Miranda stared at the security monitors in a room too far from the shuttle for comfort and shook her head. The Illusive Man's going to have my head. I was supposed to restore him to spec, but I must have screwed up his voice.

The voice jarred her just as the personality did. She thought from the few holos she'd seen of the man in action that his face reminded her of the Indian head side of an old Buffalo nickel she'd seen in a museum. She'd guessed him a weird hybrid of native North American and Eskimo, which is why the pale grey-blue eyes took her thoroughly by surprise. She'd spent weeks trying to mix the appropriate blend of pigments for the synthetics that covered his cybernetic eyes, and she'd patted herself on the back once she saw the competed results. And rightfully so.

But the voice. No, that couldn't be the correct voice. Not for a man built larger than Jacob was, with bulkier arms and abdominal muscles so prominent they reminded her of a bookshelf. Or for a man with a face that seemed more dignified than even ancient portraits of European royalty.

I should have spent a few more credits and gotten the enhanced vocal cord tuner.

Because his voice was reedy. Thin. It sounded like a math teacher's voice, prim, proper and emotionless. And Canadian. Very Canadian. I must have adjusted those cords wrong, though they must be correct from the readings of his genetic material. She'd imagined his voice to be resonant and booming, not quiet and reasonable. Well, except for his words.

I'm trying to help my investment survive here, and the best he can give me is, "Fuck off?" "Fuck off?" This is the man who killed Saren and helped stop the Reaper invasion? This is all a joke. It must be.

Maybe if she'd allocated a few more credits toward upgrading the re-sequencing machine, the man's clear mental degradation might have been repairable. You were over-budget. The Illusive Man, no matter how clear his objectives, and how much he despises failure, loathes spending credits for no discernible reason.

"Here come the mechs. Use the grenade launcher to take them out."

"Look, lady. I don't know who the hell you are, but if I use the grenade launcher I'm going to ignite those tanks…"

"Just use the launcher! They'll slaughter you if you stick with that damned pistol."

"Fine. Moron."

At least he had the courtesy to shoot a grenade before he started rambling on and on about how he was right about the tanks blowing up. It was only a jet of flame, and if he moved his sorry behind through it…

"Take the elevator down one floor."

"You mean I have to…"

"Just do it."

"Hello, flames! Fire!"

"TAKE THE ELEVATOR DOWN…"

That got the man moving. Slowly. And the elevator sure took its time as well. And, dammit, the mechs were on their way! Three rooms over… She didn't have much time.

"Hurry! Get to the door! Run!"

"If I hadn't used the grenades…"

"Run, you idiot!" She tried to keep the insult from leaving her lips, but two years of almost impossible work, combined with ridiculous deadlines, and the knowledge that colonies vanished while she tinkered away on the genetic sequences of a crispy, ruined corpse… Well, she'd lost control long before with that lunatic, Wilson, questioning her every move.

And he moved his (tight) ass, finally, using the enhanced speed modifications she'd spent weeks weaving into his DNA.

"You're doing fine, Shepard. Head to the next room, and I'll meet you by…"

Static.

"Shepard, do you read me? I've got mechs closing in on my position, and I've got to move!"

Nothing. She'd lost sight of him on the monitor as her view diminished to wavy lines. Damn that Wilson! She knew…

No time to think—you have to run if you're going to make it to the shuttles and secure them for Shepard. Now!

She let her SMG do the talking and overloaded as many mechs as she could before the position she held became indefensible.