In the Bermadon studio, things were as bad as Shepard had feared. The open-plan workshop was an unsettling mix of bordello and abattoir.

Inside the cavernous room, the air was cool and still. The benches glittered with scissors, scalpels and needles. The now-dormant arms of automatic looms and sewing machines towered over Shepard like the upturned ribs of dead megafauna. The floor was a charnel-house of silken scraps and crepe rags. With the only light coming from a few idle computer terminals, the scene seemed more like the inside of the derelict Reaper at Mnemosyne than anywhere on the Citadel she'd ever seen.

Get a grip, soldier. Next you'll be seeing dead kids under the desk.

"Oh, my, that's... thorough," murmured Traynor, and Shepard peered past her into the gloom.

Every other flat surface was plastered with images of human, asari, and turian females. Every image had been dissected, every body part labelled, measured out and categorised. Some images were stills of celebrities, stateswomen, even regular civilians. Others were anatomical cross-sections, showing internal organ structure, biological processes, even detailing social behaviours. Shepard wished she had Mordin handy; some of the scrawled notes seemed to refer to genetic codes.

"What the hell's Bermadon doing back here?" Shepard wondered aloud.

"More importantly," said Traynor, "Why the antique notation? Bermadon's an educated businessman – why would he need hard copies and handwriting?"

Shepard walked down one of the aisles, passing through the motionless talons of the assembly line. At the end was a sealed blast door marked ADMINISTRATION.

"That's weird," she said. "It gets crazier down this end."

There were still more hard-copy printouts strewn around the door in a kind of Rorschach blot. Here, the photos had been physically cut up, and the annotations had a cruder, schizophrenic quality. Shepard saw one still of herself, Traynor and Kasumi leaving the shopping district not twelve hours ago. Her blood ran cold. Someone – Bermadon? - had superimposed a detailed drawing of each woman's skeleton over the image of her body.

Other photographs just featured single words, or the captions were illegible.

"Shepard," said Traynor, her voice reassuringly steady. "I've cued up the company files. Production and personnel records have been getting patchier and patchier over the last few weeks. They left off filing reports altogether last week."

"That's great, Specialist," said Shepard. "But what the hell does it mean?"

"It means, Commander, that everything we saw on the catwalk tonight was designed and manufactured by hand."

"Huh. Not exactly the model of sleek efficiency he was preaching out by the bar."

Traynor joined Shepard by the blast door. She's more confident in the heels, thought Shepard, her eyes lingering on Traynor's slender calves, but she's still a little unbalanced...

"Makes me sick, watching you strut around like you're on the bloody beach at Rio," Traynor stammered through chattering teeth. "Do they teach you how to regulate your body temperature at N7 school?"

Shepard suddenly became acutely aware of how chilly it was in the workshop. The too-tight bodycon nightmare Traynor had zipped her into now felt like a satin straitjacket. Traynor shivered, every frill on her own dress vibrating along with her. Shepard felt her own gooseflesh rise, although she wasn't sure if it was the sight of Traynor's trembling, exposed neckline which did it. Maybe it was the chill settling in on Shepard at last.

Shepard grabbed Traynor and pulled her into a tight embrace. Their bare thighs rubbed awkwardly with the sheen of sweat they'd accumulated, and for a moment Traynor's shivering became more violent with the temperature change.

"I... oh, Commander, I didn't..."

"Skin-to-skin contact, Specialist. Never leave a man behind."

"Shepard..." sighed Traynor. "If that's what I need... won't we need to get rid of these silly frocks?"

"Absolutely not," said Kasumi, shimmering into visibility next to them.

Shepard and Traynor immediately leaped apart with a gasp, now vigorously and intently rubbing their own cold limbs.

"Besides," Kasumi went on, "nobody wants to see you two in those depressing Service undies I know you're wearing. So what do we know?"

"So far," said Shepard, "we know Bermadon's design team have been getting more and more squirrelly over the past couple weeks. Seems like some kind of group psychotic break, if these 'files' are anything to go by."

"Which reminds me – where is the design team?" asked Traynor.

