Author's notes: Hello, gentle readers. Things are shaping up nicely, I think – I've had a lot of fun with the last few chapters. I love Mordin!

Pretty soon, the two other protagonists I've chosen will be prominently featured in the narrative, which will hopefully make things even more interesting. And the idea of Samara taking a bath is easily the most interesting thing I've imagined thus far, though everyone may not agree. =P

As always, please do continue to leave your thoughts and criticisms. I am both quite humbled by the praise and inevitably improved by the critiques. =)

10 – A Drop of Water

Miranda

"Is that a shield generator?" Shepard asked, reaching for something on Mordin's lab bench.

"Yes," the professor replied, a little distractedly. Miranda walked over to see what he was doing; the salarian appeared to be tinkering with the prototype nanocrystal shield module that Cerberus had acquired. Working with geth shield technology was completely beyond Miranda's knowledge or experience, but Mordin was positively thrilled with the opportunity. Shepard, meanwhile, was holding a very compact example of a personal kinetic barrier generator, turning it over in his hands.

"Looks small," Shepard observed, echoing Miranda's thoughts.

"Backup generator," Mordin replied. "Designed to supplement existing kinetic barrier with redundant system. Shields go down, auxiliary generator kicks in. Saves life." Deep breath. "Surprises enemies."

"Must've been a Cerberus in-house project," Shepard observed, pointing out the Cerberus logo embossed on the generator's side. "Where did you even get this?"

Mordin looked up at the question, started to answer, then closed his mouth and stared at the generator in Shepard's hand as if he'd never seen it before.

"Don't know," said Mordin, obviously puzzled.

Miranda laughed. "I had preexisting knowledge about the project and had EDI send a requisition order for the module. Last week, if I remember correctly."

Mordin nodded sagely. "Wise, very wise, Operative Lawson. Especially considering some of our more... rash… colleagues' tendencies in battle. Excellent allocation of resources."

Shepard frowned dryly. "That's directed at me, I take it?"

Miranda smiled at him. "Of course not, Commander. I for one would never suggest a propensity for suicidal carelessness on your part, and I'm utterly certain that Dr. Solus shares my trepidation."

Mordin coughed, putting forth little effort to hide his smile. "Yes, of course. Would never suggest it. Purgatory mission will always serve as a shining example of Shepard's restraint and finesse, after all."

"Yeah, well, at least I've never set Jacob on fire," Shepard retorted.

"Accident," said Mordin, a little defensively. "Besides, didn't actually immolate him, just singed shields…" A wide grin split Mordin's face in two. "But… point taken."

Shepard set the generator back on the lab bench. "Cerberus sure does seem to enjoy putting their logo on things," he observed. "This ship alone must have over a thousand of them."

He has a point, she mused. Some of the uniforms are downright gaudy.

It was nice, chatting like this. Nice to have a break from walking the razor's edge separating life and death on the battlefield, so to speak. And, though she never would have anticipated anything of the sort, Mordin Solus had really grown on her. She found herself spending more and more of her rare downtime chatting with him, picking his brain, sharing stories. She both admired and shared Mordin's enthusiasm for solving difficult tasks, loved seeing that light in his eyes when he managed to circumvent an impossible obstacle. Those aforementioned moments were never in short supply – Mordin Solus ate "impossible obstacles" for breakfast.

Along with those disgusting globs of mucus, she thought with a shudder. Salarian cuisine had proved completely intolerable to her senses. Garrus, for one, could often be found complaining about it loudly.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by EDI's serene, disembodied voice.

"Professor, I am detecting a small source of radiation from within the tech lab."

"What?" Miranda exclaimed, alarmed.

"Biotic amplifier research," Mordin explained, setting down his tools. "Complications… hmm… unexpected. Wouldn't have thought... Maybe – no, no, did that already."

He stopped pacing and addressed Shepard and Miranda. "Err, probably nothing to worry about, but… Maybe best to clear out for now."

