A/N: Here we are, posting this story yet again. Hopefully this will be the last time. We will not take this story down again.
The struggle with the troll seems to be winding down, as we have him on record as admitting he was faking it. Still, we will remain vigilant until the site admins step in and do something about his copycat account and stolen story. We briefly thought the story had been taken down, but it was just the site being glitchy. It's still there as I write this note.
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Okay, here we go.
The clone wakes.
Hope Lilium looks it over. The clone is in a panic, gasping for air, arms up, searching.
Brilliant. It lives. Better yet, she beat that bitch Miranda Lawson to the punch. This will be an opportunity to set things right.
There's a medical tray to the side. Hope lifts the injection gun, brushing her fingers over the clone's burning forehead before bringing the injection gun to its neck, aligning it and pulling the trigger. Bam.
It sleeps. Now to take care of loose threads.
Jones, the awkward bastard with the goofy thick mustache comes running in, ironic designer glasses perched at the end of his nose. No one's worn glasses since the twenty-first century. Jones has been excited about the project—excited enough that Hope was able to convince him to break protocol. The clone was supposed to be put in cold storage. "I saw her vitals spike on the monitor!" He stands at the clone's side, looking at it anxiously. "Did you see it? Did you see her move?"
"Yes. Great work." Her interest has nothing to do with scientific curiosity. She's an operative, not an egghead. Jones should never have let her in. Hope takes the gun from the holster at her side, points it at the back of his head and pulls the trigger. It's a more dignified way to go. He would have pissed himself if he had seen the gun. Not that he won't do that as a corpse.
Blood sprays onto the clone's sleeping face, dotting its cheeks and lips, beading on its eyelashes. No one's really born without a bit of blood. With each new death comes life. It's poetic, maybe, but she's never cared for poetry.
They go on the run and lay low. The clone has Shepard's face, so they go to Horizon where Shepard isn't particularly known. Hope was specific in her demands. The clone was meant to be Shepard's personal chop shop. They didn't want to spend money on it. Hope's grateful now. The fewer implants, the better.
She's careful. She's seen what Cerberus has been playing with and she doesn't like the direction they're going in. You get enough implants and you're not even human anymore. Hope doesn't like the Illusive Man's eyes. He's halfway to being a husk in a suit now.
Hope never met the 'real' Shepard, though there was a close call or two. The Illusive Man entrusted her with creating a series of dossiers – the very same dossiers Shepard is now using to recruit her hit squad. Shepard doesn't know where the dossiers came from. She doesn't know about Hope, any more than she knows she has a clone on the loose.
The clone barely knows how to speak, and for the first few days it pisses and shits itself. It holds utensils awkwardly like a toddler, food spilling from the corners of its mouth, choking on food that isn't cut into small pieces. Hope's afraid she got some mentally challenged version of the Shepard that Miranda Lawson pieced back together. She never wanted children and now she has to read books on potty training when "Just go to the bathroom and take a shit" doesn't suffice.
Hope will be glad when she no longer has to rip the soiled clothing from it and throw it in the shower to spray it down. Something like shame touches the clone's features as scalding water cascades over it. Slowly but surely it's learning to make expressions. Hope smiles faintly. "I've seen you at your worst. Shit washes off."
The clone stares at the wall. It's alive. It's really alive. Her own Frankenstein's monster. The kind that will put humanity first and save the world.
Eventually, the clone gets the hang of the basics. It becomes accustomed to Hope's voice and follows her around like a baby duck. Hope doesn't grin but she does bear it, feeding it enough so it will keep its musculature as best as it can. There's no doubt it will lose the hardness of its limbs and torso. Its strength will slowly dwindle if Hope doesn't get it on some kind of regimen, soon.
For now the clone is lethargic and ambles more than walks. Hope has to remind herself that this is Shepard. Hope has even more safe houses than she has names. She's vigilant, dimming the lights and closing the windows, keeping an eye on all communications, moving as soon as there's a hint that someone may be onto her, keeping still when she suspects it's a trap.
