A/N: Thanks to everyone whose read, faved, and reviewed. I apologize for not having time to respond to them all - I just finished a grueling 4 hour exam that has dominated my time as of late. Which is another reason I haven't gotten this chapter out sooner. Well, that and pure laziness. Special thanks again to my beta DoubleMMia.
Enjoy!
Chapter 4: The Queen
As far as missions went, it wasn't the most auspicious start.
From the moment he'd set foot in the cargo bay, Jacob had known that they were in trouble. There was enough tension between Miranda and Shepard to cut with a knife, and the two women had barely spoken to each other save for a few clipped, terse sentences.
Call it a hunch, but Jacob had a suspicion that this most recent silence stemmed directly from a recent detour Shepard had ordered them to make. They had been about an hour outside of Omega when Shepard had ordered the ship divert course to a planet in a nearby system. Alchera — the final resting place of the SSV Normandy, Shepard's first ship. Jacob still wasn't sure what had sparked that decision, only that Shepard had ordered them to change course immediately.
Miranda had immediately tried to countermand Shepard, which sparked a huge argument. An argument Shepard won, considering she was ultimately in charge of the mission. Of course, it didn't help that Joker had been a little too gleeful when he announced over the comm system they had changed course.
While Miranda had retreated to her office to skulk, Shepard had taken a shuttle and traveled to the surface alone, braving the harsh subzero temperatures as she combed the wreckage of her old ship.
He had offered to accompany her, but she had refused him, albeit politely. Her expression was so pained that he didn't pursue the matter further. So they waited, tracking Shepard's progress using the Normandy's shipboard sensors. As it turned out, the planet was abandoned, so there was no real danger in Shepard being alone. It took nearly eight hours for Shepard to bring the shuttle back – carrying a small box and a helmet that looked like it had seen better days.
Dog tags. She had spent the better part of a day combing that frozen wasteland of a surface for the dog tags of her missing crew members. Say what you like, but that was some dedication.
And his respect for Shepard rose another notch – talk about loyalty.
They'd left the wreckage on Alchera undisturbed, though a small monument had been set up as a permanent memorial to those unfortunate souls who had not survived. There were no bodies left to save, only the cold, unfeeling bones of a star ship that had long been picked clean.
Jacob tried not to dwell on the fate of the original Normandy too much. After all, if their ultimate destination was through the Omega-4 relay, it was highly unlikely any of them would survive to old age.
The remainder of the journey to Omega had been uneventful, their arrival marked by a special envoy of heavily armed aliens who provided the trio a special "escort" to see their boss the second they'd disembarked.
Aria T'Loak. The self-proclaimed Queen of Omega. Beautiful as she was deadly, the asari had wrested control of the station from a krogan battlemaster by turning his own men against him centuries ago, reducing the once-proud warrior to a mere shell of his former self, then keeping him around on a leash as a warning to any who would oppose her.
Don't fuck with Aria.
It was the only rule on Omega that mattered. And the one rule Shepard seemed hell-bent on ignoring.
The conversation had begun pleasantly enough. Their weapons, of course, had been confiscated – but that was to be expected. Aria hadn't remained in power by taking foolish chances. They'd chatted a bit, and then got right down to business. Aria had been most intrigued by the story of Shepard's miraculous resurrection, and of course with their business on Omega. But when Aria had refused to grant them admission to the quarantine area, things had taken a turn for the worse.
"And exactly why are you refusing to let us past the quarantine?"
Aria leaned back against the padded cushion, her arms draped casually over the back, exuding an easy confidence that came from decades of unopposed rule. "I told you before that we aren't taking any chances with that plague getting out of the quarantine. Besides," Aria's mouth twitched sardonically, "there are gangs targeting any humans they see. And dead spectres make for some pretty convincing targets."
Shepard's lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. "They can certainly try," she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "But I'm a hard woman to kill."
Anto, Aria's batarian bodyguard, lifted the nozzle of his sawed-off shotgun slightly in a silent warning.
Not that a warning was necessary. They were unarmed and outnumbered three-to-one, and all of Aria's guards were waiting with twitchy trigger fingers to riddle their bodies full of holes ifthey so much as coughed wrong. And that didn't even take into effect that Aria could probably crush them all with her biotics.