Shepard shrugged in acquiescence. "I trust you not to kill us all, Mordin." He walked over and triggered the automatic door, nodding to Miranda. "Shall we, Ms. Lawson?"

She smiled at him in response. They walked together to the elevator.

"So what next, Shepard?" she asked. "Haestrom?"

"I don't know. That would be my first impulse, but I don't want to compromise or interfere with whatever Tali's doing."

She nodded. After seeing Shepard and Tali interact on Freedom's Progress, Miranda had come to the conclusion that their relationship was a fairly close one. Shepard was obviously quite fond of her, and from what Miranda had been able to glean from the quarian, the feeling appeared to be mutual.

"She's like a sister to me," Shepard said, watching her closely. She scrubbed at a dark stain on her sleeve as an excuse to look away. Sometimes, in talking with him, she found herself unable to shake the decidedly uncomfortable notion that Shepard could read minds.

"I understand," Miranda replied. She did, after a fashion. She and Oriana didn't exactly have any relationship to speak of, but she understood the protective impulse, the desire to shield a loved one from harm.

"But her duty to the Migrant Fleet is important to her, and to be honest, I'm not even sure how I feel about asking her to come, anyway," he reflected, suddenly looking pensive and distant. "It's such a long shot that any of us will come back alive…"

That's easy enough to understand, she thought. I'd certainly be hesitant to ask anyone I cared about to follow me through an uncharted mass relay.

Shepard's spirits had improved markedly since the situation with Garrus had resolved itself, and the whole ship seemed to be glad of it. Garrus was something of an enigma with most of the crew, likely in part because of his race, but everyone liked Shepard, and his distress had a way of rubbing off on everyone else. He was one of those rare people who seemed to influence the world around him simply by being.

The elevator admitted them to the crew deck. He came back to earth, gave her a quick parting smile and headed off toward the mess hall, probably for a late lunch. She watched him go, deciding on a whim to return to her cabin for a bit. She wasn't hungry, and the Normandy was grounded for maintenance until the following morning. Surely the ship could spare her presence for a few hours.

She sat down at her desk, checking her mail by rote. A message from Shepard, kindly informing her, tongue in cheek, that anymore "destructive tampering" on her part would result in his "swift and decisive action," namely her removal as his executive officer.

She laughed aloud. Over the past couple of days, the two of them had become engaged in a rapidly-escalating feud, of sorts. He'd written her an email, obviously composed in an idle moment with the sole intention of getting on her nerves. "Grunt says he has a brother back on Korlus. I'm thinking of going back and picking him up. How would you like to open the pod in the cargo bay?" it read. Her reply had been both terse and mischievous: "Unfortunately, I shall have to pass, Commander. Perhaps you should have a go at it, instead. Maybe a repeat of that ridiculous decision will result in some sense being beaten into that thick, Neanderthal skull of yours." His response had been only three words: "This means war."

He'd been true to his word – the following morning, to her immense surprise, her desktop had somehow been affected to display a full-screen picture of what appeared to be a choice selection of raw meat from Gardner's freezer. She had followed up on this transgression by convincing EDI, who had been unexpectedly complicit and eagerly conspiratorial, to change all the display language on Shepard's terminal to an archaic volus dialect. She and Shepard had subsequently continued to exchange jabs back and forth until this afternoon, when Miranda succeeded in hacking his email account and changing his password to "miranda_wins."

He conceded defeat gracefully, she thought, amused. The whole thing had been surprisingly fun and quite out of character for her. She never would have imagined herself engaging in this kind of playful behavior with a commanding officer; in the past, she'd even rebuffed comparable attempts. But reading that message, imagining him sitting there, dressed for bed, the cheeky, impish grin on his face as he composed it and clicked "Send"… It had been too much. She'd responded almost without thinking about it.

