Author's Notes: A post-ME3 fic that shamelessly employs theory over canon.

"Dammit"

It was too cold for June and her hands were starting to chap enough to start to crack and bleed. Alliance dress was far too keen on function over form for her tastes. God, had she missed her old uniform; it had style in addition to functionality and, most importantly, gloves. Gloves would prevent this kind of crap. That was about as long as her list of complaints went, however. Standard issue fatigues were the hottest in fashion on a crippled Earth, and Miranda Lawson hadn't exactly packed a travel bag when she hit ground side with her small but sufficient complement of Cerberus expats during the final push against the Reapers.

Her nerves then just twitched as if she had been electrocuted from the inside. The simple word Reaper was still a fresh on every one's mind-and their wounds. The last of them had only been confirmed dead three weeks, two days, and eight hours ago. She had been counting. Everyone left alive in all of this had been counting along with her. The Reapers were absolutely, unequivocally, without contention or doubt, dead. That the immense cheque they cashed to see it so had yet to bounce was testament to their victory, to their sacrifice.

There was still too much in the wake of the Reaper's destruction for there to be an after party. You had your tearful reunions that were even more tearful than recent confirmations of casualties. But no one had yet taken it upon themselves to get up and officially announcing at the top of their lungs, to humanity and all its allies that it was over. The harsh reality was that it wasn't. Wars were messy in their aftermath. Narrowly avoided galactic genocide of all sapient life just left a bigger mess. Everyone was part of the clean-up, and Miranda was no exception.

She had just dragged her last wounded soldier out of a heap of rubble and to the shuttles when the call came in they were pulling out of this area. They had been at this task with some to little success for more hours than a day seemed to hold. Everyone deployed to recovering the dead and dying were starting to look more like the people they were salvaging as the hours went by. Again, Miranda was no exception.

She pulled her hair out of the haphazard knot she had it in under a blue Alliance cap before stepping back on the e-vac shuttles with the rest of the pickup crew. It felt good to let her dry, lifeless black curls fall back around her face as the shuttles jerked up off the ground, giving her a much needed exposure to a nice breeze. However short lived that was as the shuttle doors snapped closed and Miranda retreated to the harnessed sets in the back. She felt every inch of her body throb with ache as she buckled in.

At the front, the pilot called out to her their ETA from here to the nearest base and hospital. He called her something that wasn't Miranda. To the Alliance pilot and everyone aboard, she was Cassandra Walker-a civilian doctor volunteering with the Alliance to help with search and rescue here on Earth. A galactic war at an end, her father dead, and Cerberus completely eradicated. And she was still running.

Alliance brass had been privy to know she had been responsible for a rash of raids on Cerberus facilities and sympathizers, but that didn't mean she wasn't going announce who she was and simply stay topside. A Reaper invasion was enough to keep top brass off of her, but there were plenty of people just coming out of the trenches who would just love to get their hands on someone formerly high up in Cerberus's echelons. Hiding out in the open was easier now that only the chance of some revenge-seeking victim of Cerberus was what concerned her.

This was her own doing, with a little help from some of the other ex-Cerberus operatives she had brought with her. It was easy to cull support from other Cerberus refugees. They were in it as just bad as she was; connected to Cerberus and with family and loved ones to shield from misguided retribution. Right now, she just had to keep her head low and her wits sharp while keeping busy and staying useful. Her safety was Oriana's safety. Anyone who wanted to give to the crimes Cerberus committed in this war voice, it would sure be her own, and would be sure to use Oriana against her. Even when the entire galaxy stood together, something would always keep her on her toes.

Oriana was here, was safe, and she couldn't complain with the humble connections she had carved for herself here on Earth. Hindsight was 20-20 and Miranda could see just how lucky she was, in light of things.

At least she could never say she was bored. Or worse, left with her own thoughts. But there always something; a fly in the web she surrounded herself in that buzzed incessantly night and day that robbed her of any semblance of peace of mind; an elephant in some dark room of her mind that never made just sitting down a comfortable experience. The fine print in what was supposed to be the makings of a new life.

