It looks bad, but I'm positive we'll be able to do with what's given to us. They've installed steel clamps on the broken bones that feed continuous medi-gel into his system, but we're slaving over a body. Facial reconstruction will be required, and the Illusive Man wishes to upgrade his biotic amps with the best possible without over-taxing his system. We'll be drawing on all of our knowledge from the Ascension Project, I'm sure of it. That is, if we can even get his heart beating. Wilson wants to place an electrode-simulator on the heart to keep a steady beat, but all that would do is weaken the cell walls and give free access to every metal-born infection out there. Well, at least we aren't slaving over a quarian. We're still hypothesizing and eventually I'll have to put my foot down. He's locked in cryo-stasis until we can figure something. Even so, this project could take a year or more if we have something solid to go on. But we won't fail.

Project Log 1, Miranda Lawson, ENCRYPT PASPRO

The Lazarus Project - 2 years and 12 days after the Normandy's destruction.

Wake up, Commander.

Nice try, Alenko, but I'm pretty tired. I was warm, but not necessarily comfortable. My head hurt, a migraine maybe, and I felt nauseous and feverish. Surely Kaiden could understand that the great Commander Shepard didn't exactly want to run around and save the galaxy today.

Kaiden's face bloomed in front of my eyes, fading away as quickly as he came. I didn't recognize the expression on his face, but I was drawn to it. Shepard. . .

Kaiden, really, go away. I need to sleep. You're making me feel worse. But he wouldn't leave me alone, and he kept pestering me. Why couldn't he just say 'aye, aye,' get Chakwas, and have her take care of my fever? God, I was hot. I was sweating, and I knew it. Strange, I couldn't remember ever having a fever such as this before. Maybe I should wake up, see if we're near Eden Prime yet.

Kaiden gripped my shoulder, intently looking at me. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Instead, I heard the meaning in my mind, and suddenly the weight of the galaxy was crushing on my chest. I don't regret a thing, Commander.

Kaiden!

I jerked around in the fever that was my prison, coming back to reality with giant, gulping breaths that seemed to expand that weight in my chest. "My God, he's waking up!" A man, more real than the fever-dreams, hovered at my face. Middle-aged and balding, he wore Alliance-issue military fatigues. Right then I didn't care about the military or anything about it–I needed to save Kaiden.

Bombs exploded in my head, drowning out the sound of a woman, human by the sound of her. I continued to pant, pain racking every part of my body from my head to my toes, and watched events fly past my eyes both startling slow and frighteningly fast. Kaiden died, my fault, my damn fault, and the Council. . . Rage in my chest as I remembered Udina, setting course for Ilos, the feel of Ashley's skin against my own, and the attack. Sovereign.

Reapers.

I tried to howl in pain as the rubble crushed my leg–I could feel it, like it was actually happening–and all that came out was a strangled gasp. A month passed me by quickly, anger accompanying the many Council meetings and daily medications, and the Normandy became the focus again. Hi, Commander, Joker says darkly, powering up the engines. He's just mad at the Council, Pressly explains when I ask. I am, too. This is stupid.

And then I watched as my life dwindled to nothing. I closed my eyes.

&.

(Miranda)

"Stats are back to normal," Wilson reported from his station, throwing glances back at Shepard like he just needed to make sure he was really knocked out and not faking. I felt my heart beginning to slow and beat its normal rhythm, the adrenaline leaving my fingers shaking as I double-checked the monitors showing his neural scans and brain waves. "That was too close."

"Very," I confirmed, my jaw working. The scans were falling back into the previous pattern, all signs of the sudden spike wiped from the screen. "We nearly lost him."

"He's alive, though," Wilson said, turning back to his station, ill-disguised glee in his voice. "He woke up, that's something!"

I felt a brief flair of irritation and bit out, "And nearly died from it. What went wrong? Did you screw up the dosages?" Before he could answer I had crossed over and I was reading the charts over his shoulder. He bristled, but I could care less. That one moment had nearly cost me two years of my effort, and there was no way in the world I'd let this small, insignificant man take that away from me. I found what I was looking for, and frowned. "His immune system is working through the meds faster than I'd anticipated. . . we'll have to lower that, somehow, before the white bloodcells begin to make a problem."

