Interstitium

by AssaultSloth

Flashbacks, interstitial scenes, and backdoor dealings. A companion to ME2 focusing on characters and worlds, big and small.

25. Chapter 25, Grandiloquence, Miranda

Grandiloquence – Miranda Lawson

---

17 days previously…

–

Miranda's left thumb made an audible snapping sound as she slammed it over the bed railing.

---

11 minutes previously...

–

"Garrus?"

The voice caught Miranda sleeping. It echoed from some far off corner of her imagination and her dreams gave a plot-twisting whirl to accommodate it. Miranda scowled in her sleep at the loss. It was a rare night when she dreamed at all - aside from the weird gray dreams of induced sleep - and the vibrancy now was striking to her. How long had it been since she'd slept without machine assistance? Two years?

Miranda screwed up her eyes and tried to roll over and recapture the lost threads.

There was a knocking sound. "Garrus? Are you there?"

Garrus. Even half-asleep, the name colored her fleeting dreams with a foul taste. Sly bastard. Poisoning her. The thought seemed to remind her that she felt like death, every nerve numb, every muscle drained. Chemical exhaustion. That meant the gas had probably been teranax or cohexisol, some kind of respiratory agent. Somehow that seemed obvious, though why it mattered she could not recall.

The knocking continued from somewhere in the distance. Details continued to invade Miranda's mind. It was bright. Even through closed eyes the glow of incandescent bulbs was inescapable.

The voice kept calling. "Hello?"

Realization struck all at once and Miranda awoke with a start, sitting up so fast she caught against her handcuffs. They dug into her skin, yanking her back onto the bed with a painful jerk that left her hissing in pain and surprise. She grimaced at the metal cuffs cinched tightly around her wrists, blinking in the dazzling light so bright it stung her eyes.

She remembered.

Garrus. Poison. The Normandy.

Fear - genuine fear - prickled at her skin as the voice at the door continued to call. There was a door, and someone behind it. Someone coming for her. She was suddenly acutely aware of the emptiness at the back of her collar where her amp usually rested, and she could feel the slight breeze of air vents on her exposed arm from where her glove - and more importantly, the omni-tool sewn within it - had been torn away.

So she was suffering the effects of a poisoning, both hands manacled and with no biotics, no omni-tool, and no gun.

And someone was coming for her.

Where was she? Her head felt like a great, opaque fog as she took in her surroundings.

She was in a bed. Not her own bed (and she must have been poisoned indeed to fall asleep anywhere else – she'd even had the Hephaestus Cell engineers drag her bed from Lazarus station into her quarters before the mission had begun), or an inducting pod or even a human bed at all. A turian bed, more like a bowl-shaped couch with hard pads that swept to match the rounded curve of a turian's shell. She was not tall enough to lean her head over the crest-rest on the top, but her feet dangled from the bottom edge, just grazing the floor.

Her mind calculated restlessly. She was in a turian apartment, presumably belonging to Garrus. Which probably put her somewhere on Aroch Ward, where the turian had worked before moving his operations to Omega. Aroch Ward was mostly dominated by industrial buildings and only a few major residential neighborhoods, most of which were either too human-dominated or too expensive to be likely candidates for a young turian without a great deal of money. Likelier neighborhoods were clustered near the Presidium end. The Normandy – assuming it was still being repaired and the fool turian hadn't taken off as soon as she was gone – was waiting in a bay near the tip of Bachjret Ward. It would take almost an hour to make her way back if she started now.

And she was cuffed. She recognized the Elkoss Combine model, standard issue to C-Sec agents for restraining most sentient species. They were cinched to both wrists, just tight enough not to lacerate, and threaded through a steel eyelet, welded to the wall above her head. She did not bother straining against them again – they were built to hold batarians three times her strength.

The person she'd heard calling had fallen silent.

Miranda took a deep breath. Her lungs burnt. Her whole body still felt numb from the gas attack, tingling like it had fallen asleep on her. She didn't have long to be upset about that, for there was a click and the apartment door slid open, revealing a red-haired human woman in a green skirt.

"Garrus?" The woman took a tentative step into the room, blinking in the light. Miranda sized her up. The woman was unarmed but for a handbag. Her accent suggested Earthborn, in the EU. Or possibly one of the French-descended colonies on Benning. She was groomed. Dolled up.