"I'll take my chances. Tell your guards to let us in." Shepard's eyes flashed in challenge.
"I'll think about it," the asari waved a hand in the air, bringing her bodyguards to attention and signaling the end of the conversation. "I'll be in touch."
In other words, get the hell out of my sight.
The smile faded from Shepard's face. The former spectre dipped her head in acknowledgement, rising gracefully to her feet. "If you don't mind, I think I'll have a look around the lower lounge. Maybe have a drink?" she said in a tone that made it clear she wasn't asking for permission.
In other words, fuck you.
Jacob suppressed a smile as Aria nodded briefly, jerking her head towards the door as an indication that they were free to leave. Their weapons were thankfully returned to them once they were outside Aria's office, and the trio made their way wordlessly down to the lower levels of the popular nightclub.
Where aliens of all shapes and sizes populated the upper floors, here on Omega's lower levels, humans congregated, packed into alleyways and side streets, preyed on by the stronger street gangs that roamed the corridors.
Afterlife was not much different, and it took Jacob a moment to adapt to the much dimmer lighting that was used on the lower levels. It was much more crowded down here, the clientele much less glamorous. Mostly humans, with a few scattered aliens here and there. The dance floor was busy, and in the corner, a rather lithe asari dancer was gyrating on top of a table, though no one seemed to be paying attention.
"Jacob?" At least he had the good graces not to blush when Shepard called his name. Miranda rolled her eyes, and Shepard gave him a bemused smirk as they made their way towards the bar, where a batarian was wiping down the countertop.
"Well what do we do now?" Shepard muttered as they placed their drink orders, tossing a few credits on the countertop to cover the three beverages. Miranda shrugged, resting her elbows against the polished surface as she scanned the room with disinterest.
"It was almost like she knew you," Jacob mused, frowning as he remembered the way Aria's eyes had flashed in recognition when they first entered her office. "Shepard, have you been here before?"
"Not that I can recall," Jordan nodded as their drink orders arrived, tossing a generous tip onto the countertop.
Miranda glanced over at the pair, eyes narrowing at the drink in Shepard's hand, her lips pursed together in a fine line. The commander squinted at the brunette, frowning as she brought the rim of her glass to her lips. She was just about to take a sip when the drink was slapped from her hand. "Hey!" the protest died on her lips as Miranda whipped out her pistol, leveling it at the center of the batarian's forehead.
"What the hell are you doing?" Shepard scowled, reaching for Miranda's pistol, though she pulled away before the spectre's hand could reach her.
"He just tried to poison you," Miranda's lip curled in disgust, her tone deadly cold as she waved the barrel of her weapon in the barkeep's face.
"What's this?" A turian stepped forward, his words slurring as he rested his hands on the countertop to keep from swaying. "Whose poison?" Spoken a bit too loudly, his breath reeked of alcohol and a number of other, likely illegal, pleasures.
Jacob glanced around nervously. Several heads were beginning to turn in their direction, and a pair of bouncers began to move their way.
What happened next proceeded so quickly it was almost a blur.
The turian stumbled into Miranda, causing her shot to sail wide, shattering several bottles of expensive-looking liquor along the wall. The bartender used that diversion to duck down, emerging from behind the countertop with a shotgun, swinging it around to bear on the brunette.
Shepard cursed, lunging across the countertop and grabbing the nozzle of the shotgun. With a hard jerk, she pulled the batarian across the counter, but not before he could fire, the shot sailing wildly into the ceiling above a group of dancers.
Several screams rang out as Shepard punched the bartender, sending him cartwheeling into a nearby table.
"Shepard!" Miranda called out sharply, lunging towards the spectre. Jordan spun, jaw gaping open in surprise as she caught the operative in her arms, only belatedly realizing that Miranda had not been trying to reach her, but the turian behind her, who was in the middle of swinging a barstool at her head.
Shit. Jacob threw himself against the turian, though it was too little, too late. The stool caught both women along the sides of their heads, sending them sprawling forward. Jacob and the turian went down in a tangle of limbs, and then the bouncers stepped in, swinging their clubs and adding to the chaos.
Definitely not the best way to start a mission.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
The cool rough cloth pressed gently against her temple, drawing an involuntary groan from her lips as she pulled away. It wasn't that the gesture was unwelcome, but every touch sent a sharp pain shooting through her spine, and it was only with great reluctance that she opened her eyes.