"Leukemia isn't going to be an issue," he said smoothly, adjusting a schematic on his omni-tool. "The medi-gel regulating through his system automatically keeps things in check. I wrote the program, remember?"

"How could I not?" Wilson's 'program' was part of the bio-synthetic scheme I'd accepted a year ago. No matter how annoyingly persistent the man was, he was the best medical technician around. He'd introduced a micro-chip into her aortic valve, which regulated the flow of all blood cells and made adjustments when necessary. It had four basic tasks when it detected an anomaly: kill a percentage of white blood cells or red blood cells if there were too much of either of them, introduce clones of white or red where there is a lacking, send waves of medi-gel and antibiotics (recyclable) to an open-wound cut, and alert both Wilson and I if any of these were undertaken, the parameters involved, and if it was resolved. Brilliant, but it could be faulty at times. Wilson just liked to believe he was playing God, and I liked to think I was tempering that side of him. "But the fact of the matter is that his immune system is burning through our medications. What happens when it has nothing left to fight?"

"Relax, I've got it under control–"

I gripped his shoulder. Hard. "This isn't a game. Shepard nearly died. Run the numbers again."

He glared at me, chewing on whatever snappish reply he was about to make, and decided that he valued his life over pride. He turned back to his omni-tool and entered a new parameter. He read the lines for a moment, still chewing, and turned the orange holo off with a click of his middle finger to his palm. "I'll fix that right away," he said, not meeting my eyes.

"Good." I squeezed his shoulder one last time and returned to my own station. "Foreword me your results and I'll set the machine to give him an extra dose every hour."

"Yeah, gotcha."

I spent the remainder of my shift alternating between finding a good immuno-suppressant and watching Shepard's monitors. He was deep in REM sleep, which was satisfying; he would need all the sleep as humanly possible if he wished to heal. Facial reconstruction had been needed a few days previously when he began to breath on his own, and the previous scar that had dominated his face had been wiped away clean by the new folds of healthy skin. We hadn't finished with that part, however–time and necessity had stalled the remainder of the surgery, so tiny cracks where his old scar used to be now seemed to glow with a soft orange light.

I was elated, though I was careful not to show it in case things went wrong. Only a week ago his heart began to beat, three days ago he began to breath, and today he was waking up. All of those years, all of that time spent slaving over his body, they were beginning to pay off in a good way. The Illusive Man was impressed when I gave him my report, a slight smile to his features that gave me a feeling of bitter satisfaction. It was as much his achievement as mine, and we had really, really done the impossible.

Not only did we bring a soldier back to life, we brought back the best.

I left after Wilson's shift ended and joined Jacob for lunch to give him a status update. Normally I took my meals in my office instead of the general mess hall, but today seemed like the day for out of the ordinary events. He raised his brows a bit when I took my seat, oblivious to the sudden consternation among his normal group. "Well, well, Miss Lawson, here's a surprise."

"I told you I'd keep you updated," I said, adding some salt to the french fries on my plate. "Shepard woke up," I told him in a voice low enough not to carry. He blinked and whistled in amazement, but before he could ask his questions I told him what happened on a layman's scale and the progress that had been made that week. As I spoke, he waved for his men to find another table. They retreated, glancing back curiously, and soon we were left alone. "I assume you're prepared for every eventuality?"

"Of course," he said confidently. Jacob Taylor was of African descent, tall and well-built, and had a low, calming deep-timbre voice that was just as capable of shouting at gunnery sergeants as it was to calm a frightened bystander. I liked his morals, though I'd never admit it to him. He was as honest as a being could be, and I respected that. "Want me to be there when you're ready to wake him up for good?"

