10.
All of her senses seemed dulled, muted. Like she was in a fog that blocked out every one of them, only letting a few fragmented bits of sensory information erratically jump through her synapses. It didn't help. The only picture she could form was of something terrible.
There was a muffled roaring in her ears. She vaguely registered screaming, but she didn't know whose voice it was. There were several of them, actually. Screaming voices. Shouting in pain and anguish, fear and terror. She could not make out the words, but it didn't matter.
The sound of suffering was universal.
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"You've been very quiet since the Commander…came back."
"So have you," came the neutral reply.
"Touché."
Clearly more discussion was expected. She hesitated. Spending two years using information as she had made her even more reticent and less comfortable disclosing anything. "I…I suppose it's been difficult lately. We are all so affected by this. All of humanity is. And yet none of us know what to do except sit around and think about what we could do." She paused, the mysterious little smile turning wry with a tinge of sadness. "I suppose this is one answer that is not really a solution at all," she finished, raising her glass.
"I wasn't sure if you were going to, but I'm glad you accepted my invitation. I have to admit, I didn't peg you for a drinker."
"I wasn't. Not until I met Commander Shepard, at least."
At that, Kasumi chuckled. "Being with her tends to bring that out in people," she said softly.
Liara just kept absently staring out of the window, wine glass in hand. "She tends to bring a lot of things out of a lot of people."
"True. Sometimes the best," Kasumi said earnestly, and then her smile turned devious. "Sometimes the worst. But no matter what, something changes when she's around."
"Sometimes," replied Liara, her voice distant and eyes full of pain, "everything does."
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"Daddy, look!"
The painting looked like an exact replica of the original, as though Van Gogh thought he'd have another shot at it and re-paint his famed "Starry Night." Miranda Lawson held it tightly but gently in her small hands, her fingertips stained with ink.
She was three years old.
"Yes, it's lovely, just lovely, Miranda," Henry Lawson said, barely looking up from his desk. Distracted and frustrated, he didn't even attempt one of his too-stiff smiles at his daughter and instead, bit back the urge to shoo her away. He did, however, have the energy to grumble far too loudly to be considered for his own ears. "It should be, what with how much I'm paying that art tutor…"
"…Yes, Daddy," Miranda said, voice quiet. Being around him was like being around a ticking time bomb, and Miranda learned early on that it was best not to make any loud, sudden movements or sounds around him. Or be around him at all, she supposed.
"Pet?" he grated out, "What did I tell you about calling me "daddy'? Call me "Father", it's much more dignified." He belatedly, half-heartedly tried to soften his voice. "You'll sound like a big girl." Henry returned tired eyes to the financial reports in his hands, frowning, as Miranda shifted on her feet.
"Y-yes…Father." Thoroughly rebuked, the enthusiasm with which she had entered his office had fizzled out like a dying flame, and she listlessly handed the painting over to her father. "We can hang it up somewhere, right?"
The wings of the Lawson mansion were spacious and almost cavernous in their size. Henry's office walls were bare, save for one original Dali and da Vinci, and a few of Henry's company's awards. Room, like money, like food, like timeless art pieces and antiques, like pride and arrogance and just about anything but love, were in abundance in the Lawson family estate.
"God damn it!" Henry roared, startling Miranda. He crumpled the papers in his hands, muttering to himself. "I fucking knew he got the numbers wrong." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jesus." He eyed Miranda, who still stood there nervously. "What did you want again, pet?"
Wordlessly, Miranda stepped forward and hesitating only a little, placed the painting on her father's desk amidst all the papers and folders.
"Ah, yes," Henry said. "Well, I have a lot of work to do, pet, a lot of mistakes to fix as per usual," he groused. "Leave your poor father alone to do some work, will you?"
Her smile was tentative, and she nodded before quietly leaving the room even though her father's eyes remained glued to his papers.
Later that night, Miranda quietly crept into his office and dug her painting out of the trash, willing herself not to cry.
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There was a blurry haze blinding her eyes. She rubbed at them, but something sticky on her right hand only made it worse. She blinked, but it felt like the milky white film of blurriness was only in her mind and wasn't something physical, wasn't a tangible eyelash or piece of dirt in her eyes.
She stumbled along, groping the nearby walls for support, as her boots squelched sickeningly with every step. Whatever it was, it was viscous and slightly sticky, adhering to her boots and making them feel heavier than they already felt. Her poor attempts at movement finally proved useless as she fell almost flat on her face. Catching herself and ending up on all fours forced her to come face to face with the literal cause of her downfall.
