreau was better than all of her fellow recruits combined. But she was determined to give him a run for his money - if for no better reason than to shut him up…

...and to wipe that stupid smirk off his face.

The goal was to play dumb, take it easy, and wait for the right moment before going for the takedown.

Gloves in place, she banged her fists together twice. “Ready.” Time to look aggressive, but unskilled.

Moving to the middle of the room, he called, “Gym - music.” The sound system came on, blasting pounding drums and screeching guitars through the speakers. “Volume four!” he shouted over the din, and the decibel level dropped instantly. “Fucking memory modes,” he muttered, but Ella was already focused on the task at hand and barely noticed.

They faced off, hands raised in their guard. They circled each other, dancing on the balls of their feet - studying their adversary’s movements for weaknesses. Shepard concentrated on making some of her motions deliberately clumsy without being too obvious about it.

Joker jabbed experimentally with his right, and Ella blocked it. The second time he followed the jab with a cross, which she also dodged easily. His moves were blatantly predictable, which only confirmed her suspicion that he didn’t consider her a serious threat.

All fighters tend to lead with their dominant hand, but even semi-competent pugilists are aware of this, and consciously compensate for the preference. So when Joker led with a lazy left hook next, she smoothly ducked beneath it and sprang back up, wearing a cocky grin.

“That all you got, Commander?” she taunted. Project over-confidence.

He responded with a sly smirk of his own. “Not even close.”

They settled into a groove, each of them landing a few shots, but missing far more. Moreau was as good as she’d expected, mixing his punches with no discernible pattern. But the longer they sparred, the more she began to notice the way certain muscles would coil in preparation for a particular swing. This gave her the extra half-second reaction time she needed to bob and weave around the bulk of his attack.

The next time he threw a hook, she braced herself and allowed it to glance across her chin, knocking her back a step. She saw his satisfied grin, and knew that he was convinced he could defeat her whenever he chose. Right where I want him.

She darted forward and landed two quick uppercuts to his midsection that caused him to grunt uncomfortably. However, before she could retreat, he answered with a flurry of quick blows that she found impossible to avoid, finishing too many of them and leaving her clinging to him for support - and to impede any further offensive. “Surrender?” he breathed into her ear, and she shook him off, angrily.

Quivering with exhaustion, she managed to lift her fists once more, but she knew her time was running out. For all of her clever planning, she’d not factored in how much her earlier run had drained her reserves, and she was tiring faster than she’d anticipated.

And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was as guilty of underestimating her opponent as he was - perhaps more so.

Which, considering that he was humanity’s first Spectre, seemed incredibly stupid, in hindsight.

Knowing she was all but finished, Joker toyed with her like a cat would a mouse, throwing jabs that she blocked with ease - but which continued to erode her defenses. Sweat dripped from his face, but she took little satisfaction in his mutual exhaustion when her leaden arms were refusing to obey her commands.

When, inevitably, she deked too slowly, his glove met her lower lip, snapping her head back and sending her to one knee. Head bowed, she spat blood onto the floor, gulping air into her burning lungs. The fight was over, but she had one last trick up her sleeve - made possible only because of the honor of her opponent, and her knowledge of that decency.

She felt a little guilty about exploiting this - but not guilty enough to abandon her plan.

She remained in that pose, head lowered, sucking air. From there, she could see Joker bent over, hands on knees, also trying to catch his breath. When she didn’t rise immediately, he gasped, “Lieutenant?” Receiving no response, he straightened and took a step in her direction. “Hey. Ella?” The concern was audible in his voice, evoking another quick tinge of regret, but when he drew near enough, Ella didn’t hesitate.

With a surge of adrenaline that belied her fatigue, she leapt to her feet and threw her first kick of the match. As she’d expected, he got a forearm up in time to partially deflect the roundhouse the instant before her shin would have crashed into his temple - leaving him wide open to the follow-up jab that caught him square in the chin. It was a quick strike, without the required energy to put much power into it, but he was off-balance enough to stagger backwards.

I did -

That celebratory thought came a moment too soon. Even dazed, Joker had the presence of mind to kick out and sweep her feet from under her - causing her to crash down directly on top of him.