"I might be able to help with that," said Kasumi. "The models? The ones with dead eyes and awful posture on the catwalk? They were Bermadon's staff until the models walked out."

"What changed?" said Shepard.

"Mass walkout," said Kasumi. "I guess the models weren't any happier with Bermadon's innovations than you were."

"Nice to know I'm not the only one with taste," said Shepard.

"So the people who stayed around...were the ones who spent the most time in this workshop." Traynor shivered. "I have to say, Commander, your crazy theory about indoctrination is getting a little less crazy by the minute."

"Right?" said Shepard. "We need to take this guy down! Look at what he's done to this place! Look at what he's done to us! If he gets his way, women across the galaxy will never be able to blow off steam again. We need more than sackcloth and ashes to win this damned war. And Bermadon knows that. I saw it in his beady little eyes."

"So let's take him down," said Kasumi. "What are we doing, Shepard? Assassination? Riot? I gotta say, I don't think we're going to have any luck inciting a mutiny with the ladies on the catwalk. They need an ambulance, not an insurrection."

Shepard looked down at the mess of printed images clustered on the floor around them.

"No, you're right," she said. "But there's a missing link here. What do we know about indoctrination?"

"Well, as time goes on, people's behaviour becomes more erratic..." said Traynor.

"And less sophisticated," said Shepard. "But why?"

"Because constant exposure to Reaper tech seems to erode cognition... oh, I see what you mean," said Traynor.

"Exactly," said Shepard. "Somewhere in this place is a piece of Reaper tech. Probably shrapnel from when we blew up Sovereign. We've been paying for that half-assed clean-up every day since."

"On second thought," said Kasumi, "I'd rather you two went back to humping. I'll go and kill Bermadon myself. Maybe get a drink. Sam, you should know that Shep gets like this sometimes. Know what I mean? Barking dog: indoctrinated. Busted toaster: indoctrinated."

Shepard straightened and fixed Kasumi with a stare even icier than the workshop air.

"Goto, stand to. Shut your yap and open this door. That's an order."

Kasumi's jaw dropped and clamped shut again as she stepped over to ADMINISTRATION. Fingers flickering over her omni-tool, she demolished the security protocols in seconds. Shepard immediately marched through, heels clacking over the defaced photographs. Kasumi and Traynor followed dutifully, dragged in her wake.

"So what were you saying about 'Shep' again?" whispered Traynor.

"I'm done," said Kasumi dreamily. "I just love it when she does that voice. Do you love the voice?"

"I do love the voice."

"I mean, sploosh."


Traynor's attention was just admiring the satin which almost seemed painted onto Shepard's swaying rear... until an actinic glow at the end of the corridor blurred her CO into a curvaceous silhouette.

Kaalos Bermadon's back office was as glamorous as the reception out front. An illuminated floor-to-ceiling fishtank dominated the room – aquatic plants from equatorial Sur'Kesh waved their fronds in the artificial tide. The light from the tank gleamed off glass table surfaces and slick leather couches. The light was too bright for night-time, but much too low for day.

Traynor couldn't help but think that a few days of that lighting would drive her stark raving mad.

"Hey, Shep, your guy seems to have pretty good taste to me," said Kasumi. "Where's this Reaper junk?"

Shepard watched a tiny, seven-legged cephalopod swim out of a clump of ferns. It looked at her bemusedly, then abruptly changed colour through the entire spectrum before darting back out of sight.

"Try the desk," said Shepard. "It might be contained in some kind of field when he's not... communing with it."

Traynor was too late to stop the blast door from re-sealing behind them. No sooner had the office locked down than concealed panels cracked open and black-armoured Eclipse troops poured in. Shepard immediately leaped across to cover Traynor's back. Kasumi, reacting faster than either of them, seemed to have cloaked again and was nowhere to be seen.

The papery rustle of Bermadon's breathing followed his security detail into the office. He laughed, but he was alone. The Eclipse mercs, human, salarian, and a couple of asari, seemed listless – almost sleepy. Traynor was only slightly relieved by the absence of guns. The security team held shock batons, though, and Traynor didn't think a scanty layer of lace was going to protect her from those.