Not a threat.

That meant she was either here by accident or because Garrus had sent her to make sure Miranda didn't choke on her own vomit. She wasn't sure which she thought was more likely.

But it didn't matter. She could help. "He's not here," Miranda said. Her voice was slurred, raspy as if she'd been ill, and it made the red-haired woman jump in surprise. The woman's eyes grew wide as they landed on Miranda, and a bit wider yet when they traced up to the manacles around her wrists.

She stammered, dumbfounded.

Miranda frowned, impatient. "…Well?"

"Oh my goodness!" the woman finally exclaimed as her mind caught up with her. She tossed her purse onto one of the shelves and rushed to kneel at Miranda's side. "What happened? Are you alright?" She held a finger under Miranda's chin, feeling her pulse.

"I'm fine," Miranda insisted, shaking her chin away from the woman's grip.

"What happened?" the woman repeated, staring into Miranda's eyes and mouth and prodding at her ribs with a practiced efficiency that made it clear she was some kind of medical professional. Which meant Garrus had sent her. Miranda bristled at that thought.

Miranda rolled her eyes as the doctor set an ear to her chest, listening for lung damage. "I forgot the safe word," she deadpanned.

The woman looked up at her like she'd grown a second head. "R…Really?"

Miranda rolled her eyes again. "No, not really. I was abducted." She resisted the urge to snap, instead gesturing to her cuffs. The woman stood to check them, pulling each one gently (as if Miranda had not already tried pulling – Miranda had to roll her eyes a third time). "I've been poisoned by cohexisol or one of its variants," Miranda continued. "A turian knockout gas. Are you familiar with it?"

The woman looked down at her, confused. "…Yes," she said after a moment, nodding. "Lots of turian mercs carry it. I see lots of accidental exposure cases. There's a general inhibitor in the medbay. If I had my kit-"

"Go get it," Miranda insisted, impatient.

The woman took no umbrage at her tone and nodded. "The medbay's not far," she said. "It will take me twenty minutes if I hurry." She jangled Miranda's cuffs gently, "and I don't see these coming off any time s-"

"Go," Miranda commanded. "Now."

The woman did not protest and headed for the door, stopping at the threshold to call up her omni-tool from within the bracelet on her wrist.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Calling C-Sec."

Miranda shook her head. Bloody wonderful. "No. No C-Sec." She did notwant any C-Sec entanglement. It would damage her covers with Cerberus, and Garrus might have had old C-Sec allies waiting for her. It wasn't like The Illusive Man could not bail her out of whatever C-Sec came up with – even if they knew who she was – but all the red tape would take time. And she needed to get back onto the Normandy. Now.

The woman stared at her. "I have to," she said, voice apologetic. "It's the law."

"No you don't," Miranda insisted, trying to shift upright to look more commanding (it was hard to intimidate while chained onto an alien bed). She stared hard at the medic, infusing as much iron as she could into her gaze. "Don't," she commanded.

The medic shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said.

---

Presently...

–

Miranda had wasted no time. Before the medic was done talking to C-Sec, she'd formed a plan. And as soon as the medic had rushed off and she was alone, she'd carried it out.

She put the break right in the middle of her left thumb's proximal phalange. It hadn't taken much force - the human body (even hers) was so very fragile - and it broke cleanly enough to minimize convalescence time. With her rapid healing gene mods it would be back to full functionality in a matter of weeks.

But right now, the pain was immense. Miranda had bit down on one of Garrus' sleeping pads to keep from calling out, but she'd called out all the same. Her hand was on fire, pulsing with agony so severe her eyes teared up. All the dull exhaustion in her limbs was instantly replaced with white hot pain. Just looking at her thumb, splayed out at an obscene angle, made her want to pass out.

But there was no other way.

For a long moment she laid in her shackles, too paralyzed by the pain to move, but eventually mind caught up and she slowly, slowly pulled her broken hand through the cuff. The slightest bump against the cuff's rim sent new jolts of pain lancing up her arm.

And then she was out. She left the cuffs dangling from her right hand as she finally pulled herself to a sitting position, cradling her broken hand in her lap, and took in her surroundings again.