She lay there, stunned and limp, her cheek pressed painfully into one of the metal ribs of his exoskeleton. Their hot, sweaty bodies were tangled together, but there was nothing sexual about the moment - or, if there was, she was simply too consumed with the process of acquiring oxygen to notice it.

Apparently, Joker felt the same way, because he shifted beneath her with an uncomfortable grunt. “Knee. Groin. Off.”

“Sec,” she panted. “Can’t move.”

Twisting, he gave a helpful shove that sent her rolling sideways, and she sprawled onto her back beside him. They both lay there for awhile, unmoving, until Ella’s respiration began to slow and her trembling diminished.

“Remind me never to spar with you again,” Joker groaned, still staring at the ceiling. “I’m gonna be sore as hell tomorrow, and I’m gonna have to explain to my team that I got beat up by a girl.”

“Well,” she replied, ruefully, turning to look at him as her muscles screamed in protest, “you can always add the ever-popular, ‘But you should see the other guy.’”

He swiveled his head in her direction, their faces now mere inches apart. She noticed an abrasion on his scruffy cheek - a blow she hadn’t even realized she’d landed. He looked nearly as spent as she felt - more from the events of the day and lack of sleep than as a result of their largely one-sided match, no doubt. For her part, she was drained of her earlier fury - at him, at Ash, at the universe - leaving only emptiness in its wake.

So gently that it caused no pain, Joker’s thumb landed on her split lip, tugging it downward and causing her lips to part. “Sorry about that,” he told her, gruffly. “I got a little carried away.”

What the prior moment had lacked in sexual tension, this one more than made up for. It felt like a live electrical charge was coursing through her body, emanating from where his finger met her skin. “Yeah,” she breathed, gazing into his eyes, “I know a thing or two about that.”

Ella knew from his expression that he was preparing to kiss her and - despite all of the rational reasons why she shouldn’t - she knew from her own reaction that she was going to let him. Her heart pounded and her breath caught as his face inched closer, his gaze falling to her mouth. She felt his hand slide behind her neck, and she closed her eyes…

...just as the room went pitch black and the music fell silent.

She froze, eyes flying open in surprise. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed Joker hesitate before pulling away, his hand slipping from her hair.

She felt him move, and when the lights blinked on again, he was sitting upright. “Motion sensors,” he mumbled, not looking in her direction.

“Oh, they...time out?” Ella inquired, echoing his movement and rising up beside him. “That never happened before when I, uh…”

“Before, when you were lying on top of a man in the ship’s gym?” He quirked an eyebrow in her direction. “This is a regular thing for you, then? Anyone I know?”

“No!” Ella stammered, flushing. “I meant, when I’ve used the gym before. To work out. Alone.”

Mercifully, Joker let the subject drop, and staggered to his feet. “Guess we should get out of here,” he remarked, offering her a hand.

She took it, wincing as he hauled her to her feet. “Yeah, guess so.”

“You going to be okay?” he asked, gathering his towel and water bottle.

“Sure.” Ella grabbed her shirt and earbuds, and shuffled painfully toward the door. “Nothing a hot shower and a cold compress on my mouth won’t fix. ‘Least I should be able to sleep, now.”

“I’d, ah, appreciate it if you didn’t tell people that I literally punched you in the face.”

Shepard offered a half-grin around her swelling lip. “Don’t worry sir, what happens in the sparring ring stays in the sparring ring. Which is good, as ‘tried to kick commanding officer in the head’ isn’t exactly the stuff of career advancement.”

Moreau’s face relaxed a bit. “Okay, then. G’night.”

“‘Night.”

He started for his quarters, but then stopped and turned back to her. “Ella. I’m sorry about what I said to you earlier, in the cockpit. Ash was a damned good soldier. And I know she was your friend. You are absolutely entitled to grieve for her, and she will be mourned - by all of us.”

Shepard’s vision blurred, but no words came even as he turned and slipped into the darkness.

Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

She stumbled into the bathroom and rinsed the acrid sweat from her aching body, the thin towel grating like sandpaper across her sensitive skin as she dried off. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she crossed the corridor to the women’s dorm and shrugged back into her tank top and a clean pair of underwear before collapsing onto the bed. She worried briefly about lying awake - thinking of near-kisses and friends she would never see again - but she was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.