"So, Commander Shepard. You wanted a closer look at my inspiration, did you?" said Bermadon, appearing even more ghoulishly thin than he had been in the bar.

Shepard lowered her head like a bull ready to charge.

"Bermadon. You're indoctrinated. You've destroyed an entire industry with your shoddy, overpriced designs. What did the Reapers promise you? What could possibly justify this nutjob aesthetic? Money's useless when your entire civilisation is extinct."

"Where's your proof, Spectre?" said Bermadon, "Oh, you have carte blanche from the Council to break and enter as you please, but something tells me if you'd thought this raid through properly you'd have brought a little more firepower. You have nothing."

One of the human Eclipse mercs leered at Traynor . He sported a mass of fresh shaving cuts, and from his glassy stare, she suspected that he wasn't aware of it. Behind her, Shepard locked eyes with Bermadon and used that voice.

"I've got a little more than nothing, Bermadon. The proof's in this room and we're going to use it to nail you and your whole sick operation to the wall. On the authority of the Citadel Council I formally order you to remand all Reaper technology on the premises to Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. You have five seconds to comply."

"They never should have let your kind onto the Council," spat Bermadon. "You're an ape in a cocktail dress. Security, remove them from the premises. And since they clearly don't appreciate modern art, you can confiscate their clothes while you're at it."

"Er, Shepard..." said Traynor. "Do we have a plan?"

"Oh, yes," said Shepard, grinning. "Take your best shot, boys and girls."

"You're unarmed," said Bermadon. "You should have chosen your wardrobe more carefully, Spectre. You couldn't hide a thermal clip in that."

"See, that's what you people doesn't understand," said Shepard. "You spend so much time with the clothes, you forget the the people inside. I'm the weapon!"

Shepard rushed the mercs protecting Bermadon. The elderly Salarian, his reactions clearly sharp enough, retreated behind his security troops as Shepard slammed one heel precisely through an Eclipse boot, impaling the foot beneath. Traynor caught a glimpse of Shepard's toned arm distended by ropes of muscle as she floored another merc with a straight left.

"Traynor!" Shepard yelled over the howls of her assailants. "Zero-g training! You're in zero-g!"

Traynor took a tottering step back in her dress shoes as she realised what Shepard meant. James Vega had been running them through the basics of hand-to-hand combat in zero-g.

Stay in the mag-boots, people, James had said.Sure, you think it's faster to float, but stay in the boots. It's gonna get real personal in zero-g, so stand your ground and fight for your god damned life.

Traynor tried to stand her ground. She really did. Fists balled in a fighting stance, trying to keep her balance, she stumbled back in relief when Kasumi re-materialised. The petite thief stabbed the closest merc through the throat with an omni-blade.

Of course, Shepard didn't know what Vega had said to Traynor after the course was over.

Ok, Jammer, you've got the right stuff or you wouldn't be on the Normandy. But you're no marine. That stand-and-fight bullshit's ok for me and the Commander. But you need to stay alive, got it? So mainly do that.

"Bollocks to zero-g, then," said Traynor, kicking off her shoes just in time to dodge an incoming shock baton.

Shepard slammed a merc's face into a pristine table, shattering both. Ducking under the swing of another, she hit him with an uppercut, knocking out a splatter of blood and teeth. Bermadon was yelling something in the corner of the office, probably calling reinforcements.

The Eclipse boys were sluggish. Something was messing up their customary precision. Unarmed as she was, Shepard shouldn't have lasted five minutes against this many armoured heavies. As it was, she could dance all night.

Shepard threw a salarian over her shoulder and disabled him with a kick to the temple. A glance across the room showed her Kasumi's omni-tool had overheated and she and Traynor were keeping the mercs at arm's length with stolen shock batons.

Where was the Reaper artefact? What was it? Shepard's eyes flickered back to the fishtank. The prismatic cephalopods darted in and out of the vegetation. Their movement was... almost hypnotic.