Even though her eyes had acclimated, the lights in the ceiling were painfully bright – Miranda could just see the hint of purple-black of the UV strips, and wondered if she had gotten a sunburn yet. Turians liked it bright to the point of ridiculousness – it reminded them of home – but Miranda could barely see in the glare. The whole apartment was glowing, the various supplies and personal errata hanging on recessed shelves in every wall glinted like precious stones.

Still, Miranda caught the blinking of a digital clock display that flashed on the wall.

8:32:01pm CST 18:200 Palaven, it read.

The calculation was instantaneous. Garrus had attacked her on the Normandy at three oh four and eighteen seconds (she remembered the instant perfectly) in the morning. She'd been out more than seventeen hours. In a normal human, cohexisol had a halflife of nine point one hours – in her it should have been even faster. She should have been conscious hours ago. She should have been back on the Normandy already. She was behind schedule.

She crunched the numbers. Presidium end of Aroch to the far end of Bachjret would take…

She frowned.

One hundred eighty nine minutes.

More than three hours - at least - to find a taxi to a shuttleport (sixteen minutes), clear customs (twenty at least without the programs in her omni-tool to trick the biometrics), take the shuttle (no fewer than thirty one assuming everyone could find their bloody seats without screwing with the overhead bins, and how likely was that? She called it ninety) and another taxi to the Normandy (eleven). Even then she'd need to get an omni-tool – call it another ten minutes. And it would not do to walk back onto the Normandy only to be taken out by Garrus again. She could not be caught unprepared. She'd need a gun – maybe another twelve minutes – and if the state of her limbs was any indication she'd need to neutralize the toxin in her body, another thirty at least in a medbay.

One hundred eighty nine minutes. And that wasn't even counting her morning routine, which she'd need to do as soon as she regained the strength to get out of the bed.

No.

Twenty minutes, the medic had said. Twenty minutes until she came back. C-Sec would be even faster. Miranda had to be gone by then.

Miranda bit back her pain and set to work. The exercises would wait.

All the same, she began to mumble the names of Alliance ships.

SSV Elbrus, SSV Everest, SSV Fuji, SSV Aconcagua…

Garrus' apartment was typically Spartan for a turian – aside from the bed the only piece of furniture was a stiff, perch-like chair next to a cheap wall console. The ceiling lights glowed fiercely down on her as she finally lurched to her feet and prowled around the room looking for her lost omni-tool and amp. She felt naked, helpless without them.

But if Garrus had hidden them in the apartment, she couldn't see where. In true turian fashion, everything Garrus owned was on full display on shelves that dominated every wall. There were no closets, no cases, no cupboards or lockboxes. Everything was out to be seen, from medals and datapads to an old broken omni-tool and even an crumpled aluminum bottle of some kind of dextro Tupari. There was a container of plate polish and well-worn files and cases of heat sinks and a few lonely dishes. All the refuse of an underpaid turian had collected on all of it, like it had not been touched in years, but for the shelves where Garrus kept his guns. Those had obviously just been emptied for her visit, even though most turian weapons were too large and unwieldy for a human to get much use out of.

Garrus feared her. That made her smile despite herself. He'd left her alive, had sent the medic to find her, but he still knew enough to know she wouldn't take this insult lying down.

He still knew enough to fear her.

He feared many things – or at least he had – if his apartment was any indication. Miranda noticed the empty tripods he'd set up next to both windows, the closed-circuit security feeds of the streets outside still hooked to his console, the way his bed's inducers were set down to the lowest setting. It was obvious the turian had been expecting an attack when last he lived here. It was pathetic, in a way.

Though of course there was a reason he was on the Normandy right now and she wasn't. Even if he'd had to resort to cheap trickery, he had beaten her. Abducting her had been a stupid move and she would make him pay for it, but it would not do to go underestimating him again.

Miranda never made the same mistake twice.

Miranda's thumb was starting to swell and bruise purple across her pale skin by the time she'd moved onto the Alliance cruisers (SSV Alexandria, SSV Almadabad, SSV Cairo) and she gave up on finding her omni-tool. Claiming a talon knife from one shelf, she cut a long strip out of Garrus' bedding. She held the strip in her teeth, cradling her broken hand between her knees.