Shepard wasn't here.

The shuttle hit the landing pad before she could let that sobering thought creep out from back of her mind where she planned to keep it. She and a few other volunteers were moved here last night to aid the Alliance: a twenty-first century underground nuclear disposal facility that had been retrofitted to operate as both a hospital and an Alliance base. Nothing was left to go to waste; as soon as the smoke settled there was a massive land grab to re-purpose anything that could be used to see to the basic needs of what was left of Earth's population and the some million allied forces in this system holding their collective breath until word came back on just what the hell had happened to the Sol Relay.

Whatever happened with Shepard and the Citadel set the sky on fire, literally.

Miranda stopped herself from dwelling right there. She scrambled out of her harness and out onto the landing pad to sign over the wounded to triage, and the less fortunate to mortuary crew. She directed the small army of doctors and other medical staff to the shuttles they were respectively needed before ducking into the base. Hit the rack for an hour, or check in on Ori who was out working with a multi-race engineer team that oversaw the logistics of temporary housing. Miranda sometimes forgot her baby sister was a free-thinking adult. Sometimes.

She brought up the time display on her omni-tool. Ori was four hours out from where she was, and either working or sleeping like a normal human being given the late hour. For once, her sister would have to come second to a much needed rest. Miranda stepped into one of the building's archaic elevators and punched the display pad for the staff quarters. This was her life now, for better or worse. It kept her moving, if anything.

Cassandra Walker's quarters-her quarters-were spartan, even in this time of limited resources. There was a bed, a desk, a small bathroom, and the one dresser for her grand total of three outfits. Her upper lip curled. When all of this was behind them and a footnote in universal history, Miranda was doing some damn shopping.

She stripped herself of everything but an undershirt and panties before collapsing in the bed that could only be called such because someone put a wooden frame and extra padding on a cot. It felt good. Miranda had almost relaxed when the call came in from her omni-tool.

The displayed blared that reception needed her ASAP.

"Dr. Walker?"

Staff, volunteer or no, were not permitted to turn them off at anytime. She really hated that rule. Why did omni-tools have to be holographic display tech. She couldn't throw a hologram at the wall.

"Walker here." Miranda still managed to sound alert and attentive while gritting her teeth against her pillow. They were going to ask her to come down for one reason or another; that mean putting clothes back on.

"Dr. Walker, um..." The line went silent for a moment. Whomever was working reception was either new enough, or stupid enough to know casualty numbers racked up when she was kept waiting. Miranda was all set to let them have it when,

"Admiral Hackett just asked for you."

Alright; that certainly was enough incentive that got her up and moving. No sooner did she say she would be down was she dressed, her hair hastily flipped up into a field cap, then making a beeline into the nearest elevator. When a call like that came in she would have to use the secure comm room down in reception just to get a signal.

Bunker-turned-reception was a ghost town. Miranda scanned the room to find it as empty as she had anticipated it to be; the dead and dying had few visitors when everyone were similarly stuck in either of those categories. There was a telling sort of quiet in the air that put her on edge as she made her way over to the reception desk.

A woman-Alliance; top brass by the looks of her, and pushing her fifties was chatting up reception. Miranda had expected Hackett on vid-comm, not this. Sending someone out on a moments notice was a gross misappropriation of already strained resources. Unless this was a bigger emergency than could be handled in the comm room. Before she could process all worse case scenarios to warrant this the woman became aware of Miranda's presence.

Before saying anything to Miranda, the woman waved off the receptionist. When she turned to face her Miranda noted that her disposition made her stick out. It was disarmingly cheery.

"Miranda Lawson? Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard, I'd like you to come with me."

RDML. Shepard smiled. Miranda dropped all pretense to gawk.

When the Alliance came for her the first time, Shepard had told her to cooperate long enough to get the hell out of dodge and leave it all to her. When the Alliance came for her again, Miranda followed Shepard.

A Shepard.