Three things happened at once. One of the Eclipse troops tackled Kasumi to the ground. Traynor jumped away from the mêlée just in time to avoid being shocked unconscious. Shepard felt a sudden tightening of her limbs, the disturbing, weightless feeling of being entangled in a mass effect field. In her peripheral vision, she spotted an asari mercenary she'd knocked over a moment ago rippling with biotic energy. She was caught.

Shepard fought down rising panic. She could hear more boots approaching and Bermadon wasn't yelling any more. Come on, soldier!

A cloud of cephalopods fled the rushes and swam across the fishtank, as Traynor fell back against the forcefield which held the tank together. Some took refuge in the undergrowth. Some hid behind the little black castle at the far end.

The little castle. Or was it? Was Bermadon, a man of supposed taste, really into fishtank ornaments?

"Traynor!" roared Shepard, "It's in the tank! Take out the field!"

And then Shepard was just roaring, all the muscles in her left leg and right arm popping and numbing as the Eclipse reinforcements arrived and put their shock sticks to work. The biotic field had her paralysed.

Traynor tripped up a lunging eclipse Merc, and threw him into the fishtank field. There was an electric snap and the briny contents of the tank burst over everyone in the room. Traynor, Bermadon and Eclipse troops were washed off their feet. Shepard, still held in place by the asari's biotic field, saw the little shard of glowing Reaper tech skitter out onto the office floor. Multicoloured cephalopods swam or scuttled for cover.

No. The harvest will not be denied.

The elderly salarian fashion designer crawled across the floor toward the Reaper shard. As he crawled, Kaalos Bermadon changed. His spindly fingers lengthened into claws. His spine arched and burst through the back of his pristinely tailored suit. The obsidian pools of his eyes bulged and whitened with a weird inner light. And Shepard had seen it all before. Saren. Sovereign.

Your pathetic culture is already on its knees, human. Give up and kneel.

Bermadon's voice already had the hollow ring of a Reaper mouthpiece. Hearing it, the Eclipse mercs had balled up in the foetal position. Already half-indoctrinated, they were a dead loss. Kasumi was out for the count and Shepard could barely stand.

Bermadon-Sovereign reared up with a shriek. The last one standing between him and the Reaper shard was Sam Traynor. With an exhausted lurch upright, Shepard pulled out her last trick.

"Sam!" she shouted. "I need your right foot!"

Shepard kicked off her black-and silver right shoe, sending it spinning past Bermadon. Sam, with the smoothest movement Shepard had ever seen her make, spun on her left leg and raised her right in a perfect ballet motion. By a miracle, Shepard's shoe slipped right onto Sam's foot.

She's two sizes smaller. Shepard could have wept with relief.

Sam brought down the carbon-tungsten stiletto heel on the Reaper shard with a crunch. There was a flash of unholy light and Bermadon screeched. The ancient salarian's body, already strained beyond endurance, crumpled into a mess of scrambled organs and unravelled bones.

Shepard collapsed onto her one good elbow, as she felt the brine seep into her dress. I always hated it anyway, she thought, self-consciously tugging the skirt back into place.

"And where the hell," said Shepard, "did you learn to do that, Traynor?"

Traynor, almost spent herself, splashed over to Kasumi to check for vitals.

"Well, during the three months I actually spent at ballet school, I worked quite a lot of things into muscle memory," said Traynor. "But I couldn't stand spending that much time in a bloody leotard."

Shepard suppressed a grin.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Sam," she said. "But you looked incredible tonight... and I don't just mean at the bar."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Shepard, I could never have pulled off that pointe in trousers."

"How's Kasumi?"

"Stable, but we'd best get her to hospital. Can you stand?"

"Not a chance," said Shepard. "I think fighting in heels might not be the smartest revolution in military affairs after all."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Traynor, taking a couple of Eclipse pulses and dialling for an ambulance. "Most of this lot are going to need major surgery before taking another security gig. And I suspect it'll be helmet duty, far away from the nearest gala opening."

Traynor gingerly lifted Shepard to her feet and helped her hobble to the nearest sofa as the sirens approached.