I knew why he'd ask that–he was former Alliance, and he knew just as well as I did the calming effect he had on people. Since he and I were meant to travel with Shepard when he woke it would only be fair for him to be introduced as early as possible. "Yes, I would like that, actually. We don't know if he'll be mentally sound when he wakes, so it could probably take a few days to make sure he's exactly as we got him."

"Besides 'dead' you mean," Jacob said knowingly, lathering ketchup on to his hamburger. He hadn't taken a bite until then, a testament to how riveted he'd been. He took a mouthful, chewed, and gave a big swallow. "I know I already told you before–" he paused to smother a burp with his hand "–but nobody's supposed to come back from the dead. We just disproved every religion out there with this, y'know. And Shepard, he's a believer. How will we explain that the grassy green hills of Heaven are actually Cerberus-issued, huh?"

"I'll figure something out," I promised. I had to. I knew Shepard more intimately than any other living person in the galaxy–the past two years were devoted to him and only to him, mapping out mental capacities, fighting styles, what made him move the way he did. Having such a thorough understanding of one's life gives you power, but if you weren't careful that power could give you overconfidence. I had to take one step at a time, evaluate him as necessary, work out the kinks.

Jacob left earlier than he normally would have, clearing his tray and setting off for target practice in B-Wing. I let him go, pondering over a french fry, and twirled it around in my mouth as I did so. Finally I ate it, aware of the more than usual preoccupation with me as I cleared my own tray and went the opposite way to my office in D-Wing. Wilson, who was just walking out, didn't even pause to look at me as he frowned over a new technical readout. I didn't recognize the data processing streams, and it occurred to me later that perhaps I should have looked closer.

I took a seat in my chair and shook the mouse to open up the computer screen. I typed in my password–a mix of numbers, letters, and a single Greek character–and spoke my name into the microphone. I hadn't received Wilson's report yet and felt frustrated with his lack of proper conduct. I immediately sent him an email, kindly reminding him–by my standards–about his duty, then logged on to another secure account to make sure nothing interesting had popped up.

The Lazarus Project, named after Lazarus of Bethany whom Jesus restored life to four days after his death, had one specific aim–bring Commander Valar Shepard back to life.

Well, we've done it, I thought, an unusual feeling gripping my chest.. Two years. . . time well spent.

I contemplated the screen for a whole hour, my mind flying over the time spent in the space station in a rare moment of reflection, when I heard the first of the base's alarms go off.

It started as a high-pitched alarm and slid down the range of notes in a perfect glissando, the signal for a severe breach in security. I groped underneath the desk and grabbed the weapon stuck beneath it even as I keyed to Jacob's channel with the other hand. Electric fuzz met my ears and I cursed. Keeping the gun in reach I keyed into all major camera channels and scanned for trouble, starting with Shepard's room.

The doctors on duty–Cecil, Golden, Hawthorn–were barricading the entrance to the medical room with an assortment of desks, chairs, and tables. A security guard I didn't recognize was covering them, taking potshots at the security mechs coming down the stairs. I felt my stomach ice in response and made to stand and kill them all when my brain took over.

Cecil, Golden, and Darring were good, loyal men. Cecil was the most likely to turn traitor, but there were no motives for his doing so. It made me stop and think, and I wondered. . .

I keyed in the code for the mess hall I'd just vacated. The picture on the screen was brutal–somebody had hacked security and overridden the mechs' IFF commands. They cut down the screaming doctors, technicians, and security personnel with deadly precision, unaware that they'd been hacked, unaware that they were gunning down the people they'd worked for–

I checked the hallway cameras and, realizing nobody was going to run for it, I sealed the doors with an overriding command that would keep it locked as tightly as an airlock. I forwarded a priority distress call to the Illusive Man and went back to the camera in Shepard's room. It felt like a betrayal, not checking up on Jacob, but he could handle himself.

Golden had sealed the door leading into Shepard's room and I hastened to add an extra layer of security in case the mechs broke through. The guard was long dead, laying limp in a pool of his own blood while Darring worked on his body and Cecil took his place. The doctor was a horrible shot, but occasionally he hit, and he was doing much better than his comrade. Darring had always struck me as a bit unhinged, but the way he was working over the guard's dead body spoke in more volumes than a few simple interviews ever could.