The clone wears jeans and an old Cerberus sweatshirt that Hope has torn the embroidery from. The clone plays with the loose threads absently but has little to say on their movements and how they spend their days. Hope spends her time managing details on the extranet while the clone watches Alliance recruitment ads on television.
"They stopped using your image," Hope tells it. She doesn't get any response except for the clone turning its head to look at her, much the way a puppy would at a high pitched whistle in the distance. It doesn't know what it is. "Are you tired? I thought two years would be more than enough sleep."
The clone sits at the opposite end of the couch from Hope, pulling its legs up to itself. Hope stares at it before returning to her datapad. Eventually the clone lies down, its head nearly touching Hope's thigh. Hope makes a face, wondering how long the thing will remain useless and childlike.
The clone falls asleep, breathing softly. The room is cool but Hope doesn't get it a blanket. The datapad slips unexpectedly from her lap. She picks it up. Not a moment later it defies physics again, sliding across her thigh and falling to the floor. Irritated, she picks it up once more before pausing. Hope looks at the clone. Is it doing this? Shepard is a biotic.
To maintain compatibility for organ transplantation, the clones were saturated with eezo during their development. Hope doesn't understand the science of cloning, but she gathers that Shepard is some sort of freak of nature, a one in a trillion mutation. Genetic abnormalities meant there were bound to be complications with the cloning process. Add in the accelerated growth and eezo saturation… Well, the first batch was a near-total disaster. All the clones came to term with horrific, crippling deformities.
All except one.
One miraculous clone, born perfect and full of unlimited potential – a cosmic accident, like Shepard herself. Hope is pleased that some biotic ability is presenting itself. Had it not, the clone would be a failure, a waste of the considerable time and effort she invested in stealing it. Her hand slips beneath the clone's hair and to the back of its neck. The clone makes a soft sound, shifting in its sleep. Hope narrows her eyes, fingers continuing their search. Abandoning the datapad, she bends down, sweeps the brunette's hair away and gazes at its bare neck. "Shit."
Jane Shepard is a goddamn vanguard, one of the two or three most powerful human biotics in existence, comparable even to the asari matriarchs. Stare as she might, she cannot make the biotic amp manifest on the clone's neck. She stands, infuriated. Goddamn it, Jones. Goddamn the cheap bastards for skipping on the necessities. What the hell is the use of a biotics-capable clone without the damned amp? The clone spent so much time on its back that Hope assumed the essentials would be taken care of.
The clone will have to get one implanted, if it's to be capable of more than throwing datapads around. It will be an excruciating process. She wonders if clones feel pain. Hope disregards the thought. It doesn't matter what it feels.
They go to Illium. Nearly anything goes on Illium, provided you've acquired the proper licenses.
Hope knows it's dicey coming here because everything is monitored. The planet is crawling with aliens, or floating, in the case of the jellyfish-like hanar. Worse yet, two of the individuals she drafted dossiers on – the justicar Samara and the drell assassin Thane Krios – can be found here, as well as Liara T'Soni. After Shepard was blown to meat chunks in space, T'Soni left behind her life as an archaeologist, starting on the path to becoming an information broker. She's set up shop here. Hope cannot risk having the clone spotted ahead of schedule, without preparation. Nor can she risk running into Shepard and Miranda. She doubts Cerberus and Shepard are moving so quickly but time is of the essence and she has to take precautions.
She uses a holographic interface to mask the clone's features, turning it from a fit, olive-toned woman to a pasty, freckled ginger with a square jaw. The device won't fool Illium's sophisticated tech scanners, but it will fool the naked eye. It's common enough, given the murky but lucrative underbelly of the planet. It's almost to be expected, really. Hope has secured them both new identities with thorough, matching backgrounds.
The clone asks no questions. Its eyes drink in the sights, the color and the shine of Illium, the many alien species that prowl the busy hub. Hope smiles only enough to not be remembered as some scowling human. The uniformly feminine, mono-gendered asari are as arrogant and self-congratulating as Hope remembers, baring bright and ofttimes seductive smiles.
