Complexes
1511 HRS, May 14, 2183
Terra Nova, Asgard System, Exodus Cluster
If Shepard had known how far away this damn house was, he would've still been back on that hill, standing in the rain. The first few moments after takeoff were spent staring straight ahead, afraid that any movement would bring the discomfort back to the forefront. But it only took a few minutes after they lifted off before the silence in the cockpit became overpowering. Every now and then it would break when Miranda tapped a key on the holo-interface or shuffled who knows what because there was no way Shepard was turning his head an inch in either direction.
The planet — so sunny when they'd arrived — remained dark and ominous. Shepard could guess that they were traveling in the opposite direction of the planet's sun, turning this ten hour night cycle into twenty. After he'd counted the specks of dirt on the side window for the thirteenth time, it finally became too much. The awkwardness felt like it was choking him and keeping his mind off of her (something he'd sworn to do until they landed and had some space) would be easier without the close proximity.
As nonchalantly as possible, he got up and opened the hatch to the back of shuttle. He sat on the bench, rested his head against the window and faded in and out of consciousness.
When they finally landed, Miranda did so ungraciously. The ensuing jolt of impact rocked him back and he bumped his forehead rather hard on the glass. It was impossible to tell how much he actually slept, but it felt like nothing at all. He was still feeling the after-effects of running through that city for practically an entire day. Grumbling, Shepard stood up and wrenched the bay door open. He had to shield his eyes upon stepping outside and it took a few seconds for his vision to adjust to the brightness.
The one story house, if you could call it that, looked like the size of a nice hotel room. The actual house itself, unfortunately, was not as nice. Parts of the bamboo paneling had peeled and dropped onto the long-dead lawn, revealing the rusted cement beneath. A small carport extended off of the right side of the house, which Miranda had conspicuously chosen to not use. A pair of motorcycles that Shepard doubted still worked stood under it, resting against the house in the shade. A small dirt path from the front door led to a larger dirt path from the carport that continued for about a hundred feet before disappearing through the thin patch of palmetto trees. A few feet behind the house itself, the first traces of sand gave way to a larger, open beach. At least this place wasn't a complete dump, Shepard thought.
He went back into the shuttle, grabbed what he could, and waited for Miranda to lead him inside. On purpose, he gave Miranda a wide berth, standing a few yards away from the door as she opened it. He half-expected some form of voice identification, or a full-body scan or an organ biopsy, or whatever it was that was supposed to guard secret lairs, even pathetic looking ones. Instead, Miranda fished a thin leather band with a key tied to it out of her pocket. She held the key in her teeth, re-adjusted her bags, and then opened the door. The inside of the front door was heavily reinforced (and that should've been his first clue) but Shepard was shocked at how nice the inside was.
One long hallway stretched from the front door past the kitchen, a half-bathroom and a few small closets before opening up into the dining area, which itself connected to the living room. From the front door he could see the large glass wall on the opposite side of the house and the sliding glass doors, framed by hurricane shutters, that opened up to the beach.
One thing that struck Shepard was the total lack of inside walls. A small counter enclosed the kitchen area, separating it from the dining table that was topped with a bowl of oranges. A few feet past that were a couple of wooden beach chairs, a bookcase, a small table and a television that made up the living room. To the right of that was the bedroom, made up of a few dressers and the bed, with an enclosed bathroom in the corner. The place wasn't small; in fact it was much bigger than it looked from the outside, but it was all very . . . open. He idly wondered if that was some kind of strategic decision.
Surveying the place from his spot in the living room made him realize something. "Uh, Miranda," he called out.
She had dropped her bags somewhere and was in the kitchen. She looked up but didn't say anything.
"There's just the one bed," he said.
He thought he heard her sigh, but couldn't be sure.
"It's a big bed," she said.
It wasn't that big. Maybe a full-sized mattress and a rather small one at that. "You sure? I could always, uh . . ."