A body.
Or, more accurately, a corpse.
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"I hate hanging around here, it's…My house is such a dump," Niket grumbled.
"It's not…bad," Miranda said tactfully.
He scoffed. "Compared to the famed Lawson mansion? Right." Niket teased, but Miranda felt the oncoming of a well-worn argument. "Why won't you let me visit your house? I just don't understand."
"Clearly," Miranda retorted. "Niket, we've been over this."
"I know, I know, you're not ashamed of me, blah blah blah. I still don't get it."
"People should stay as far away from Henry Lawson as possible," she said, her voice dark. "You're the only friend I have, Niket. I don't want him taking you away from me too."
"Miri…"
"You really don't understand. I don't even want him to know who you are." She didn't mention the last three 'friends' she had that sold her out to Henry for a hefty sum. In return for no longer "associating" with Miranda, they were given enough money to feed their families for a few years and buy a new car in one fell swoop. It just wouldn't do, associating with…with "those people" as her father liked to call them. Or, as the rest of society would call them, "middle class."
Niket took in her troubled expression and immediately regretted bringing up the sore subject once more. "I'm sorry. I won't push this anymore, promise." Niket smiled at her, and it was so pure and honest it made Miranda want to cry. It was a real smile, one that crinkled his eyes and nose and bared his teeth. It wasn't the stiff-lipped small one of politeness she gave towards her father's business associates and their haughty children; not the plastered on, hollow one her father gave her when she accomplished something; not the one Stubbs, her father's assistant, gave her out of nervous deference. A real, honest to God smile.
"Good. I would hate to have to give my best friend a bloody nose," Miranda joked.
"Like you even would, Miri," he laughed, grabbing her in one of his sporadic bear hugs.
(The first time he had done this, Miranda's fight training and sudden terror at being touched – no one ever hugged her, kissed her cheek goodnight, held her hand – kicked in and she kneed him in the balls. Niket had learned to be more discriminatory when choosing the proper moment to hug her, and Miranda learned not to be such a "spaz" – Niket's words, not hers.)
Perhaps it wasn't wise to let him be so affectionate with her, she thought in retrospect. Miranda knew Niket had a little crush on her and she purposely emphasized her strictly platonic feelings, but he still stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking, still smiled at her too earnestly. But even still, as he hugged her and squeezed just a little too tightly, she didn't say anything. She couldn't afford to.
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"Where were you?" Henry demanded.
Miranda stiffened in the doorway, her scowl etched deep in her skin; after all, she had had sixteen years to perfect it. "Out."
"Damn it, Miranda, don't be deliberately obtuse," her father snarled, crossing his arms tightly against his chest. "You know you have a curfew."
"And you know that I ignore it. You have your men follow me everywhere anyway." It was true; Henry Lawson didn't trust anybody and especially not Miranda herself. He had an endless amount of mercenaries and bodyguards on retainer, half of which were employed solely for Miranda.
"That is absolutely besides the point," Henry said, visibly trying to rein in his temper; clearly, he was fighting a losing battle. "I am your father, and I'm only concerned for your safety."
She snorted, shrugging off her jacket and placing it on the coat rack before breezing past him. "You're only concerned for your legacy. You're not trying to protect me, you're trying to protect your precious dynasty! I could be anyone for all you care."
Henry stopped her by grabbing her wrist tightly, growling. She whirled around in response, eyes furious. "Don't you dare speak to me that way, you little brat." His face was purple with rage. "'Could be anyone'?" He quoted in a snarl. He shook his head, disbelieving. "No, you could not be just anyone," Henry hissed, spittle flying." You will never be just anyone. You are Miranda Lawson, and I chose it to be that way. I chose everything about you. I can say this with more pride, more conviction, more truth than any parent with a child of natural, biological birth: I…made… you."
Utter loathing roared through her veins; her blood sang for his. But she couldn't do a damn thing. Not just yet. Wrenching her wrist away, she settled for glaring daggers at him. "You've made your point. Can I leave yet? You're going to ground me, I'm going to do nothing in my room but study or train either way…I don't really think we need to do this all over again."
"You're right," her father said softly, scowling and letting her go. "You're free to leave then."
She rolled her eyes, walking back towards her room and glowering the whole way.
"Miranda, pet," he called out. Miranda paused. Something in his voice unnerved her.
"Yes, Father?"
"Next time you see this…Niket, was it? Tell him I said hello. And that I'd very much like to meet him. It isn't fair that I haven't yet, pet. Stubbs tells me he's one of your very best friends."