She realigned the broken digit with a crack.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she splinted her thumb against the side of her hand and wrapped it, tying it as tightly as she could bear. Another strip of bedding made for a suitable enough sling, but it took several attempts to tie with only one hand.

By the time she'd gotten her sling assembled the pain was so intense she nearly blacked out again, and she had to take a seat on the weird chair-perch by the console to catch her breath and wait for the spots to stop swimming in her vision. Ship names continued to filter by.

Two more ships – SSV Tokyo, SSV Warsaw – finished off the cruisers and she checked the clock again. 8:40:22pm CST 18:218 Palaven, it read. Twelve minutes until the medic returned, by her own estimate. It was time to go. She let herself out of the room, pausing only briefly to sweep the note the turian had left – 'Chloe, Sorry for the deception. I'll make it up to you.' – onto the floor.

Demeter colony, established 2152 by Delta Pavonis Foundation in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Cybele, population six hundred eighty nine thousand. Agriculture.

She stopped at the door as she realized her mind had moved onto the next part of her routine without her. She found herself turning to look at the empty floor by the bed. It was clean, and plenty big enough for her morning exercises. It called out to her.

Terra Nova colony, her mind continued on. established 2152 by Kobold Astrogeo in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Scott, population four million, one hundred fifty thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing.

"No," she said to herself, tearing her gaze away from the floor. C-Sec was coming and her thumb throbbed with pain and she had to get back onto the Normandy before it took off without her. "I am in control."

But she wasn't, and she knew it. Her mind kept going with a vengeance. Eden Prime colony, established 2152 by Pehl-Draven Company in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Constant, population four million, two hundred eleven thousand. Agriculture.

Miranda hovered at the threshold of the door as the guilt started to settle in. She couldn't abandon her exercises. She'd woken up, she'd gotten out of bed. Next came exercises. That was... that was just what she did. That was what she'd done since she was two, rain or shine or snow. She'd done it in Lawson Manor, she'd done it during her Cerberus training, she'd done it every morning on Lazarus station, sometimes right in the lab. She'd done it on the Normandy. Her whole life. Every day. Wake, get out of bed, exercises. No excuses for broken thumbs or incorrigible turians. She checked the clock again. 8:41:56pm CST 18:219 Palaven. The Normandy was seriously damaged - more damaged than 17 hours could fix. It would not have left yet. She had time.

"No," she repeated, more forcibly. She couldn't take that chance. "No time." She'd already got the ships done. Maybe she could do the rest on the taxi. That would have to be good enough.

Shanxi colony, established 2153 by Jinshang Expeditions in the Aethon Cluster. Capital Taiyuan, population four hundred fifty eight thousand. Tourism and manufacturing. Amaterasu colony, established 2158 by Czarnobog Fleet Expeditions Incorporated in the Gemini Sigma. Capital Kojiki, population one million, two hundred ninety two thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing. Bekenstein colony, established 2158 by Mason Aeronautical in the Serpent Nebula. Capital Milgrom, population five million, four hundred twenty five thousand. Manufacturing.

Her stomach started to feel fuzzy in a way that had nothing to do with the cohexisol.

Arvuna colony, established 2160 by Crescendo Explorations in the Caleston Rift. Capital Asa, population nine hundred forty eight thousand. Research and energy solutions. Elysium colony, established 2160 by the Caribbean Society of Exoplanetology in the Exodus Cluster. Capital Illyria, population four million, two hundred twenty two thousand. Agriculture and manufacturing. Kofi's Moon colony, established 2160 by Transelm Company in the Ismar Frontier. Capital Ananas, population seven hundred fifty three thousand. Agriculture and energy solutions. Mindoir colony, established 2161 by Diony Horizons in The Shadow Sea. Capital Dromor, population eight hundred seventy eight thousand. Agriculture. Akuze colony, established 2165 by Hai-Shulud Geology in Gemini Sigma. Capital Nelida. Destroyed in 2177.

The battle was already lost.

Miranda walked back into the room.

–

She was at Ferris Fieldswhen C-Sec found her.