He almost said he would sleep on the couch, before remembering that there was no couch.
"Shepard, just use the bloody bed," she said, pouring herself a glass of water. "If I find you asleep in one of those chairs later, I'm tipping you over."
He took a few steps into the bedroom, both to unpack and to get away from her glare. He tossed his bag on the bed and unzipped it. The next few minutes were spent laying out everything that she had deigned to provide him with, which for some reason included an extra couple of guns, two smoke grenades, two real grenades, and a flare. All of this was in addition to fresh sets of clothes and other essentials that normal people would pack. He tossed the weaponry in the drawer of the one of the bedside tables and tried not to think about it. The rest of the clothes he stored neatly in the far dresser. Subconsciously he was so tired of running, and even if this was just another pit stop on their trip, he wanted it, momentarily at least, to feel like home.
Shepard came back into the living room to see that she had laid out a meal for him on the table. The sandwiches made him realize just how hungry he was and he was grateful that at least somebody was thinking about things like that. She brought him a glass of water along with one of her own, then sat down and began eating.
"I didn't know you could cook," he said between bites. The sandwich was turkey and it tasted like heaven.
"Very funny. They were pre-packaged," she said, finishing her own sandwich. "I called ahead to have this place stocked back when we were on Illium."
The mention of Illium dampered his "I'm starving" enthusiasm. But she let the issue drop, rising from the table and depositing her dishes in the sink.
"I'm going to unpack and take a shower," she said. "You've had a hard couple of days."
"We both have."
She ignored his comment. "Use this time to relax. And don't forget to check your injuries."
He held back his "Yes, Mom" retort both because it was stupid and because their relationship hadn't exactly recovered to friendly repartee status. She passed behind him, a bag slung over her shoulder and walked further down before turning right into the bedroom.
1703 HRS, May 14, 2183
Terra Nova, Asgard System, Exodus Cluster
Shepard spent most of the next few hours alternating between trying to get comfortable in one of the awful stiff chairs and trying to find something remotely watchable on television. Miranda had pulled out the accordion shutter, which walled off the bedroom from the living room and gave her some privacy.
After passing the third Biotiball game and yet another human news program, he was on the brink of asking her if he could use the shower just so that he'd have something to do. He was about to get up when Miranda stepped out and collapsed the shutters back into the wall. Shepard caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but tried not to act too interested. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow.
Her outfit hadn't changed too radically, although the boots were new, her jeans were tighter and the leather jacket was shorter. He was no expert on makeup, but she still looked immaculate. Miranda ran a hand through her hair as she walked over to the ancient communicator, brushing aside her tucked pistol to slide one of the handsets into her inside jacket pocket. Shepard frowned. She looked like she was either heading to a nightclub or a mafia sit-down.
"Everything okay?" he said.
Miranda put her hands on her hips and faced him. "I'm going to meet some people. Call in some favors. Alone."
She punctuated that last part with a mini-glare. Shepard felt a little affronted. He hadn't even decided whether or not he was going to ask her that yet.
Miranda pointed to the communicator, which docked three more headsets. "If anything happens, and I mean anything, you pick up one of those and call me. Only me. Okay?"
Shepard was focused on the bookcase across the room, his eyes bouncing from novel to novel. Darkness at Noon. Under the Volcano. Brave New World . . . . Miranda. He would've shaken his head at the absurdity if he hadn't remembered she was still staring at him, waiting for an answer. He spared her a glance and nodded curtly.
He looked out the glass doors at the waves cresting not thirty feet from him. He hadn't been to the beach yet. A few seconds later, the sound of her opening the front door spurred something in his memory.
"Miranda!" he said, quickly getting up and jogging down the hallway.
She paused and leaned back, halfway out the front door.
The question he was instinctively going to ask, which was, "When will you be back?" died on his lips. They didn't have that kind of relationship anymore, he reminded himself. He didn't know if they ever would again. So all he said was, "Uh, be careful."