The mechs broke through and slaughtered them all, laying round after round into their fleshy bodies until they were more certainly dead. I watched, on the edge of my seat, as they studied the closed door leading into Shepard's room. . . and turned away.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The room was uncharted on their systems, something I'd been sure not to let slip to anybody, and a failsafe in the system prevented them from entering past the first door. Apparently whoever had hacked them hadn't counted on that. I watched them leave and brought up a technical screen mimicking the one in the medical station. With a twitch of a finger I stopped the flow of the sedative and administered the neural stimulant.

The effect was almost immediate. Shepard stirred in his sleep, his large hands curling into fists at his sides. Hoping beyond hope there was some way to salvage the situation, I activated the intercom. "Commander Shepard, you must wake up," I said loudly into the microphone. "This facility is under attack."

Shepard jerked once, his lips forming a word I couldn't hear over the connection, and opened one brilliant green eye.

He's alive.

He began to sit up, clutching his chest with one hand, and began to pull the wires out of his arms, his legs, and took off the electrodes taped to his head with a mean brutality. He was completely bald and clean-shaven, a necessity, and I hoped his hair would grow back soon. It wasn't how I'd wanted to wake him up, but there was no choice. I had to get him out.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked–and his hand immediately shot up to massage his jaw.

"There's no time," I spoke, throwing a quick look at the doors. "Somebody's hacked security to try and kill you. There's a storage locker in the corner of the room to your right."

The room rocked with an explosion, the flickering lights swaying dangerously above my head. "Hurry up!" I yelled.

He might have been dead for two years, but he wasted no time in dithering about. He snapped on the custom N7 armor we'd acquired for him with the savage air of a man preparing for a suicide run. "The Normandy was destroyed," he said, slipping on his armored gauntlets. "Who made it out?"

"I'll tell you everything, but you need to hurry," I implored. I could hear gunfire in the distance–the mechs were getting closer. I gripped my weapon, reassuring myself that I could fight my way out if need be.

He cursed under his breath as he observed the gun. "I don't have a heat sink," he stated. He ran his hand over his head, a habit I'd learned about from old emails sent between his mother and a neighbor when he was in eighth grade and living on Elysium. His fingers stopped for a moment and probed at the place where his hair should have been, and he closed the locked to get a good look at himself in the reflection. He was still for a second, then said, "I still don't have a heat sink."

"We'll find you one." I opened one of the doors leading out into a small square room. If the doctors had taken cover there, they might have survived until help arrived. I felt nothing for their loss except for a strange detachment. The Illusive Man had, after all, spent a ton of money to bring them in o the Lazarus Project. Shepard walked out and picked up a heat sink that must have dropped from the guard's belt when he fell. He slammed it into the butt of his pistil and signaled he was ready to move on. I opened the next door. He took cover at the barricade, glancing at the dead bodies. "They tried to protect you," I explained. "Head up those stairs to your right, I'm going to take you to the transportation hub."

Despite security procedure, the hacker must have decided to leave a surprise for anybody willing to rescue the good Commander. The lone LOKI mech was curled up in its default position, looking for all intents and purposes like a canister, and as soon as Shepard took a leap over the barrier (I felt a triumphant grin cross my face) it unfolded itself and opened fire. Shepard was obviously still not feeling it–he would have a high fever, a headache, and other flu-like symptoms–but he could still aim. It's head exploded with a well-placed shot to its' optics.

After checking around some more, he cautiously made his way up the stairs, stooping to pick up another heatsink. "Are you the same woman who was with me when I woke up earlier?" he asked, checking over his shoulder.

"Yes," I confirmed, barely even paying attention to his queries as I checked the surrounding rooms for ambushes. "My name is Miranda. Go through that door and take cover by the garden, our friend left a few surprises."

"Copy that." Shepard entered the main office and ran for the central garden, pressing his back against the cool metal wall. "Sounds like they're powering up. . ."