Thirty-six hours of bed rest, a healthy dose of medi-gel, and a long shower later, Shepard slipped the last brass button of her dress blues into place. The gold lace of her shoulder cord was chilly on her wrist. Her glossy deck boots brought her feet firmly down to earth.

Any old iron, cadet? Shepard thought. At least her trousers were soft and comfy and concealed the bruises she always seemed to accumulate on shore leave these days. Shepard marched cleanly over to the Normandy's elevator – she'd become quite accomplished at concealing a limp while shipboard – and prepared to face the CIC.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Commander," said Traynor cheerily as the elevator door slid open. "EDI needed me to run a manual diagnostic – I'm afraid we'll be stuck up here for a few minutes. Do feel free to join me in here, though."

Shepard blinked and hesitated before entering the elevator. The door slid shut behind her.

"I'm surprised, Specialist," said Shepard. "I thought I told you to take another day off. We're just running a couple of patrols with the Citadel fleet while PFS Furious has a refit."

"I know what routine shakedown looks like on this ship," said Traynor. "One minute you're checking passports in the Horsehead Nebula, next thing you know you're on the outer rim fighting space ghosts with a long-lost tribe of Batarian dissidents."

Shepard smiled. "Those were better days, Specialist. Truth is, I just thought you deserved some real time off. Not just pandering to your senile Commander's passion for fashion. Did we really do anything to save Earth over the past couple of days?"

"He really was indoctrinated, Shepard. You might have saved quite a few lives."

"But are you all right, Sam?"

"A little stiff," said Traynor. "I think I'd like to spend a little more time at unarmed combat practice with Lt. Vega. Can't have you taking licks for me again."

"I'll book you some time in the cargo bay this week," said Shepard. "But keep your guard up. Vega doesn't pull his punches, and I don't want to take any more chances with that pretty face."

Was Traynor blushing?

"Oh, by the way," said Traynor. "We do have a mission for when the Furious comes back up the line. A request just came in from one of Dr. Solus' contacts on Sur'Kesh."

Shepard cued up the file on her omni-tool.

"The rainbow cephalopods? Really?"

"We picked up quite a few of them after the fight. Tough little chaps."

"But what does the STG want with them?" said Shepard.

"They think studying the effects on them of exposure to Reaper technology in vivo could teach us a thing or two about indoctrination." said Traynor.

"And why should we spend our time repatriating slimy animals under the guns of the salarian navy? Any courier ship could do this."

"Well," said Traynor, "quarantine laws on Sur'Kesh are awfully strict and they don't let just anybody visit these secretive science facilities. We could be waiting for days while the boffins re-acclimatise the cephalopods in rock-pools, and such like."

"Rock pools? By the beach?"

"Oh, yes," said Traynor. "Just days and days of tropical sun, sand, and sightseeing. Frankly, I think we're the only ship for the job."

"Of course," said Shepard, "if we have to take on a mission like this, we'll need to be equipped. I don't think anybody on the Normandy has a swimsuit."

"Now that's a procurement oversight, Commander. We'll have to fix that. You don't happen to... have any swimsuit catalogues downloaded, do you?"

"I'll get right on it," said Shepard. "But I'm not exactly qualified to do this myself. I didn't see a body of water bigger than a washbasin until I was thirteen. Traynor... do you know anything about... beach wear?"

"Some limited experience," said Traynor. "For starters, it all depends on how much you want to swim, and how much you want to lounge about in the sun."

"There isn't some kind of perfect middle ground?" asked Shepard.

"Oh, dear me, no," said Traynor, guiding Shepard back into her cabin, the elevator diagnostic forgotten for the day. "You see, active types like you and I, Commander, need a lot more support when we're in the water. Dr T'Soni, on the other hand, doesn't get anywhere near enough sun as it is, so I suggest something with minimal coverage..."

The End.

To everyone who finished this fic: thanks for reading. It was not difficult to write, but it took years to get around to finishing. For what it's worth, actually writing this last chapter reminded me of what it was like to write for pleasure. Hope you liked it.

To anyone who came back to finish it after reading the first or second chapter when they were originally published: just thanks. I'm not a prolific writer, so I'm honoured that you waited years for this one to conclude.