"Yeah," she said. And she was gone.
Shepard shook his head. He didn't even know if he wanted to have that kind of relationship with her again. What good was being friends if she was lying to him the entire time? Were they ever really friends?
He massaged his temples to clear the annoying storm of thoughts. The beach, he reminded himself. The beach.
Shepard grabbed an orange, took off his boots, changed into some shorts and then went outside. It truly was just a few steps, maybe ten or twenty feet, from the door to the first beginnings of sand. The beach itself was unmarred by tourism, the water still a sparkling green. Shepard squinted in the harsh light. The sun had just begun its descent toward the horizon, so he didn't have long to enjoy this. For some reason he really was uncomfortable with being out here unarmed in the dark, as childish as that might sound.
The sand felt strange under his feet. It had been a long time since he'd gotten a chance to relax. Or maybe it just felt like a lifetime. Not that he was on vacation right now or anything, but . . . it was something. Long ago someone must have planted the row of thick palm trees that separated the patchy grass from the sand. Evenly spaced about ten feet apart they stretched into the distance in either direction. All of them were bent at varying angles, blown back by the years of harsh ocean winds.
Shepard stepped forward and leaned against a tree, savoring the unique smell of salt and iodine. He hadn't been to a tropical place like this since he was a kid. Vancouver had beaches, sure, but it wasn't exactly the Bahamas. He glanced down the shoreline looking for perhaps another beach house, but found nothing. He was alone, and he couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not.
He chewed on an orange slice. Shepard had gotten used to being alone by now. The past few years had been so easy largely because of that fact. He'd actually been quite popular back in Vancouver, but those were just superficial, transient relationships. The desire to pursue something deeper had vanished a while ago, and he was mostly fine with that. He shrugged. It was possible he just hadn't been meeting the right people.
Jacob leaving him like he did back in Rhode Island still left a bad taste in his mouth, even to this day. Shepard tried not to blame him for it and over the years he hadn't — though, up until a few days ago, he hadn't spoken to either him or Miranda in years.
He wondered what Jacob would say if he were here right now. Probably chastise him for taking things this far; call him a lunatic for turning his life into an action vid. Shepard chuckled to himself and sat down in the sand. Okay, so maybe there were some things he missed about the time he and Jacob would spend practically every day together.
The fastidiousness was occasionally helpful when Shepard was trying to impress a girl. There was also the dispensability of his alarm clock. Jacob used to, and probably still did, get up at the same ungodly hour every morning, even on his days off. And the noise he made during his ridiculous early morning workout routine was impossible to sleep through. Shepard hummed, trying to remember.
He missed having a bowling partner. He missed having someone that actually enjoyed cooking every night. He missed using holidays as an excuse to go drinking. He missed complaining about bureaucracy and politicians. God, he even missed the stupid . . . oranges.
Shepard's mouth hung open and he stared at the last piece of fruit in his hand. He erupted in a fit of nervous laughter and kept going until he was out of breath. But even after he'd finished panting and calmed down, that niggling sliver of doubt still remained. No way, he thought. There was just no way.
Suddenly he felt anxious and charged all at once. This wasn't going to go away until he did something about it.
So he popped up, tossing the last piece of fruit in his mouth as he did so. Shepard clambered back toward the house at almost full speed, nearly crashing into the sliding glass door in his haste. His thumb jammed trying to pop open the exterior lock and he cursed. Maybe running through it would've been a better option. Massaging his thumb, he threw open the door, flinching at the way it slammed into the frame. He crossed the distance to the dining table in four huge steps.
Shepard pawed through each orange in the bowl, looking like a juggling act that didn't quite make it through clown college. When it was empty he inspected the bowl itself. It was dark, polished wood, no more than a foot in diameter. Carefully he ran his fingers over the inside, then the lip, looking for some kind of compartment or false bottom. He flipped it over. No designer's insignia on the bottom, no markings of any kind . . . nothing. The bowl dropped back down onto the glass table with a clang and he scratched his head.