"Keep moving," Hope tells the clone, pulling it after her when an asari tries to pull it aside and pitch a deal. "We still have a lot to see," she tells it lightly, releasing its arm. The clone looks at her curiously, unaccustomed, Hope suspects, to not hearing her speak in her natural accent.
The clone follows her diligently, never complaining. Hope hasn't familiarized herself with its voice yet as it rarely speaks. It does understand, however. It responds to her simple commands wordlessly. It's like dragging along a woman-shaped lamp.
Eventually they reach their destination: the Dantius Corporation labs. Hope doesn't like relying on asari, but they are qualified to get the job done and to do it well. The Alliance and humans track biotics and bio-amps too closely. Usually Cerberus would be the ticket, but they're no longer an option. She knows the Illusive Man has already begun looking for her and the clone. The man is notorious for his obsession to detail—an obsession that has served him well. Hopefully the 'real' Shepard will be enough of a distraction to give her and the clone a little breathing room.
Hope downloaded a mine of data before leaving the Cerberus lab. She's happy she underplayed her capabilities when joining the organization. It made taking what she wanted easy. In the past week she has spent every breathing moment combing through the endless data, finding all the necessary details, needing everything to be just right. The clone needs to have the exact biotic amp that Shepard has and Hope has endeavored to see that she gets it.
The asari intern tries to talk Hope into a newer, top of the line Savant amp, sensing that she's the one with the creds. Maybe she thinks the clone is an indentured slave – a perfectly legal practice on Illium – acquired through the fine print of a defaulted contract. "Don't try to upsell me," Hope says, glancing at the datapad detailing the amp's specs. It's an improvement, no question, but she can't take chances. Everything has to be exactly the same.
There's more than enough eezo in the clone's sytem, the records tell her, for it to have fused to its nervous system. All she needs is the amp. Hope will go into the records later and make the appropriate modifications to reflect the clone's data. Biotic amps are branded with serial numbers; they can only ever belong to one individual. The digital age, at least, makes some fabrications easier, and this is Illium after all. "I've forwarded you the necessary specifications and transferred a considerable deposit. Are you ready to operate or not?"
The asari's smile tightens. "Of course," she says thinly. "Right this way."
They're led to a sterile, white room with an operating table and a medical robe and told that the surgeons will be in shortly. The intern quickly escapes and Hope is happy to be rid of her. The clone stands helplessly in the room.
"You'll have to strip," Hope tells the clone. The clone strips and Hope watches it with wry amusement, unused to the paler creature it is currently masquerading as: Jill Jones. Hope couldn't think of a plainer name.
The clone watches her and Hope isn't sure whether to attribute the hesitancy in its expression to it or the hologram. Hope looks forward to when they won't need the masking device. "Your voice is different," it tells her softly.
Hope smiles wryly. "Are you nervous?" The clone steps out of its clothing. Hope takes them and folds them carefully, watching the strange naked form, thinner than the muscular Shepard. She brings the medical robe to it. "This will be a lengthy operation." The clone searches her face. "It won't hurt." It will hurt. It will feel as if its brain and skull are being torn open. But the clone has to learn that life is full of deception, that pain can come unexpectedly, and the expectation will be to move on from it. "I won't let anything happen to you." That part is true. Her eyes drop to the sidearm strapped to her thigh. The clone's breathing rises and falls steadily. Hope touches a hand lightly to its chest. The clone looks down at it. "I promise you that this is necessary."
The clone nods and two asari doctors enter. Hope changes into the scrubs she requested, paying no attention to how they look at her. She has no modesty. When she's finished she settles her eyes on them and smiles. "Let's see if you're half as good as you say you are." She'll be watching. If they aren't, if they screw up one small thing, they'll get a bullet each in the back of their weird, tentacled heads. But even that won't ease the rage she'll feel at having lost humanity's greatest chance for victory over the Reapers.
It takes weeks for the clone to recover. Hope denies it any medication or medi-gel. If it can't survive the exquisite pain of the surgery, it'll stand no chance in battle facing Reaper forces, those Collector things, and taking on the great Commander Shepard.