–

There was no clock in the office so Miranda kept time in her head. She had long ago memorized all of the C-Sec rulebooks, so she knew the two officers who were processing her had followed every... bloody... step. She'd been visited by a doctor (eighteen minutes), then a separate toxicologist who finally gave her a cohexisol inhibitor (twelve minutes). She'd been advised of her rights (eight minutes), photographed (fourteen minutes), and run through biometrics three times (three, eight, and twenty-four minutes, respectively).

Now they'd moved onto the questioning. By her count it was one hundred and eighteen minutes they'd wasted for her so far.

And it looked like they were just getting started.

The asari officer's tattooed brows were knitted in frustration as she paced the room looking for the right question to ask. "Do you know anyone on Aroch ward?" she asked. Her voice was gentle but Miranda could hear the edge underneath – she was getting tired. "Maybe you do business with someone here?"

Miranda met her gaze without flinching. "My name is Sayleigh Walker," she said, the same five words she'd been saying for one hundred eighteen minutes now. Her biometrics had come up negative - all three times - and so without her omni-tool she was just a woman without a name but the one she supplied. Miranda was glad Garrus had had the foresight to rip the Cerberus logo from her uniform.

The asari sighed, exasperated. "So you've told me."

At the far end of the room a turian shrugged. "I told you, Anla. We're not going to get anything else out of her. Humans are stubborn. Especially Alliance humans."

Anla shook her head. "She's not Alliance."

"She almost certainly is."

"She's not in their records, Chellick."

Chellick shrugged again. "So she's some kind of black operations. I'm telling you, Anla, she's military. She has a military grade biotic jack on her skull, one of the sink mountings. Two hours after being drugged and abducted and who knows what, and she still hasn't said a thing but her name. And she broke her own thumb to get out of those cuffs and she's not curled up bawling. Human civvies are a lot squishier than that."

Miranda did not bother tossing the turian a dark look, but stared blankly at her rebandaged thumb in the same stony silence she'd adopted since the C-Sec doctor had finished patching her up. She was in enormous pain, but she wasn't going to let them know that, no matter how much showmanship it took. She supposed letting the officers believe she was a little more vulnerable wouldn't be an entirely unhelpful thing - maybe they'd leave her alone - but she wasn't going to degrade herself. She would not act the part of the traumatized damsel, the wilting flower.

Anla ignored her partner, leaning down to eye level with Miranda again. Her voice took on a tender quality, like she was talking to a lost child. "Listen," she said. "If you can just give us something here, ma'am - something to go on - we could get you out of here faster."

Miranda buried the spark of fury she felt at the officer's patronization. She wanted to hit someone, and it was dearly tempting to take out her anger on the asari who was wasting her time, to break out of C-Sec by force. The cohexisol inhibitor had done its job and Miranda already felt worlds better, more than ready to fight. As long as she disabled the asari's biotics in her first attack - a proper blow to the head, or even to the alien's amp itself - she imagined she could handily incapacitate both officers without much trouble. After that, escaping the station would be a breeze.

Still, as much as she felt like kicking the officers' faces in she knew her best option now was to wait. Cerberus would find her, and soon. She'd seen the turian start the report under the Walker name, which would be all the clue Cerberus would need to find her.

And to be fair, as as annoying as they were, the officers were right to be wary. Miranda had come up empty on their state-of-the-art biometrics, and the name she'd given didn't show up in public records. They had every reason to doubt her, and if they ever found out who Sayleigh Walker really was, they'd have even more.

Alliance Corporal Sayleigh Walker did not show up in the Alliance's personnel records on the Citadel.

Because Alliance Corporal Sayleigh Walker was a dead woman.

Or she would be, if she'd been a real woman. The young, ambitious, blond-haired cadet had been invented by the Illusive Man as Miranda's longest-running cover, and as Sayleigh Miranda had worked her way into the company of the Alliance's highest echelons. She'd sat in with meetings with Admiral Hackett and Lebouf, she'd been on budget committees that gave her access to every expense report the Alliance ever filed, she'd helped secure the release or disposal of fellow Cerberus agents whose cover had been blown. She'd recruited some of the most important moles Cerberus had, men and women who fed the Illusive Man invaluable info while pretending to fly Alliance colors.