I couldn't hear anything over the intercom, but I wasn't surprised. We'd upgraded him with sensory enhancement packages, after all. He popped out of cover to deliver a few well-placed shots at the security mechs beginning to pile up on the landing. I gripped the butt of the gun hard as I watched. If anything went wrong–

He popped out of cover to deal with the last one, his clips spent. A slight disturbance in the air, like a heat wave, was the only warning. The mech was thrown across the room, hitting the wall hard enough to shatter its chassis. It crumpled to the ground like a fly after you've swatted it, its' optical sensors no longer flashing. Shepard collapsed back under cover, breathing hard. "Good job," I told him, trying to get him moving. "You'll need to go out the door they come in from. Are you okay?"

"Just. . . a bit tired," he said, rubbing his bald head again. After a few short minutes he seemed to regain his strength and began to collect clips. "Are there any survivors I should look for?"

"No," I said at once, though I recognized the intent behind the question. "None of your crew members from the Normandy are at this facility."

"I notice you're not saying 'hospital.'"

Another explosion made further comments null and void. Shepard gripped a rail for support and hurried up the stairs. He arrived on a small balcony overlooking the fuel chambers and another door on the bottom level. I made him take cover and wait as I checked all of the other cameras, then said, "A group of mechs are inbound to your position. The floorboard your standing on is a trap door, housing a grenade launcher. Take it. With one well-placed shot you might get them all before they start shooting back."

Shepard said nothing and retrieved the grenade launcher. I unlocked the seals on the door, conscious of the sudden probe into my communications. The hacker, whoever they were, knew what they were doing.

If he gets to me, I'll have to give Shepard the best possible chance to get out. I kept an eye on him, following the grenade's trajectory as it arced through the air, landing in the middle and slightly to the right of the approaching mechs. I tried not to wince as rounds thudded into his shields just before the group was encased in a slathering inferno. There was a sudden hiss of escaping gas from one of the fuel tanks beside the fire, and I knew I had only seconds. "Get to the elevator!" I yelled.

Shepard took the elevator, placing the grenade launcher in a holder on his back, and paused as he considered the line of fire in front of him. "No time for fire extinguishers, just run for it!" I growled.

He took a deep breath–I could see his shoulders move–and sprinted for the open door. I sealed it shut behind him, and not a second too soon. Over the intercom I heard a colossal explosion, and two o my cameras went dark. "Good job. Now just keep continuing upwards–oh–shit!"

The doors behind me were starting to smoulder with heat as the security mechs began to cut through. I got out of my chair, taking cover behind my desk. "Shepard, you have to–dammit, get to the hub! East of your position, follow the signs–and don't die!"

My last words were accentuated by the deep explosion of a YMR Heavy crashing through the doorway, using its mass and superior firepower to take the door off of its hinges. In the brief commotion that followed I overloaded my computer with a wave of my omni-tool, deleting my data and crashing the system irrepairably.

"I'm not done yet," I whispered. Another wave of my hand overloaded its shields. Blue electric currants ran across its body as it made up for the sudden loss. They might have been huge constructs of security design, but they were incredibly weak as you tore down their defenses. It spotted me then and opened fire with its large, machine-gun arm. I dove to the side and pressed my hand against one of the inconspicious buttons on either side of my desk. "Burn!"

The keyword and DNA confirmed, the turrets built into the wall activated. The mech, torn between four different threats, focused on the human one. It stumbled to the side as the force of the turrets' combined firepower pushed it back, and I reached out with one hand to slam a biotic force against its armor, weakening and crippling it with a single blow. It fell to the ground in a heap, beeping almost inaudibly, and I huddled as close to my desk as I dared for protection.

"Lethal fire authorized." I could hear a mech group approaching my office only to get gunned down by the turrets. Those who survived the initial blasts didn't soon after, however–the YMR heavy exploded in a last, desperate security measure. Large pieces of shrapnel threw themselves against the wall, disintegrating on impact. At last, all was silent.