Icicles pricked at her insides. "…Yes, Father." She said it like a curse, shakily walking back to her room as Henry smiled to himself.
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"So what exactly are you saying, doctor?"
"Your daughter will be unable to have children, Mr. Lawson. I am sorry. I can tell her if you'd like."
A pause. "No, thank you, doctor. I'll be the one to break the bad news," he lied smoothly. "Take care," he called out as the doctor took his leave.
He tapped into his communications device, sighing. "Cameron? It's Henry Lawson. I want another set of DNA removed from cryo and prepped. Yes, damn it, another…I think Miranda would love having a little sister, don't you?"
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"All right there, Tali?" Ken Donnelly asked. "You've been staring at that screen for five minutes straight."
"Kenneth, you're being irritating. Maybe she's being thorough."
"Thorough? What's that?" he teased.
"I'm fine," Tali replied absently. "Just…some numbers that didn't seem right. I've corrected them; everything should be fine now."
"Everything'll be 'fine' once we kick some Collector ass," Ken said. "I can't wait until the Commander finally gives us the order to go through the relay."
Gabby rolled her eyes. "Like you'd be doing any real fighting, Kenneth. You'll probably be down here cowering near the drive core."
"I resemble that remark. I mean, resent. But anyway, Tali, speaking of the Commander, how is she doing? She didn't look too well before, but I suppose that's to be expected."
"She's…" A flash of kind blue eyes, saving her from the Shadow Broker's men: Thank you. No, I'm all right. You saved my life. My name's Tali. Saving her from the geth: Shepard blasted through using mining lasers before. I wish she were here…Saving her from exile: I got better, Shepard. I got you and I don't trust anyone enough…Well, not quarian, at least. Bosh'tet…no, I'm not blushing…
Then, just as quickly, the same blue eyes filled with hatred and rage, unhindered by the Commander's usual self-control and calm demeanor. I'll kill you all! The Reapers will prevail…
"Tali?"
She blinked. "She's…fine," Tali lied. Kenneth just wondered at her suddenly very limited vocabulary, and said nothing.
Keelah, please let her be.
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"I want to speak with the Illusive Man," she demanded. Her attempt at authority was undermined by her bedraggled, haggard appearance; the graze of a bullet ripping open her sleeve; and the crying baby in her arms.
"Young lady, I don't—"
The hand not cradling Oriana to her body ignited in a blaze of blue biotics. "I don't care if we talk in person or via telecomm. Just get me the Illusive Man. Now."
The Cerberus operative (glorified secretary, Miranda thought acidly) did not hide the blatant roll of his eyes before speaking through a commlink. "Sir, there's a young woman here that wishes to speak with you." He sighed. "Yes, sir, I know you were not to be disturbed" – he glared at Miranda – "but she insisted, and it looks to be a…dire situation."
Miranda bounced Oriana against her hip, cooing and murmuring words of consolation, unsure if they were for the baby or for herself.
"Her name? Uh.."
"Tell him it's Miranda Lawson. Henry Lawson's daughter. As in, the man that probably funded the construction of this building and half of Cerberus's projects?"
Clearing his throat, he nodded. "M-miss Lawson, you should have said…" Miranda heard irritable barking through his commlink. "There's a communication hub upstairs," the operative said. "Go right on up, Miss."
"I think I shall," Miranda replied, insufferably smug. Oriana just giggled and chewed on the ends of Miranda's hair.
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Wearily, Acting Commander Miranda Lawson slumped into her office chair only to be pinged by one of her consoles, alerting her to a new private message.
She sighed and rubbed at her brow in frustration, opening the secure message with trepidation.
Miranda,
I trust that you have given some thought about the fate of the Lazarus Project – it is either salvageable or not, and your judgment is sound. I have made it clear what your options are, and I know that you will make the right decision. All that I ask is, for brevity and humanity's sake, you make and execute the decision by the end of the night. The Lazarus Project will be completed as of today.
You know that I will never question your capability, for which I have the utmost respect. I simply wish to reassure you that you have both my trust and confidence, and to remind you that the fate of humanity is in your hands.
The Illusive Man
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As quiet as every level on the Normandy seemed, there was an intensity that invaded every floor, making everyone restless, jumpy, and worried. Liara paced Shepard's room alone; Miranda stared outside of her window; Jacob added three hundred more crunches to his routine; Kasumi poured herself another drink; Grunt unloaded and reloaded his Claymore; Mordin nearly dropped a test tube; Garrus miscalculated the numbers for calibration again; Thane and Samara both intensified their meditation sessions; 1,183 geth programs contemplated the newly-given name of Legion; and Tali re-examined the drive core for the fifth time.