Shepard would never proclaim himself to be Sherlock Holmes, but still. He looked around and saw the remaining half-dozen oranges strewn about the floor. He dismissed it with a laugh, before realizing he was beginning to feel that same incredulous curiosity that had come over him a few minutes ago.
He used his shirt as a pouch and gathered them all up before dumping them back in the bowl. The excitement still had his nerves afire. Every movement was haphazard and jerky. He grabbed a random fruit out of the bowl and had it halfway to his mouth before he paused.
This was stupid. And a waste of perfectly good oranges. And it was precisely the type of insignificant, meaningless detail that Miranda would notice whenever she came back. Shepard instead picked them up one by one and spent a good couple of minutes trying to feel any weight differences. Eventually he realized this idea was even dumber than the last one.
Putting them back for a third time, he finally found something worth noting. A small, white oval-shaped sticker that said "Fresh" was conspicuously slapped on one near the stem. Shepard ripped it off and saw a two inch-long incision in the rind that the sticker had been hiding. Startled but satisfied, he peeled the orange carefully and headed back out to the beach.
Shepard's hands were shaking as he stumbled back to the tree. This time he sat down in front of it, facing the water, and leaned back against the wide trunk. The next minute or so was simply spent staring rather than doing anything. The anticipation of the moment felt bigger than anything he could possibly find in there. Of course, if there wasn't anything in there he would feel like a colossal fool. At that point he might turn himself in out of shame.
After nervously peeling away a few slices, he found what he was looking for. A thin data disc had been tucked into the center. Shepard frowned. What if he hadn't been the one to find this?
Shepard revealed more and more until he was able to carefully pluck it out. The disc was smaller than normal OSDs, but thick and heavy. It looked like the type meant for a datapad rather than a computer. Which was convenient, because he didn't think this place even had a computer. Miranda had packed plenty of datapads, however, which meant that, if he wanted to, he could take a look at its contents.
Shepard frowned, unsure of why he added that last conditional. Was he really scared of seeing whatever message was on this thing? Maybe he was just afraid of the consequences of his last little "connection" with the Alliance. That had backfired in ways he'd never even imagined. Maybe that's exactly what this was: another trap.
He shook his head. If Jacob knew where he was, and it certainly looked like he did, then chances are the Alliance already knew as well. And if they wanted to come and get him, they wouldn't plant a message in a bottle. They would just do it.
He chewed the last of the orange and watched a blue auger shell swirl along the water line in front of the oncoming waves. A tiny crab idled in the sand, waiting for the shell to pass. Above them, gulls circled the tree to his left. Transplanting animal life was normally an unreliable process, but Terra Nova was such an old colony that some of it at least seemed to have taken hold.
In this unexpected quiet, Shepard realized that there was a part of him that didn't want to open the data, didn't want to read any more intel or see what the Alliance has to say about him. These words wouldn't change anything.
Shepard turned the small disc over in his hands a few times. Whatever it was, someone had gone through a lot of trouble delivering it here. Miranda might not want him to have correspondence of any kind, but his life was in these files and he had a right to it. And another part of him was glad that somewhere in the ridiculous confusion his life had become, he found the wherewithal and energy to locate it. Perhaps it would help him remember, help him see things clearly.
Shepard sighed. He always got himself into so much trouble whenever Miranda was away. And that was really it, wasn't it? Didn't that line of thinking mean anything? Or was he so turned around by lies and manipulation that he might as well be a Cerberus puppet?
He put his hands on his knees and stood up. He didn't know what the future held, but wherever his place was, until he got his name cleared it wasn't with the Alliance. And honestly, after what happened yesterday, it probably wasn't with Miranda either. Jacob had been a close friend once. Maybe that still meant something. Maybe this disc was a way out.