At least now he knows who between us is the technologically superior, she smiled to herself, scanning the rest of her inbox. A message from Mack Dodgson, a Cerberus requisitions officer she'd contacted about some of Mordin's new toys. That could wait. A quick note from the Illusive Man that she'd skimmed earlier regarding the Citadel operation. A message from Lanteia, one of her contacts on Illium. An "urgent" message from someone named "Eric," probably junk mail –

She stopped dead, her good humor instantly obliterated by a nauseating surge of fear. Icy cold fingers seemed to clamp down on her spine.

… Lanteia? What could Lanteia possibly…?

She opened it hastily, dangerously close to panic. The message was short, only a few quick sentences:

He's found her. Come as soon as you can. I have no idea what to expect.

Lanteia

The bottom seemed to drop out of her stomach. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, and her hands clenched the sides of her desk as she battled the sudden onset of vertigo.

He's found her. He's found Oriana.

Oriana…

Suddenly, her recent correspondence with Niket took on an entirely different meaning.

He wouldn't. He knew why I left, he'd have to understand why I did it, she thought frantically. Why would he betray her now, after all this time?

He didn't know you took Oriana.

How had he found her? Miranda had been so careful, so precise… What could have gone wrong? She couldn't come up with any explanation (betrayal) that made sense, but it was impossible for her to put anything past her father. And all the money he could offer…

Niket… No. I refuse to believe it. Maybe I'm being foolish, but he wouldn't! Not after everything I went through!

She forced herself to calm down, closing her eyes and taking measured, deep breaths, feeling some of her fear slowly ebb away, only to be replaced by anger and determination. What could her father hope to gain from this? Did he think Oriana would simply drop everything, abandon her family, jettison all her plans for the future and simply be content to do his bidding?

Is it revenge you want? Trying to get back at me, are you?

It was her worst fear, her deepest, darkest fear come to life, and she truly could not imagine a worse possible time for this to happen. In all the years since she'd run away, that fear had never truly escaped her, but over the past several years, she had finally allowed herself to hope… She stifled an anguished cry. What would he do if Oriana refused to cooperate with him? Kill her? Surely he could have another made as easily.

He's insane. Completely insane!

She had finally managed to get her breathing and heart rate under control. The fear was still there, gnawing away at her like a hungry rat, but she was also furious. And determined. Her father enjoyed the command of virtually unlimited resources, but she would not, could notlet him win.

Shepard will help. He has to. And if he won't, I'll find a way, she thought, fighting back angry tears. She quickly began keying in a reply to Lanteia's message, her mind already consumed with planning.

Hang on, Oriana. I'm coming.

Thane

The beauty of the Illium skyline was entirely lost on Thane Krios. The sun was setting, and he sat in a plush leather chair in his penthouse suite, in front of the large window overlooking the heart of the city in all its splendor. Thane's eyes were deadened to aesthetics; whenever he looked out this window, he was drawn inexorably to his target. The Dantius Towers, one a sharpened steel spire, the other yet incomplete, clinging to its side like a malformed, underdeveloped twin. He took a sip of bitter liquor from the glass at his side. The taste was actually quite unpleasant, but he enjoyed the numbing effect the drink had on his senses.

Nassana was there. If he went now, today, he would likely find her security woefully unprepared for him. In the many years that he'd been plying his trade, Thane had never failed to take down a mark. Nassana Dantius was notoriously ruthless and extremely paranoid, but her impregnable tower and dauntless security force would not save her from him. He knew this. And yet, he delayed, drinking himself into a stupor, both consciously and unconsciously seeking the one thing impossible to any drell: to forget.

In the "informed" circles, "Thane Krios" was a known name – a feared name. Already there were whispers. A few days more and there might be shouts. Once Nassana caught wind of him, her bodyguard would likely double or even triple. He smiled humorlessly to himself.

Perhaps that's what I've been seeking, after all. A challenge.

Or a swift end.

The prospect of his impending death brought him little pain or sadness. He was not afraid to die – in some ways, he would welcome it. The ten years since Irikah's death had been both long and empty. To Thane's way of thinking, he'd been dead a long time already. His body toiled on methodically; he survived by taking lives, as he had always done, but his thoughts were bleak and fatalistic. Under the umbrella of the Compact, the dualistic philosophy of his people had helped to shield him from the weight of his sins, but now... It was too much. Too much death. There was more blood on his hands than he could ever, ever wash off, and he recalled every detail, down to the last drop.