Meanwhile in the underbelly of the Normandy, Jack stared at a well-used deck of cards next to her equally tattered leather journal, and decided to write.
My soul
Burns
With a fire of darkness
Quenched only in the pain
Of loneliness
I hold my breath waiting
Until spots appear black as the past
And fill my lungs up with lies of hope
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"Councilor Anderson?"
He smiled honestly for the first time in days; politics, much like the military, hardly provided much reason for joy or amusement, but a little reunion certainly did. "Chief Williams," Anderson said, grasping her hand in a sturdy soldier's grip. "I miss the days when it was just Captain Anderson, but I have to say, it's very good to see you."
She chuckled. "And you, sir." Ashley Williams saluted, a habit she clearly never intended to break, and settled into the chair next to him.
"What can I do for you?"
Her easy smile disappeared, her face melting into the well-used, expressionless mask of an Alliance soldier. "Sir, there have been some…unsettling reports from the far reaches of the traverse."
Anderson frowned. "Considering anywhere outside of the Terminus systems is technically not Council space, I trust there is more reason for telling me this?
She hesitated, an unusual occurrence. "Simple scout ships, sir, but…but I felt that I should report to you directly."
"Why's that?"
"It's…I think it has to do with Shepard." Ashley looked away. "I know you believe the Commander, and God knows I want to. But after all that happened, after all this time, after she died and just waltzed back into our lives," Ashley said harshly, pain bitter on her tongue, "it's so hard to believe a lot of things."
"I understand," Anderson's voice was gentle. He laughed a little wryly. "I suppose that's one word to describe her. Unbelievable."
"Councilor," Ashley said. "The sightings…" she sighed as if the very effort to drag out the words exhausted her. "The reports said they looked like rachni scout ships. As in, the practically extinct rachni that Shepard saved but also let loose on the world, potentially allowing for another Rachni War."
Anderson eyed her thoughtfully, and then took a long swallow from his water glass. "As I said," he chuckled, half in disbelief at the news and half in pure amusement at Williams's expression. "Unbelievable."
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Blood everywhere. Blue, green, red. Lots of red. So that's what it was.
"How could you?" A voice accused behind her, full of rage and incredulity. She whirled around only to face a bruised and battered Miranda, holding a gun to her face.
Shepard opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"You killed them," whispered Miranda, blood matting her hair. "You killed them all."
Shepard helplessly looked down at her hands. They, too, were covered in blood.
None of which was hers.
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From: Ilium Medical Center, Prenatal Care Department
RE: TEST RESULTS, PATIENT 12-66AD-1
Miss Lawson,
As per your request for privacy, this message will be removed from our database upon confirmation of send integrity.
While we cannot firmly attribute the cause of the benign neoplasm to the irregularity in your genetic makeup, we can confirm that the progressive damage renders you unable to conceive a child.
About 12 percent of human women ages 18-54 have difficulty getting pregnant or staying pregnant according to data obtained from the Institute of Species Research (ISR). There are many support groups if you wish to discuss your condition and several options available should you wish to consider the adoption of a child.
If you require further consultation, please contact our communication officer.
Sincerely,
Dr. Banner Grenway
Department Medical Director
Illium Medical Center
Miranda stonily closed the message, watching her console safely and securely delete any traces of it.
Numbly, she walked over to one of her lounge chairs, and stared at her clenched fists until she could no longer see, her eyes swimming in the salt of her tears.
"Miranda, do you have a minute? I'd like to discuss those mineral scanners—" Shepard paused. "Oh. Um." Uneasily, she walked towards Miranda like she would a wounded varren. "Is everything okay?" She winced at the banality of her words.
Miranda sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "The…um…the dust in here is terrible."
Shepard laughed gently. "Surprisingly, so is your ability to lie." At Miranda's continued silence, the Commander sobered. She cleared her throat and edged back towards the door. "Well…you know where to find me if you want to talk about…your allergies," she finished, flustered. Shepard rubbed at her neck, looking unsure if she wanted to say anything further. She bit the bullet. "Miranda, I want you to know that I…I care. You're not only part of my squad, you're—" here, Miranda looked up, and Shepard flushed a little – "you're my friend."
Miranda stared.
Shepard coughed. "Well. As I said, you, ah…know where to find me." She turned towards the door with a little wave until Miranda's broken voice called her back.