Shepard took a few steps forward, stopping at the shore line. He closed his eyes and felt the water rush over his toes for the first time. It was surprisingly cold, a welcome break from the humidity of the planet and he shivered involuntarily. He continued to turn the disk over in his hand, although it was more like a tic at this point.
After a few moments Shepard opened his eyes and gripped the disc tighter. He looked down, then out at the water. In one motion, he stepped back, bent his knees and tossed the disc as far as he could into the ocean. It landed with a hollow thunk and was swallowed up by the waves.
2008 HRS, May 14, 2183
Terra Nova, Asgard System, Exodus Cluster
Shepard watched the waters churn for a few more seconds before retaking his sitting position against the tree. The sky over the beach was washed-out, grey and empty. The sun beat down on his forehead, drawing a few beads of sweat and making him wish he'd been smart enough to pack sunglasses. He sat for a while and took in the sight.
For the first time in a long time, he'd made a decision purely in self-interest. He shrugged. It seemed like a natural extension from his usual self-pity and self-loathing. But he'd done it, not for the Admiral Board or his commanding officers or his friends or Spectres or, he shuddered, Cerberus. For him.
He closed his eyes and listened to the birds squawking. It was getting late, and today had felt so much longer than it actually was. Time without Miranda was easier to pass in chunks and he was basically stuck here waiting anyway.
Shepard took a deep breath and let the sound of the ocean lull him to sleep.
Shepard awoke in the same position but on a very different beach. A large rock outcropping had replaced his tree, providing him with a small amount of shade. The bright blue waves were more violent than the place he'd just come from and the wet, packed sand was a much darker shade of gold.
There was also the person that just happened to be lying almost on top of him, her head on his chest, snoring softly.
Shepard tried to swallow the yelp of surprise, but was unsuccessful. He jerked, then shrugged out of her grasp and craned his head, enough to see that it was just Miranda. He grumbled. Just Miranda. Like that made things make any sense.
He looked around. This place reminded him of a beach he used to visit as kid. Which was amazing, because up until now, even he'd forgotten what it looked like. He frowned, trying to remember how he got here. There was the house, and then it was night, and then Miranda left . . . and now he was here.
The only dreams Shepard was used to having were nightmares, not pointless distractions like this one. He sucked in a breath, bracing for such knowledge to wake him up. When nothing happened, he exhaled, a little disappointed that it didn't work. So he tried to take stock of the situation. This wasn't so bad, he guessed. Come to think of it, any diversion from reality was perfectly fine as far as he was concerned. But that also meant that this place, Miranda . . . none of it was real.
His shuffling must have woken her up too. She braced herself with one arm and rubbed her eyes before regarding him. It didn't seem like she was too surprised at their position, and in fact after a few seconds she casually settled back down into him.
Well just because Fake Miranda was nonchalant about the whole thing didn't mean he had to be. This was all too weird, but not altogether unpleasant. More than anything it further muddled his already conflicted feelings. Yesterday he was furious with her and now they were close and intimate. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to will himself into a soft bed or into a pool of gold coins — anywhere else as long as it didn't involve some ham-handed confrontation of his "feelings." After a few seconds he opened them back up and found that, much to his disappointment, nothing had changed.
He looked down at her. Her eyes were unfocused, her fingers making little circles across his hip. She did that often, he realized: rested her eyes on him in moments of distraction, letting her mind work. Somewhat reluctantly, he brought his arm up to cradle her, his fingers feeling vestiges of tingles from the way she was leaning on him. His hand settled across her waist and he could feel the warmth of her skin through her thin, white cotton shirt.
A million thoughts raced through his head and he almost started the conversation a hundred different ways. He'd be lying if he said turning this dream into something carnal and wildly inappropriate hadn't crossed his mind. But not only would that not help his current (and apparently future) living situation, stretching plausibility that far would probably just make him wake up on the spot.
After a few more minutes, she made the decision for him.