The figure was blurry, a swirling mixture of reds and greens and browns that made her eyes water as they finally came into focus.
Shepard.
The spectre's skin took on an eerie pallor under the dim lighting, tendrils of auburn hair plastered against her sweaty forehead. Her Cerberus armor was streaked with a layer of dust and grime and something else that strongly reminded Miranda of machine grease.
"Water." It was the first thing that came to mind. Shepard's lips curved in a slight grin, and she lifted a canteen, bringing the rim to Miranda's mouth.
She drank deeply, the liquid a soothing balm to her parched throat. When she finally finished, she lifted her head, cobalt eyes meeting Shepard's concerned green gaze. At any other time, she might have greeted the pity with scorn. But inexplicably, all she felt was relief that Shepard was still alive.
A perfectly good waste of two years of your life if she died that easily. Isn't that right, Miranda?
It was her father's voice, and one she had long grown accustomed to ignoring. "How long?" Miranda struggled to make sense of her muddled thoughts. She didn't even remember being rendered unconscious.
"Two, three hours at most," Shepard's arm slipped behind Miranda's back just as attempted to rise, her body giving way to pain. "Easy there – not too fast." Miranda hissed in pain, collapsing against the Spectre. "They tossed us out on the lower levels. When I came to our packs were being ransacked by vorcha."
Pale eyelids fluttered closed. Vorcha were little better than vermin, having only developed a rudimentary intelligence and a propensity for violence that kept the species from assembling as a collective for any length of time. Favored foot soldiers (though some might argue they were little more than cannon fodder) of the Blood Pack, a krogan mercenary band, they were formidable enough in their own right. But Shepard should have had little trouble dealing with one or two of them.
It was too much to hope, but she had to ask. "Our weapons?"
The smile faded. "Long gone by the time I woke up." She shook her head in disgust
Miranda swore. Could this day get any worse?
"Easy," one of Shepard's hands closed around her bicep as she attempted to push herself to her knees, arms trembling from the strain. "That was some blow you took to the head."
"I don't need your help," Miranda pulled away, jerking her arm from Shepard's grip and rolling to a seated position. The sudden motion caused the room to begin spinning, and Miranda closed her eyes tightly, trying to stave off the overwhelming urge to lose her breakfast.
A long, terse silence permeated the room. And then came Shepard's soft reply. "I know."
Miranda tried to ignore the sadness in those light green eyes – a forlornness that was tinged with both regret, and something else the Cerberus operative knew all-too-well.
Loneliness.
Shepard sighed, turning away and looking towards Jacob, who was lying on a small palette in the corner of the room. His eyes were closed and he sported several bruises and a vicious lump on his temple.
Damn it, Jacob. Trying to play the hero, again? Miranda's eyes closed momentarily. At the first sign of trouble Jacob should have returned to the Normandy to get reinforcements. There would have been no hope to try to overpower Aria's forces – but the Illusive Man would have been more than capable of securing their release through other, likely monetary, means. "How bad is he?"
The spectre's lips pressed together in a fine line, eyes darting over to the prostrate form. Her brows furrowed. "He'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up, but he'll be fine." Her voice was far from convincing.
Miranda looked away, staring numbly at the wall. They had been an item once, her and Jacob. But that was long ago. It had been the small things, inconsequential things, that had driven them apart. There relationship had been little more than fire, with no true substance, and apathy had been the driving force behind their separation.
"I'm sorry."
Miranda's gaze lifted sharply to meet Shepard's. The spectre was staring at her, studying her with that same, carefully constructed mask of stoicism.
"You've saved my life more than once," Shepard continued softly. "And I've repaid you by being an utter bitch. I wanted to apologize for that."
The admission was surprising, and for a long moment neither woman spoke, they stared at each other, each taking measure of the other.
Miranda's head dipped in acknowledgement, wincing as the action aggravated the cut above her forehead. The events from Afterlife were beginning to return from their hazy blur — she remembered vaguely slapping a poisoned drink out of Shepard's hands. She frowned — something about a turian and a bar stool...
Talk to her. Gain her trust.