"…I can't have children," she blurted, startling them both; Shepard turned green while Miranda went pale.
A second, a moment, an eternity passed between them, until Shepard crossed the room with purposeful strides.
Miranda didn't look up at Shepard when she was suddenly at her side, nor did she stop the few tears that managed to escape. Shepard didn't say another word, didn't say nonsensical, meaningless words of comfort. She didn't need to: Shepard silently reached out and Miranda held onto the offered hand like a lifeline, and it was like everything that needed to be said, was.
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.
She held the syringe in the palm of her hand, wondering why it suddenly felt heavier than it had that morning when she obtained it from a concerned Mordin.
Miranda searched for the flicker of hope Shepard always inspired, prayed to a god she didn't believe in that everything would work itself out, and solemnly headed towards the medical bay.
.
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Shepard's eyelids fluttered in the darkness of the clinic and her hands twitched at her sides.
You have done well, Shepard. Soon, we will keep our promise, and together, we will eradicate those who have silenced us, we will –
Light exploded behind her eyelids in a burst of red and black, her body contorting against its restraints as miserable screams and high-pitched screeching assaulted her ears. Only the deafening voice overpowered the Prothean and human death cries ringing in her ears.
SHEPARD, YOU HAVE FAILED.
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"I…" She had finally found her voice, but it came out like a croak. Didn't mean to, didn't want to, she couldn't help it –
Kill her, Shepard.
"This is all your fault," Miranda whispered angrily.
"No," she protested, but inside, her heart and soul screamed yes. "I…"
KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER
With a scream, she launched forward so quickly it was impossible for Miranda to dodge, and Shepard instantly knocked the gun out of her hand.
A powerful blow to the head muted Miranda's struggling, and that made it all the more easier to wrap her hands around that beautiful, pale throat, the same one she had showered kisses on days before, and instead, paint it with bruises the shape of her fingertips.
She shivered; the strangled sound Miranda made was like music to her ears, a complement to the deep, rumbling laughter that she heard only inside her head.
"No!"
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.
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"No!"
Shepard would have lurched upwards had she not been restrained. Instead, she merely surged against her confines, struggling and straining, until finally, she collapsed backwards in exhaustion.
"Shepard," Miranda said worriedly. "I…" Emotions warred across Miranda's face, her brows furrowing as she debated whether to approach.
"Miranda." Her voice was hoarse from screaming and her skin was pale with cold sweat, but something about her made Miranda relax a little. She looked into tired, bloodshot eyes, and instead of the animalistic rage she expected, Miranda only saw….she only saw… Oh God.
"It's you," she whispered, her heart doing somersaults around her chest.
"It's me," Shepard confirmed, voice weak. The familiar little smirk held no trace of belligerence or malice, and suddenly instead of performing gymnastics, Miranda's heart leapt into her throat and stayed there.
"Oh God," Miranda said aloud as she rushed over to her side, stroked the sides of Shepard's face as a tear dripped down her own. "Damn it. Bloody allergies."
"Allergies. Right," Shepard rasped with a small smile.
"You're an ass." Miranda couldn't help but retort, relishing in the feel of Shepard's nose buried in her neck as she held her tightly.
"Thanks." Shepard inhaled the familiar subtle scent that was just so…so Miranda. She couldn't get enough. "God, I've missed you. I missed you so much." She frowned, tugging at her restraints. "I wish these weren't in the way…I want to…" Embarrassed, her throat seemed to swell shut. I want to hold you.
Mournfully, Miranda pulled away. "Shepard, I can't."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Shepard said. "In fact, even if you suggested it, I'd refuse. I don't know when Harbinger is going to come back…It's too much of a risk." As though simply mentioning his name called him into being, a tingle, down near the base of her spine, slowly crept upwards as the veins in her brain started to throb. No.
Torn, Miranda paced across the floor. "How could you do this? Do you know how stupid this all is? We did everything we could to revive you just so you could throw your life away like this? What the hell did you think you were going to accomplish?" Miranda ran a hand through her hair in frustration, the dark strands in disarray. "I've seen you do idiotic things in the name of heroism, Shepard, but I've never imagined you could something so irresponsible, so ridiculous, so—"
"Miranda," Shepard panted. "Can you yell at me later?" The darkness whispered to her, called to her like a siren, and she felt herself slipping.
"Damn it, if there's even going to be a 'later'," Miranda mumbled then returned to Shepard's side. She grabbed at one of her clammy hands and held it tightly within her own, frustration gone in the face of her worry. "What's happening? Does it hurt?"