At first it mewls pitifully. The most irritating thing outside having to spend time listening to all too celebratory asari after a successful operation, is having to listen to the clone's agonized cries and see its face pathetically stained with tears. The oddly shaved spot at the back of its head is mildly amusing though Hope will be happy to have the hair grow back and cover the ugly mess of scars that zig zag the back of the clone's skull.
Hope makes it meals and gives it vitamin supplements. Eventually the clone learns it won't get any sympathy from her and its sad cries die down. Hope tries to give it datapads to read but the clone ignores them, at times hurling them across the room when Hope sets them in its lap.
That's the way with newly amped biotics. They don't really know what they're doing. Hope has abandoned the notion of keeping any glassware or ceramic intact. She can only hope that all its reckless noise will not be enough to draw the attention of any passersby.
The clone's biotics act up in its sleep, causing objects to fly around unpredictably. One morning Hope wakes to a knife lodged neatly into her pillow, edge facing her neck. The clone sleeps fitfully at her feet, like a dog. Hope supposes the thing is a bit like her bitch, isn't it? She avoids taking a datapad and hitting the clone over the head with it.
She's been keeping track of Shepard's movements. The return of the hero Spectre is enough to have everyone's eyes peeled. Simple searches on the extranet have forums flooded with sightings of Jane Shepard. Some sightings are clearly made up. Others, like those of her on the Citadel are more concrete. Hope looks to her hired eyes and ears to really keep her updated on Shepard's progress. She tells herself there's still time.
The weather is bleak. Rain falls in torrents, drumming against the ceiling, walls and windows. The clone is confused at first, looking around wildly before desperately staring out the windows. Get away from there. Don't let the pretty façade fool you. Illium's no better than Omega. Of course, the clone doesn't know what that is, either.
It watches television, sulking. Hope slaps the clone's wrists when it brings its hands to the back of its head to touch where it's been cut open. After enough slaps, the clone stops doing it. Hope rubs some moisturizing lotion onto the back of its head and it sighs softly, closing its eyes. "Looks like asari know more than just how to shake their ass on a stage," Hope tells the clone, crouching beside it on the couch. The clone turns its eyes toward her, hazel brown with slivers of green, framed by thick eyelashes. They are warmer than they should be. Its olive skin is smooth, chestnut hair falling in waves to its shoulders. "I'm happy you survived," she tells it with a smile. The asari are too, she's sure.
The clone speaks in a hoarse whisper, unused to activity. "You said it wouldn't hurt. It hurts."
"I didn't want to scare you," she says, rising to her full height. She looks at the ugly scars at the back of its head, to the port on its neck surrounded by enflamed, red skin. "Living hurts. The sooner you get used to that, the better off the two of us will be."
It lowers its head and Hope isn't sure if it's from the pain, her words, shame or disappointment. She doesn't ask because she doesn't care. She listens to its wheezy breaths and tucks a lock of hair behind its ear. The clone looks at her. "Go to sleep. We leave for Torfan in the morning."
The Shepard Memorial Flame doesn't elicit a response from the clone. Instead, it watches people mill around the flame, clustering together to take pictures and upload them to the extranet. A statue of Shepard looms over the crowd, face covered by her N7 helmet. Hope ties her hair up and wears large sunglasses, grateful the exceeding heat of the sun (despite being on a small moon) makes for a convenient excuse to hide her face.
The clone ties up what little of its hair it can and Hope is grateful to no longer have to stare at the back of its head. She's created another hologram disguise for it, another plain Jane named Sheila Smith. She never bothers with alluring holograms, as most who use them do. The point is for the clone to disappear into obscurity and be completely forgettable when out in public.
There are batarian protestors corralled off to the side with protest signs. They are guarded by tense Alliance soldiers. The protests died down with Shepard's 'death' two years ago. Now that she's back, protests have spiked again. Batarians are a disgusting, unattractive race, with their bulbous heads, four eyes, and razor-sharp teeth. Worse, they have few redeeming qualities, making their living as slave traders and pirates. Their own home planet's economy is widely known to be dependent on slave labor, though their government vehemently denies it.