I blew out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and tried to open another communications channel. "Blocked," I muttered in dismay, biting my lip as I tried to find another rerouter. When the search came up with nothing, I checked for a wireless interface close by. All omni-tools had them, and if there was somebody still alive out there it might help me narrow down the traitor.

A signal was broadcasting from A-Wing, where Shepard was. It was registered to Wilson. I tilted my head a little to the side as I considered this, then decided I wasn't surprised. I'd been looking for a chance to fire him since he'd arrived, and now it just looked like I'd have to do it in a more terminal fashion.

There was no room for foolishness. I composed a brief message to the Illusive Man and set it to send whenever my omni-tool came within range of a wi-fi outpost. I touched my middle finger to my palm to close it and proceeded down the hallway, my gun held out in front of me to take care of any strays.

The Lazarus Project, like any other Cerberus outpost, had a few backups in order. In alternating distances a steel pillar on either side of the hallways would jut out, giving just enough cover for a fire team to enter as necessary. Likewise, the garden I'd told Shepard to hide behind earlier was more than just simple convenience. As far as I knew, actually, I was the only one besides Jacob who knew about all of the enhancements, such as the unmapped room of Shepard's, or the turrets installed in my office. We had a lot of security mechs, though. If there was some way to override their commands, it would be at the main hub.

No time to go there–I just had to make it to the hanger, then double back along Shepard's intended path to fetch him if he hadn't made it yet.

And on the way, I'd keep a look out for Wilson. He was dead, he just didn't know it yet. And Jacob, too. He'd stay to look for you.

And I'd keep a look out for him, too, of course. Ice Queen I may be, I cared about some of the subjects under my rule.

Through the end of the hallway a fork leading to two separate areas of the station presented itself. Unwilling to take the elevator I squatted down and removed the cover from the ground behind the second-to-last pillar, revealing a small stairway lit with emergancy lights. Like Shepard's room, they didn't show up on the schematics. I made sure to replace the flooring and continued on my way down, alert for any sign of trouble even in this safe haven.

The stairway led to a smaller hallway about half the width of a krogan, lit only by small lights set into the walls that glowed softly as I walked by. The underground tunnels ran the entire length of the station, programmed against electronic interference, but there was always a chance Wilson poked around enough to know about it–God, I'd seen him going at it more than once. He'd been a duct rat on the Citadel when he was younger, one of those children who went crawling around in the ventilation shafts to hide from adults and security who could put them in their place, and that nature of poking and prodding never really left.

But for now it was the only option I could think of that stopped me from becoming cannon fodder for the rest of the security mechs he'd no doubt sent to take me out. D-Wing was probably swarming with them. He didn't underestimate me, and I'd finally stopped underestimating him. And if he managed to kill Shepard I'd shoot his testicles and bring him to the Illusive Man myself. The Commander probably wasn't even up to the task of shooting a few drones without getting himself shot up, which made my mission all the more pressing.

I took a roundabout route to the transportation bay, setting proximity mines for anything containing ample enough metal. It wouldn't stop a human, but if a mech even went an inch within the danger zone an electric overload big enough to drop a krogan warlord would bring it down. It was only a one-time usage, though, so that's why I covered my tracks.

People might have thought me weird for carrying around technical proximity mines and a gun for over two years, but that was called being prepared. If you weren't, you nearly deserved to die.

One of the tunnels branched off into a maintenance passageway behind the dropship, but you had to walk up stairs so steep it was more like climbing than walking. Using both hands, like a dog one would say, I climbed the rest of the way. The entire process took me about five minutes, and at the end I was beginning to lose a bit of my breath.

The drop shuttle, the only transportation to and from the base, remained untouched on the landing platform. A quick once-over revealed no bombs or tampering of any kind, which was unsurprising. Wilson, after all, wouldn't want to compromise his only way off of the station.

My, my, for such a mercenary you are very stupid.