"Like a son of a bitch," she ground out. Gasping, she squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. "It takes so much to resist," Shepard said haltingly. "It's like half the time, you believe everything he says. The other half of the time, even if you don't, he's inside of you. He is you. And you are him. But you watch yourself do everything you don't want to, and there's nothing you can do but scream on the inside."
"But you can fight it, you've done it before," Miranda insisted, unable to do anything more than move the errant strands of hair out of Shepard's eyes.
"Only once, and it exhausted me. Not to mention hurt like hell," Shepard said, wincing. It felt like a krogan had her head between his hands and was just squeezing mercilessly; unconsciousness, or worse, Harbinger, edged closer. "Miranda…"
"Shepard, I…"
"Anyone I've ever seen indoctrinated I've ended up killing. Or they've ended up killing themselves. Fai Dan…Saren…Either way, there's no way to stop it. You know this." She stared at the ceiling. "And…so do I."
Miranda said nothing.
"He ordered it anyway, didn't he? The Illusive Man?" Shepard asked, already knowing the answer. "God, the first time I agree with his fucked up decisions and it ends with me dying. Again." she joked weakly. "Fuck," she groaned as a wave of excruciating pain washed over her.
"How can you joke at a time like this?" Miranda hissed. "This is serious, Shepard."
"Fine," she grunted. "I'll be serious. I'm serious when I say that if this is going to happen, and it is, I want it to be you. No one else. I trust you. I'd do it myself but you know if he gets ahold of me…" She looked away for a moment, then regained her resolve, looking directly into Miranda's worried eyes. "I'm serious when I say that I believe you can do this without me, that you need to trust yourself as much as I trust you. Okay?"
"Yes," whispered Miranda.
"I…I don't have much time," she struggled. "Miranda, I…I want to tell you…"
Miranda's eyes widened. "Don't say it, please." Miranda had never begged for anything in her life, but she was sure as hell begging now. "I don't want to hear it like this." She cupped Shepard's cheek in her hand, thumb stroking the skin there. "…And I don't want to say it like this either," she whispered meaningfully.
Shepard's eyes suspiciously glistened as she nodded once then turned her head to press a reverent kiss to Miranda's open palm. Once more, she said nothing. Everything that needed to be said already was.
.
.
.
The colony of Ferris Fields took only about fifteen minutes to abduct, but they still had millions of pods to fill. It was almost too simple, Harbinger thought. Colonies crumbled before him, and soon, all of those pods would be full, and a new Reaper nation would be born.
Harbinger smugly targeted yet another colony on the map and plugged in the coordinates. It would be far more enjoyable when Shepard recovered and eradicated everyone on that irritating ship to lead the next abduction herself. The looks on those pathetic humans' faces…the trouble of dealing with Shepard was worth it.
"Oh, Shepard," Harbinger mused. "It is almost a pity that I will have to kill you after all this." He thought of the fallen Sovereign, and recanted. "Almost."
.
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.
"It's a simple injection," Miranda explained quietly. "Directly to the cardiac muscle. Within a few minutes it should be working. Your heart will stop and…" she trailed off.
"From getting spaced to getting euthanized. What a downgrade."
"Shepard." Miranda's voice was sharp. She bit her lip. "Maybe we could give it one more day, you could try again…"
Shepard fiercely shook her head. "Now," she rasped. "I need you. I can't hold him off much longer."
Hesitantly, Miranda nodded as her heart thudded in her chest. She uncapped the syringe, pressing the needlepoint against Shepard's breastbone. "Shepard…"
The single hand that Miranda had removed the restraints from shakily covered hers, and she attempted a weak smile of reassurance. "Go on."
Again, Miranda nodded. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to steady her hand, terrified that she'd screw it all up. One unavoidable twitch, one wrong move…
"Hurry…I don't… I don't want to die while he's controlling me," Shepard urged, her body trembling more and more with each moment of Miranda's hesitation. "I want to die like this." Despite the anguish painted on her face, she smiled, and Miranda had never seen her look more beautiful. "With you."
Miranda leaned forward, pressing her lips to Shepard's for what could be the last time. As one stubborn tear dripped down her face, she forced the needlepoint past muscle and bone, ignoring the other woman's sharp gasp of pain against her mouth and just thinking, hoping, praying over and over again, please let this work.
Only when Shepard's hand fell from hers, dropping back to the table lifelessly, did Miranda pull out the empty syringe and breathe a shuddery, ragged breath.