"Why did you accept my offer?" she said.
"Huh?"
"I mean it," she said. "Why did you come with me? I was a virtual stranger to you. You got on board my shuttle not really knowing who I was or where I was taking you or what I wanted. You surely didn't need my help to get off the planet."
"I did if I didn't want it to be in chains," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "Assuming the worst does not count as justification."
Shepard frowned; he didn't like being questioned by his own subconscious.
"I didn't really think about it all that much," he said. "I just did it." He shrugged. "I knew you'd be there to help me with the hard parts."
"John, the hard part is what you left behind." She stared at the horizon. "You were — are — a decorated soldier. An N7. Maybe you're beginning to understand it now, but there's so much more out there beyond Alliance space. And there's certainly so much life beyond a desk on the thirteenth floor." She looked up at him. "And you could've had it. You still can. You just have to want it."
"I can't survive out there, Miranda. I can't." He grit his teeth. "I just can't."
She started to open her mouth to respond but he cut her off.
"No, you don't understand," he said. "You really have no idea. I feel like I've lived a decade these past few days. I've been to who knows how many different planets and star systems. I've lost count of the number of times I've almost died." He shook his head. "From when we first met three years ago until now — that must have felt like a lifetime for you. New directives, a new partner, tons of new missions, new sets of problems, maybe a new boss."
"No new boss," she mumbled.
"Yeah, well all that time for you passed in a blink for me." He decided to leave out that most of what he did remember passing slowly was thinking of her. Even in a dream he wasn't comfortable bringing something like that up. "When I first met you the leg on my coffee table had just cracked and the day before you showed up on Eden Prime it finally fell off and broke. That's three full years for me. And it goes by like that." He snapped his fingers.
She looked deep in thought again. "Yeah," she said.
"Look, my point is that I know you're not exactly the type of person that lives for tomorrow. Yeah, life might be long, but it goes by so fast. And I want to make sure that I'm still there to have some kind of future to enjoy."
That reminded him of something he'd been wanting to say to the real Miranda for a while.
"Speaking of futures," he said, "you're throwing yours away for nothing. Do you even realize what you've done? I mean, do you really? You're an intergalactic fugitive now. If they get one good look at you, your face will be in the corner of every news feed from here to the Far Rim."
She bit her lip and was silent for a few moments.
"You shouldn't just allow three years to pass by like that," she said.
"What?" Was she listening to him at all? "No, no, no. I'm in charge here. The part where we put me on the couch is over."
She poked his side. "I'm serious. If time passes by so fast, then shouldn't you be doing more with it? Something that fulfills you. Something that's fun and meaningful and not just 'emotionally satisfying.'" She made a face and put up air quotes at that last part. "If I had that opportunity — to truly live for me and not for anybody else — I would use it. I wouldn't just sit there and think about whether my stupid coffee table was broken or not. That's not how I'd want to keep track of my life."
Shepard sat back and let her words sink in. She was serious. He hadn't really been prepared for that kind of emotional wallop when he began this meaningless conversation.
It was rather annoying that even the imagined version of her still saw things in a way he couldn't, but he tried not to dismiss it just because he was still mad at her. He tried to respond a few times before realizing that he couldn't.
The tide, which in the real world had been high enough to almost tickle his feet, thrashed and flopped farther and farther away. At least Miranda seemed content with the idea that the conversation was over. She'd fulfilled her ridiculous, mystical duty, given him the fairy godmother speech and would probably disappear in a puff of smoke soon.
The more he thought about it, the more it made him angry.
"You're a coward," he said.
She gave an uncharacteristic snort. Anything to help separate this from the real world was welcome.
She picked up her head and looked at him. "This should be good."
"You always have to be in control. Of everything. Partners, colleagues, acquaintances . . . friends — if you even have those. Even people you're supposedly trying to help. And all I do is enable you. You manipulate people because you can't handle any kind of real relationship."