I stepped into the elevator that would bring me to the ground level where I could complete my search for Jacob, Shepard, and Wilson, my weapon still gripped in my gloved hand. The door opened, and Wilson and I looked at each other in grim shock. "Miranda?" he sputtered. "But you were–" I reacted first, leveling the gun with his neck, and fired. He dropped to the ground in a limp pile of unresponsive limbs. And nobody is going to bring you back to life, bastard.

"Dead?" I asked.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jacob demanded, running over to catch up.

"My job," I stated. "Wilson betrayed us all."

Commander Shepard turned his pistil on me, steady and sure. "Even if you were sure, did he reall deserve that welcome?"

"I did my job," I retorted. "Wilson sabotaged our security systems, killed my staff, and tried to kill us in the process."

"You sure about that, Miranda?" Jacob asked. "We've known Wilson for years. What if you're wrong?"

"I'm never wrong. I would have thought you'd learned that by now, Jacob."

"You killed him," Shepard accused. He didn't lower his gun. "You could have taken him in for questioning if you were so sure."

"He would've killed us if he had enough brainpower to remember he had a gun," I said, crossing my arms. "He probably thought he was getting off easy. Get the ship and kill you two when you're looking the other way. Luckily, I got here first." I glanced down at his body, noting the gunshot wound on his leg. A slather of medi-gel clamped tightly to the wound, but the angle was all wrong. To a casual observer it'd look as though he was killed by a taller man than himself at a high angle, but I'm anything but casual. "Probably a little too soon for Wilson. Besides, I spent too long trying to bring you back to life to get you killed now."

"You really think Wilson's capable of that?" Jacob demanded.

I smirked. "Not any more."

Shepard and I both locked eyes for one, tense moment, and Shepard finally relaxed. "Yeah, I had the feeling he was looking for a chance to shoot me in the back."

"Good instincts," I said, then motioned to the elevator. We piled in, and Jacob pressed the lift button. "Most people are too oblivious to see it coming. I suppose you wish to know where we're going?"

"I already know you work for Cerberus," Shepard said, surprising me.

"But how could you?" I asked. "Unless. . . ah, Jacob, your conscience got the better of you."

"It was getting pretty tense," he said by way of explanation, shrugging. He turned to Shepard and said, "I know you don't trust Cerberus, but the Illusive Man spent a fortune to bring you back." The elevator door opened and they boarded the shuttle. "And I don't think lying to you is the best way to get you to join our cause."

Shepard's eyebrows twitched in response, but he nodded. "Alright. Take me to this Man of yours, and we'll see how it goes."

"You'll see our side before long, Commander," I said, keying in our destination.

"I want to know what happened to my crew," Shepard said, taking a seat as the ship began it's ascent.

"Navigator Pressly didn't make it," I said, sitting down across from him. As soon as we were in space my transmission to the Illusive Man cleared, so I sent a further message saying we were en route to a neighboring facility. "As well as a few crewmen from the lower decks."

"Ashley?"

"Survived. I don't know exactly what everybody is doing by now, but as far as I know she's stayed with the Alliance." He nodded, accepting this. We were all silent as the shuttle took off, leaving the facility behind. Jacob and Shepard glanced out the window to watch it disappear in the distance and I began to tinker with my omni-tool. "Now, Shepard, it's time to ask you some questions and evaluate your condition."

&.

(Shepard)

Miranda was doctor, all right. I hated doctors ever since I was a kid. They signified death and needles, and in her case it was completely true. Chakwas was the only exception to the rule, but even being under her care gave me the creeps. There was no way to know what they were injecting you with, implanting you with, whatever, and Miranda had done some serious upgrades to my body without my consent. I felt like I had a horrible case of flu, complete with the fever and body aches to boot, and she knew that. Realizing that it wasn't going to get any better if I acted like a jerk towards the people who saved my life, I was just about to relent when Jacob said, "Come on, Miranda, more tests? Shepard took down a bunch of mechs without any trouble. That's got to be good enough."

"It's been two years since the attack," Miranda said. "The Illusive Man needs to know if Shepard's personality and memory are the same as before. Ask the questions."

"Wait," I said, a horrible truth beginning to sink in. "Did you say two years? Was I out that long?"