Years ago, Shepard led an Alliance raid against Torfan and its various strongholds, all of which were largely populated by batarian criminals. The Alliance took heavy losses, but the operation was a success. The batarians were completely wiped from the moon, and Shepard's reputation as "the butcher" was cemented. No prisoners were taken, despite rumors that some batarians had surrendered.
Hope holds no ill will toward Shepard for cleansing Torfan and chasing the batarians out of Citadel space. Dead batarians are good batarians. She does take issue with how many of Shepard's unit she sent to their deaths. The same results could have been accomplished with orbital bombing, followed by sending in strike forces to scrub whatever holes the surviving batarians scurried into. Better yet, an appropriately large rock could have been nudged out of its orbit in the asteroid belt and directed to collide with the moon, annihilating it and everyone on it. It could have been written off as a freak cosmic accident instead of making humankind look like the thugs of the galaxy.
Shepard is ruthless. She accomplishes whatever task is given her. She leads. But does she lead well? Can't they do better than a sloppy tyrant? The shouts of human protestors get Hope's attention. There are families of the soldiers who died under Shepard's command standing in solidarity with the batarians.
The clone looks away from the admittedly unimpressive flame to look at a leaflet in its hand. Some batarian sympathizer must have shoved it into its hand. The clone's current plain-Jane features twist into disquiet and deep sorrow. "This is terrible," it says.
Hope snatches the leaflet away from the clone and glances at it. It lists not only Commander Shepard's crimes but links humanity to all of it, painting the batarians as innocent victims. Naturally, they left out the part about the Skyllian Blitz, the unprompted attack they initiated on Elysium. "Nice. But they fail to mention how they abduct humans from defenseless civilian colonies and sell them into slavery. I imagine that makes their argument less convincing." She tears the leaflet in half and lets it fall to the ground. She has no respect for Jane Shepard's legacy. What she needs is someone with her capabilities, someone who will start out fresh, who can be molded to represent the best of humanity, not some alien sympathizer who is content with letting humanity take a backseat to the rest of the galaxy. Hope remembers her initial surge of pride when Shepard was made the first human Spectre. How things change.
Humanity needs Shepard's will, her fortitude, her talents for killing, and when necessary, for persuasion. Her reputation for getting the job done is admirable, but Hope draws lines. Humanity needs someone who will do the job well. Not someone stupid enough to get blown up rescuing crippled pilots.
The clone has the same DNA as Shepard. It is Shepard. It has her face. That face will let it take Shepard's place. But it isn't enough. It needs Shepard's skills. They're somewhere, buried inside of it. Hope only has to jog that instinct within and bring it to the forefront. They have so much work to do, so much studying, so much training, that even thinking about the colossal undertaking is near enough to make her want to quit.
The clone stares at the memorial flame before beginning a search on its omni-tool. Hope plants her hands on her hips, watching it search on the extranet. It had been a chore teaching the clone how to use the omni-tool but the small peace and quiet she had found after the fact had made it worthwhile. "Commander Shepard sounds like an awful person," the clone mutters, reading through a lengthy list of her accomplishments.
It stands stock still when an image of Jane Shepard comes up, wearing her N7 hardsuit, helmet off, holding a shotgun, a cocky, daring grin on her lips. Hope wishes she could clear the crowds, see the clone's face, its real face, shift into… what is that? Wonder? Amazement? Horror? "That's Commander Shepard?" it asks breathlessly. It looks at Hope as if it's been betrayed. It looks around desperately as if it were in quicksand.
Hope smiles. "And here I was hoping to keep it a surprise. Yes. That's Commander Shepard. And soon, there will only be one savior for humanity. The rightful Shepard." Hope's fingers glide along the back of its neck, feeling the goose bumps along its skin, the small thin hairs rising, the heat of where the biotic amp is buried. "You."