"And you?" she said. "Your retirement was a bust. You're not a soldier anymore, not even when you actually try to be one again. You're even more alone now than when I left you three years ago."
"Maybe that's because I'm on the run from the government."
She chuckled humorlessly. "You know that's not what I meant. You've convinced yourself that you're better off living this charade while trying not to hate the universe for doing this to you." She tilted her head. "You like thinking that you're doomed to lead this miserable life. Makes things easier. Means you don't have to try. Fatalism is your emotional crutch."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're an assassin. A Cerberus assassin. Forgive me if I don't take life advice from someone who kills people for a living. And to answer your original question, yeah. If you'd been honest with me from the beginning, I never would've gotten on that shuttle."
She raised a slender eyebrow. "Vilifying me for hiding unflattering truths? Sounds like you're projecting."
He flinched. "You're not supposed to know that."
A small smile crept onto her face. "Now who's being dishonest? Don't pretend like I'm lying to you any more than you're lying to me."
The sun began sinking down behind the horizon, noticeably darkening their surroundings in a matter of seconds. It felt like that moment before a thunderstorm. Everything was too calm and too serene. It felt ominous.
Miranda stretched in his arms before settling back down. She hummed, letting out a breathy sigh. Her voice faded as she talked. "Liars and killers are everywhere."
Neither of them said anything for a while. He chided himself for momentarily forgetting that this was just a fantasy. How messed up was he that these were his fantasies?
They watched the ocean pull back and roll in over and over again. In the distance, the blinking light of a ship slowly crawled across the horizon. Shepard tried to relax. That was the purpose of this stupid dream, he reminded himself. Ultimately, it was all pointless, though.
Her eyes had closed, but he could tell by her breathing that she was just resting, not asleep.
"This isn't real," he said.
She yawned. "That's too bad."
"Yeah," he said. The coarse wind that had been whipping at his face began to die down. It amplified the humidity and made him realize just how cold it had suddenly become. He shivered and felt her hold him tighter. He smiled reflexively. For some reason he felt that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't so messed up after all. "Yeah."
He stroked her hair and angled his head. A second later he was looking deep into her eyes, struck by how they glinted in the low light. He lost his voice and she smiled like she knew what was coming next. Miranda brought a hand up and cupped his face, running her thumb over his cheek a few times. The smell of her shampoo mixed with the sand and the salt, assaulting his senses. His eyes closed and a second later he felt her pulling his head in closer. All at once, his entire world was reduced to the softness of her lips and the thumping in his chest.
223 HRS, May 15, 2183
Terra Nova, Asgard System, Exodus Cluster
Shepard awoke again, panting and out of breath. He pawed at the ground where she had been, then touched his lips. After looking around at the real beach, he closed his eyes and groaned. He fell back into the tree, wincing when his head smacked against the rough bark.
That entire experience seemed much less worthwhile now that he was on the outside looking in. It was almost pitch black now. He must have slept through most of the night. The moonlight reflecting off of the water was the only way he was able to see.
That had felt too real, and Shepard couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone.
A/N: Times like these I miss having a decent buffer. I talked about arcs a few chapters ago, and the next one safely ends this section of the story. The Shepard/Miranda solo adventure is over for the most part, and this can start feeling less like a spy novel and more like a real ME story. Next chapter brings in a few familiar characters, and we begin the long march toward the eventual happenings of ME1. Here's a show of good faith, snippets from the next chapter as proof that it actually exists:
"Jesus, you scared the shit out of — wait a minute. Have you been sitting out there watching me all night? What kind of psychopath does that?"
::
"What do you mean you threw it in the water?"
"What do you mean what do I mean? You disappear for two years and your first contact is with a fruit? That's your top secret plan?"
::
If it was possible, Miranda looked less pleased than she did a few hours ago. There was something else there too, behind all the anger, but, as she came to a stop in front of him, he couldn't quite place it. "He wants to see you," she said.