"Two years and twelve days," Jacob confirmed. "And you were on the operating table for the most of it." Miranda nodded.

"The sooner we start," she said, "the sooner we can get done." I bristled angrily, trying to acount for two year–two years. What the hell happened between then and now? Why couldn't I remember? Wasn't there an afterlife, wasn't there. . . ? It felt like the world was spinning out of control, and I began to massage the brige of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. Ashley. . . I wanted Ashley. I wanted some kind of stability in all of this damn chaos. "Start with the personal history."

Jacob activated him omni-tool, not quite as oblivious to my distress as Miranda. "Okay. Records show you were a spacer kid. Grew up mostly on one ship or another. You enlisted on the fourth of April, your eighteenth birthday, and won the Star of Terra fighting batarians on Elysium during the Blitz. Do you remember that?"

I answered, even though I didn't feel like it. "A lot of lives depended on me holding that position. I did what I had to. I'd do it again."

"However you want to put it, it was damn impressive." Jacob tried to smile encouragingly. "I had friends who were there." An edge accompanied his voice when he turned to the doctor and asked, "Satisfied, Miranda?"

"Almost," she said, unperturbed. "Let's try something more recent. Virmire, where you destroyed Saren's cloning facility. You had to leave one of your squad behind to die in the blast."

"First Lieutenant Kaiden Alenko was KIA. It was your call. Why did you leave him behind?"

"I left a friend to die that day," I bit out. I refused to let myself remember the blast. "And I sure as hell didn't do it casually. But I had to save as many people as I could. Kaiden Alenko gave his life for the rest of the team, and he was a hero. Without him I would have never stopped Saren."

"I understand, Commander," Jacob was quick to respond, "and I wasn't judging your decision. Everybody that heard knows that cloning base had to be destroyed."

"Shepard, think back to the Citadel," Miranda implored. "After the Alliance saved the Destiny Ascension, and you killed Saren. What happened next?"

"Humanity was offered a spot on the Council. I recommended Captain Anderson."

"Yes," Miranda confirmed. "Captain Anderson is now Counsilor Anderson. Though from what I hear, he preferred life in the military."

I couldn't help but snort under my breath. I'd been worried he'd develop a taste for punching politicians, but if he was still in it after two years then he must've realized that Udina was a one-time only type of thing. I'd seen the footage while I was in the hospital after the battle–apparently Garrus had used an old friend of his to get him the tapes. I couldn't remember ever laughing so hard.

"Still, good to know that the human council member isn't going to put politics ahead of defense," Jacob commented.

"Your memory seems solid," said Miranda, "but there are other tests we really should run–"

"Come on, Miranda, enough with the quizzes." Jacob was a nice, solid guy. I liked him. "The memories are there, and I can vouch for Shepard's fight skills personally."

"I suppose you're right," conceded Miranda. "The Illusive Man will just have to make due with our little field test as evidence enough."

They left me to rest, then, though there wasn't much space for a grown and armored man to lay down and stretch. Miranda was concerned about the fever and gave me some antibiotics to help fight it, but right then I just wanted to sleep. I didn't want to know the exact details of how they brought me back or what they intended to do with me just then–I was tired, and I needed a nap.

I don't even recall falling asleep, but it felt like such a short time later when Jacob woke me up saying, "Commander, we're here."

I blinked my eyes open, stifling a yawn, and scratched my head. Once again the lack of hair was disturbing enough to give me a start. I glanced out the window at the approaching facility, partly cautious and partly curious. I wondered what this Illusive Man wanted with me, but it had to be pretty damn important. I straightened up, popping out the kinks in my back, and disembarked with them. A medical team met us as we disembarked and ran scanners over my body without a single word. They muttered a few words to Miranda, who sighed and injected me with a shot she said was full of another dose of antibiotics.

Well, whatever the hell it was, it felt better. The medics retreated back to their terminals in another room and Miranda gestured for me to continue down the hall without them. "The Illusive Man is waiting for you, Commander Shepard."