Miranda lifted her hand, probing gingerly at the cut above her eye. The blood had long since dried, but a thin river still caked its way down her temple.
"I can take care of that for you."
I can take care of myself, she wanted to say, though she didn't, the Illusive Man's words still echoing inside her head. She forced herself to nod, feigning gratitude she did not really feel, willing herself to remain still as Shepard closed the space between them, gently cleaning away the remainder of the blood on her forehead.
"So, what's your story, Miranda?"
The operative's head jerked sharply in surprise, raising her eyes to meet Shepard's own. "I..." she hesitated, having been about to tell Shepard that it was none of her business...
Talk to her. Gain her trust.
Miranda sighed...she absolutely hated talking about herself, about him... "I was recruited to work at Cerberus at a young age."
At sixteen, to be more precise, having fled from the only home she'd ever known with the only person she'd ever loved, escaping from a fate that was surely worse than death.
None of this she said aloud. Some thoughts were just too private to share.
"And your family?"
Damn you, Miranda was about to tell Jordan to piss off, but caught herself. "I suppose it's only fair;" she said guardedly, "after all, I've spent the past two years learning about you." She drew her legs in, wrapping her arms around her shins.
She hesitated, wondering exactly where to start. "I guess the first thing you should know is that I've undergone some extensive genetic modification." She lifted her eyes in challenge, knowing full well the traditional Alliance prejudices against any type of genetic manipulation. "My reflexes, biotics, intelligence, even my looks are all a product of my genetic tailoring."
"Beautiful and deadly?" There was no venom in Shepard's voice, only a wry amusement as she continued to daub at the cut on her temple. "I see the Illusive Man sent me one of his best."
"It was one of the reasons I was chosen to head the Lazarus project." Keeping her tone even, she ignored the teasing undercurrents in the spectre's voice. "It's my job to make sure you succeed, Shepard."
"I can see that," Shepard murmured quietly, wiping the last of her blood from her face; her frown deepened, jade eyes subdued. "So," she spoke with a deceptive casualness, "when did I last come to Omega?"
The inquiry was so subtle she had almost missed it, though it was so unexpected Miranda's head jerked sharply in Shepard's direction, her eyes narrowed. How could she have known… Shepard had in fact been on Omega before – or rather her corpse had been, and in the possession of the Collectors. In fact that was how Miranda had met the rather reclusive Dr. T'Soni.
She could lie, and perhaps even convincingly enough for Shepard to believe that she knew nothing – but eventually, Shepard would learn the truth. And when that happened, Miranda would be in the unfortunate position of having to explain her lie to Shepard.
Miranda sighed – she would have rather waited to have this conversation, but it seemed as if she had little choice. So she told Shepard about the Shadow Broker and his deal with the Collectors. She told her about meeting Liara – about how the asari had recovered her body with the help of a drell named Feron.
About how she had given Shepard's body to Cerberus.
The silence was deafening.
For a long time, Miranda studied Shepard, whose eyes seemed to have taken up a permanent interest at a spot on the wall. She studied her until it was no longer polite to do so, wondering if and when the fireworks would begin.
What she had not, could not have expected, was just how utterly exhausted the Shepard would sound when she finally gathered the courage to ask about her former lover.
"I kept her up to date with the progress of the Lazarus project." It had been one of the asari's requirements for turning over the body. "At first, she requested updates weekly. Then, monthly. Then, as more time passed..."
"...she quit asking altogether." Shepard's voice took on an uncharacteristic bleakness.
Miranda shifted uncomfortably. It was the truth, in a manner of speaking. T'Soni had quit asking about Shepard's progress as she had become more and more focused (or as some might call it, obsessed) with tracking down the Shadow Broker. But could it all be blamed on a simple lack of interest? Or had the asari simply given up hope?
It was a question she could not begin to answer.
Fortunately, she didn't need to. Over in the corner, Jacob unleashed a low groan, providing a welcome and needed distraction. Shepard pushed wordlessly to her feet, crossing the room to Jacob's side to check on the Cerberus operative. Miranda took the opportunity to examine her surroundings. She realized, for the first time, that this was no mere small alcove that Shepard had commandeered.
Someone actually lived here.