A soft knock at his door shook him from his reverie.

"Yes. Come in."

"I brought your liquid poison," said Mehlia's familiar voice. He'd expected as much.

"Thank you," he replied, his low, rasping voice without a shred of emotion. "Set it on the counter, if you will. There is money for you there, as well."

She circled around his chair, parading herself in front of him. "My shift is over, you know."

He didn't respond. Mehlia had been waiting on him since he'd first arrived at the hotel. She was a very young asari, likely no older than he, and her desire to bed him could not have been more obvious had she strode into the room wearing only a smile. Likely she'd heard some of the rumors. So much the better. For his part, he supposed that she was beautiful, noted it in an abstract sort of way, but he had no real interest in satisfying her curiosity.

"Thank you, Mehlia," he repeated, politely. She was dressed in tight leather and heeled boots, like a dancer.

Perhaps she's missed her calling, he thought without amusement.

She seemed content to ignore the obvious dismissal, settling herself comfortably on the floor at his feet. He wondered idly how long he could successfully ignore her.

"There's a Justicar in Nos Astra, did you hear?" she said excitedly, pressing her chest firmly against his leg.

"Yes," Thane deadpanned. It had been impossible to avoid hearing it, even shut inside his rooms. An asari Justicar… Now, that would be something to see, indeed. Perhaps she would learn of his presence on Nos Astra and take a personal interest in him. Privately, he hoped not. At least, not until he finished with Nassana. If he still lived then, an end at a Justicar's hands would be an indisputably worthy one.

"Did you hear me?" Mehlia cooed. Her hands had now found their way onto the tops of his thighs. He pushed her away gently. "I said I brought wine, if you'd prefer…"

"Mehlia. Please."

She grinned at him devilishly, still undeterred. "Are you married? Is that the problem? She'll never know, Thane. Unless you tell."

He was unsurprised by her use of his name; he simply stared at her, nonplussed.

"I've always had a thing for bad boys," she continued, trying to crawl onto his lap. He momentarily considered giving in and sleeping with her, if only to avoid making her angry, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he gently but firmly rebuffed her, placing his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to her feet.

"You are very charming, Mehlia. Truly. I am sorry that I cannot provide what you seek. Please forgive me, but I wish to be alone now."

She frowned at him disbelievingly, but she gave it up, perhaps piqued at his ability to resist her advances. Apparently the eidetic memory characteristic of his species was lost on her – if he sought companionship, he needed only to search through his past.

"Have it your way," she shrugged.

"Thank you for the liquor," Thane repeated, his tone unchanged. "There is money on the counter."

She left without another word, leaving his rooms blessedly quiet. He took another sip of the bitter tonic and leaned back, slowly drifting away.

Perhaps someone will come upon me and kill me in my weakness. Like Marat in his bath, he thought randomly, thinking of a human painting he'd once seen.

If it happened, he would not fret overmuch. This was to be his last job, at any rate, and he had no client for it. He'd decided to make Nassana a personal project, of sorts. A last, feeble attempt to cleanse his conscience, perhaps. He didn't hold out much hope for that.

There is an ocean of blood in my wake. What change will one drop of water bring to a sea?

He hated feeling this way; he was tired of seeing only darkness in the world. At least his decision to leave Kolyat's raising to others seemed wise under the current circumstances. He'd never been a good father, despite what Irikah wanted to believe. She had seen beauty in his soul, had somehow come to love him in spite of what he was. But Kolyat… he was better off without a father.

He sighed. It was past time to have this done. With Mehlia bold enough to voice her suspicion, he felt reasonably sure that Nassana would soon learn of his presence on Illium, one way or another. Part of him relished the opportunity to test his skills against the best that Eclipse could provide. Nassana would spare no expense in the interest of preserving her own hide.