And then when Miranda had moved to Lazarus the story of Walker's death to a shuttle accident was concocted. Sayleigh Walker had been laid to rest with the same exquisite attention to detail from which her whole life had been forged, with all the proper paperwork and a funeral and even a planted corpse carrying a forged bio-scan ident-implant. Her death had made the papers back on Earth – Miranda had checked. Nobody would be looking for her now.

But if her name and bio-scan reappeared in C-Sec's database, Cerberus would notice. And they'd send help.

All she had to do was wait, so wait she would.

Though it sure felt like Cerberus was taking their bloody time.

"It's time to let her go, Anla," the turian said, sounding as impatient as Miranda felt.

Anla would not relent. "I want to know why she doesn't come up on our biometrics," she insisted, suspicion etched into her face.

"She's never been to the Citadel before," Chellick offered, counting on his talons. "She's not in the database yet. Maybe the psycho that tied her up shipped her here in a crate. Maybe she's psycho. You saw what she was doing when we found her. For some reason or another, she's just not in the system. It's not that unusual." Technically Miranda had been put into the Citadel security database some seventeen separate times, under seventeen separate names, but the Illusive Man's plants in C-Sec always cleared her entry when she changed skins. For day-to-day moving on the Citadel Miranda used a program in her omni-tool to attach dummy profiles to her biometric tags. It made her very hard to track, especially because C-Sec believed (quite correctly) that the scanners themselves were foolproof. "Either way, it doesn't matter," the turian continued. "The doctor says that apart from a few scratches and the thumb she's fine, and so we can't hold her here. She hasn't done anything wrong. Get her biometrics profile set up and let her go, Anla."

The asari shook her head, refusing to give up. "It's suspicious." She stared at Miranda as if she were trying to look right through her. "Do you know Garrus Vakarian?"

Oh, Miranda knew him alright. Better than she'd ever hoped to. But she would say nothing. She cleared her throat. "My name is Sayleigh Walker," she said, and fell silent again. The asari's face fell.

Chellick sighed. "Garrus is dead, Anla, or at least very, very far away. There's no way he's involved. Whoever did this ended up in his room by accident. Saw an abandoned apartment and took advantage."

Anla just shook her head. It was plain enough she didn't believe that.

"What we should really be checking out is the doctor. She might be wrapped up with that Banes character again." He gestured to the next room, where the woman who'd discovered Miranda had been briefly questioned. "Could be she was part of some trap for th-"

There was a buzz from the security system on the door and the two officers turned. Chellick leaned into the intercom button. "What is it?"

A voice on the other end answered. "Someone to pick up Ms. Walker."

Miranda kept the relief off of her face.

The officers exchanged a look as the door buzzed again and a barrel-chested man stepped through.

Solheim's usual golden locks were shaved down to the scalp, his immaculate goatee dyed a peppery gray, and his eyes gone from green to pale blue. He'd been made up to look older than he was – he looked a convincing sixty at least. His usual suit of white enameled armor was gone too, replaced by a blue dress suit. He looked for all the world like a kindly old businessman.

And yet Miranda recognized her former partner instantly.

"Sayleigh!" he called as soon as he saw her, in a voice booming with affection, and Miranda was forced to play along. He wrapped her in a crushing hug that quested just far down enough that the officers didn't question it.

Vile man.

Adam Solheim had been her partner for several months, back when she was doing wetwork for Anubis Cell. They'd made a relatively good team – both of them driven, ninety-ninth percentile soldiers who'd had the cutting edge in genetic modification and grown up with every advantage money could buy. They'd both been trained by the best, equipped by the best, led by the best. They both made regular humans look bland by comparison, they both had rocky relationships with fathers back in the EU on Earth, they both dreamed of helping humanity reach its potential. They'd been the Illusive Man's go-to team for dirty work, and had performed dangerous missions on Earth and Caleston, Invictus and Feros, Kubol and Omega.

Miranda was perfect, and Solheim was close. And ever since Feros, he did everything she said.

Still, where Miranda was disciplined, even cold, Solheim sometimes let his temper get the better of him. More than once she'd seen the man flip into a rage over the slightest provocation. Then once he'd nearly cost them the mission and Miranda had requested a new partner the very next day. As talented as Solheim was, he was unpredictable, and Miranda didn't do unpredictable.