Surprised that she hadn't recognized it earlier, Miranda began to study her environment in earnest. The small palette underneath Jacob was too organized to be a random assortment of blankets – that bed actually belonged to someone.
Miranda skimmed over piles of junk (no, not junk – unfinished projects, she mused) that occupied most of the room. Not that it was much of a room – the space made the bathrooms in the Normandy look like a palace. A small, narrow doorway led to what appeared to be a countertop and what looked like a small storefront, almost.
"Shepard, where are…"
"I've got the parts you requested," a tall, thin quarian rounded the corner, datapad in hand. He jerked in surprise when he realized he was speaking to Miranda and not Shepard. "Oh, your friends are awake?"
Jacob groaned, pushing up on his elbows as he rubbed the lump on his temple. "What … happened?"
"Short version, we got on Aria's bad side," Shepard jerked her head towards the quarian. "Kenn here helped me chase off a pack of vorcha that were picking through our supplies."
She looked up at the quarian. "So you have the couplings?"
"Yes," Kenn tapped the screen. "Would you like me to have those delivered to your ship?"
"Wait, what's going on?" Miranda frowned. She didn't recall authorizing any supply requests.
"Just a favor for Ken and Gabby," Shepard replied nonchalantly. She hesitated, eyes searching Miranda's. "Some power couplings, a few other tools."
Trust me. Miranda pursed her lips together at the unspoken request, dubious. After a moment of staring at the former Spectre, the operative nodded in acquiescence. Relieved to have achieved this one small victory, Jordan turned her attention back towards Kenn. "Throw in some rifles and I'll make it worth your while."
"You're welcome to look through my stocks – but you won't find much." The quarian shook his head. "Most of my stock is second-hand. Aria has given Harrot a monopoly on all of the supplies, in exchange for a cut of the profits." A pause, and then a low mutter. "His spies have probably already told Aria I've been helping you."
"I think we'll manage," Jordan replied dryly, her eyes flashing with something that hinted of amusement. "Why don't I take a look at your stocks?"
Kenn nodded, and with a quick glance over her shoulder Shepard pushed to her feet, following the quarian to the other room. Miranda looked at Jacob, whose chocolate eyes still bore the glaze of a recent concussion, and with a sigh she made her way to his side.
"How do you feel?"
"I'll be alright," he shook his head slowly, his eyes blinking rapidly as he reoriented himself. Reaching a hand to rub at the knot on the back of his head, he glanced over to the brunette, sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Miranda. They caught me before I could reach you."
Miranda sighed. "It's okay, Jacob. I should have paid closer attention. I shouldn't have assumed Shepard would be so foolish as to order a drink from a batarian bartender," she added with disgust. How could Shepard be so intelligent, but so foolhardy?
"I think you should ease up on her." Miranda fought the urge to roll her eyes at the adoration in Jacob's voice. "She's been through a lot, Miranda. Give her some time."
Time was the one thing they didn't have, Miranda wanted to argue, but didn't. Her former relationship with Jacob had granted them a familiarity with each other that she normally wouldn't have granted a subordinate, but in this matter she preferred to keep her own counsel.
Jacob sighed. "Look, I'm just saying – she's not a bad person, if you would just…"
"I will deal with Shepard in my own time," Miranda cut him off irritatedly, ignoring the momentary flicker of bruised feelings that flashed across Jacob's gaze, only to be replaced by that implacable command mask. Jacob's lips pressed together in a fine line, knowing that it would be better to drop the matter entirely than risk her wrath.
Fortunately, before she had time to dwell on it, Shepard returned, tossing both Jacob and her a set of pistols that had seen better days while shouldering a rifle that looked like it would pack a decent punch. "Great news," she drawled, allowing her gaze to linger over the two. "Kenn here says he knows a way to get past the quarantine."
"There's a series of tunnels that lead into the restricted zone." Kenn offered helpfully. "They're uninhabited, except for a few vorcha, but they should leave you alone." A pause. "I hope."
"Does Aria know about these tunnels?" Miranda asked.
"Well, yes, but it's not on any regular patrol route," the quarian hesitated. "It should be safe, mostly. Except for the vorcha." He paused. "And the smell. Most of the station's waste filters through that level."
Great, Miranda bit back the sarcastic retort as Jacob issued a low groan. Next time, Miri, you stay on the Normandy.