Tonight, however, he would drink. He would drink until he couldn't move, and over the next few days, he would wait for the perfect moment. He was a master composing his last symphony, after all, and he wanted it to be perfect.

The liquor was strong. He downed the rest of the glass, exhaling drowsily as the warm liquid burned its way down his throat. The setting sun felt pleasantly warm on his face as drunken delirium overtook him, and when he fell asleep, he did not dream.

Samara

The rooms were an absolute luxury. She had accepted far worse, but the powers-that-be on Illium had insisted. In her experience, those most eager to pamper her often felt they had the most to hide, and on Illium that was almost assuredly true. She was fully accustomed to being treated with wariness, if not outright hostility, but Illium was something else entirely. So many species, so many people… Likely, the authorities were afraid that the Code might compel her to kill a non-asari, thereby sparking an interspecies incident.

A reasonable enough apprehension, she mused, testing the temperature of her bath water. She smiled: perfect. Product of ill-gotten wealth or no, the Code did not forbid her a bath, and she awaited the steaming, soapy water eagerly.

She stripped to her bare skin and settled herself gently into the tub, sighing in ecstasy as the almost painfully-hot water lapped over her hips, her stomach, her breasts, under her chin. This was truly a luxury. The tub was almost obscenely large; even Samara, rather tall for an asari, was able to stretch her long legs easily.

The spaceport city of Nos Astra served as home to criminals beyond count, sophisticated and petty alike. Samara had decided not to allow herself to become diverted. The authorities had made their position perfectly clear: her presence was respected and tolerated, but she really could not possibly leave soon enough to suit them. She had no wish to become entangled in this world's affairs, at any rate; her business lay elsewhere. Besides, this soulless, corporate world did not suit her.

With nearly a thousand years' worth of knowledge and experience at her disposal, Samara's emotions rarely surprised her – her self-awareness was refined to a razor's edge. Still, it seemed like centuries since she had truly enjoyed any sort of sensual pleasure. The hot water felt wonderful on her skin, and she was physically comfortable, but remaining calm and detached while Morinth roamed free required a great deal of discipline. It was ironic, really – for the follower of the Justicar Code, even the most simplistic of indulgences required restraint and self-control. Over all the long, long years since she'd sworn the oath, every pleasure, every moment of peace, had been tainted by her daughter's reign of terror. In sleep, the demon of the night winds haunted her dreams.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the sweet-smelling fumes emanating from her bath in an effort to relax both body and mind. She would have to move quickly; likely, Morinth would learn of her arrival soon, if she hadn't already. Once the rumors of a Justicar in Nos Astra reached Morinth's ears, she would surely force Eclipse to smuggle her off-world. Samara was counting on that – confronting her daughter here would more than likely result in tremendous loss of life, something she hoped to avoid. Ideally, only Eclipse sisters would suffer for the Justicar's visit to Illium. As Eclipse required its members to commit murder in order to earn their uniforms, any and all of them were doomed in the Justicar's eyes.

This exercise had become almost mechanical over the years, but Morinth's shadowed existence was unraveling now. Using the mercenaries was a frantic act of desperation that would leave a trail a mile wide, even for someone without Samara's skills. She did not allow herself the luxury of hope, but she knew that in all the years that she had fruitlessly chased her daughter, Morinth had never appeared so vulnerable and afraid. Here, naked and alone, Samara allowed herself to feel a pang of sadness for her lost child.

The worst, and best, are yet to come, she thought sadly. Bringing an end to this pursuit would bring her relief beyond measure, but her daughter's hatred weighed heavily upon her now, as they both lived. Should Samara succeed in slaying her child, that hatred would follow her to her own grave. But their paths were set.

I have made my peace with what I must do. Now it remains only to make peace with the deed itself.

To do that, she would have to confront her daughter. She relaxed her muscles, reveling in the sultry embrace of the water, willing herself into the tranquil state required for meditation. She would allow herself two hours. Two hours of peace – then, the hunt would resume.