All the same, there was no trace of Solheim's temper today. He had tears in his eyes when he finally let go of her and turned to the officers. "Thank you officers!" he boomed, shaking each of their hands. "I can take it from here."

Anla wore a guarded expression. "You know this woman?"

Solheim nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes." He cleared his throat as he dug into one of his suit pockets to produce an ident-card. "I'm Lieutenant Doyle with the Alliance military," he said, flashing the card. He smiled. "Out of uniform, for the time being."

Chellick checked the card over, but the asari's eyes never left Solheim's.

"Corporal Walker and I work as undercover agents for a project under Rear Admiral Carett," Solheim explained, voice neutral. "Corporal Walker was on a mission investigating a local shipping business for suspected terrorist activity when we lost contact with her. We feared the worst." He tossed another tearful look at Miranda (she resisted the urge to roll her eyes). "Believe me, all of us are overjoyed to find her unhurt." He looked down at her thumb. "Err… self-inflicted injuries notwithstanding."

"We're going to n-" Chellick started to protest.

Miranda hopped up from her seat, taking on the role Solheim had offered up for her. It wasn't what she would have chosen, but it worked well enough. "Mission details are classified," she said, glaring at Solheim. "Lieutenant."

Solheim nodded vigorously. "Of course, ma'am."

"I assume you've brought the documentation I need, Lieutenant?" She met Solheim's eyes, daring him to tell her otherwise. Hopefully forged dossiers for the two of them, something official-looking that corroborated their story without introducing too many details or compromising any of their real operations within the Alliance.

Solheim had much more than forged dossiers. "Of course, ma'am. Right away, ma'am," he said, eyes downcast. He dug into his suit pockets again and withdrew a datapad, handing it to Chellick. "Rear Admiral Carett's electronic signature," he explained. "Along with a demand for Corporal Walker's release. He wants to take her in to debrief as soon as possible."

Chellick held the datapad up, and Miranda could tell at once that it was genuine. Biometric-verified. The real Rear Admiral Carett's real signature was on the orders to release her. C-Sec could hardly disobey an Alliance admiral without good cause, not if they wanted to avoid an enormous political fiasco. "It looks solid, Anla," Chellick said, handing the datapad to her with a victorious flange to his voice. The asari read it, scowling like it had bit her.

Miranda did her best to keep the same scowl off of her face. As excited as she was to finally get out of this station, Solheim had gone too far. Rear Admiral Carett was one of Cerberus' biggest supporters in the Alliance, but his standing was in far too much jeopardy for Cerberus to be calling any attention to him, especially not for something as simple as intimidating two cops. Carrett was on thin ice with the Alliance as it was. He'd made a name for himself in naval wars on the Pacific a decade before First Contact – in his youth his military acumen was undeniable. But now he was an old man, obsolete, unpleasant, unapologetically bigoted. He had Cerberus' interests at heart but only until the Alliance finally managed to discharge him.

And even if his value to Cerberus could be sacrificed, if he was found out, he would jeopardize the covers of every single Alliance mole they had. He could have even compromised Petrovsky.

Still, it was too late to change the story, and it did have the benefit of expedience. After pausing to send a venomous glare Solheim's way, Miranda marched to the door and tapped on the lock expectantly. "Open," she commanded.

The two officers locked eyes for a long moment, but their hands were tied and they knew it. Chellick palmed the door panel.

Miranda heard Solheim thanking the officers once again as she stalked through the door, head held high.

Somehow she knew the asari's eyes followed her out.

–

Miranda did not risk speaking until they'd made their way out to the nearest skyway, a great trench running the length of the ward and ringed with dimly-lit plazas packed with shoppers of every species. A navy blue skycar waited for them.

Miranda climbed into the passenger's seat. "That was not well handled, Adam."

Next to her, Adam Solheim had finally dropped his persona. Solheim turned his cover on and off like a switch. Even still in costume he already looked like an entirely different person – the set of his shoulders, the way he held his face, every part of the doddering old Lieutenant Doyle was gone and Adam Solheim was back. "You're out," he said, adjusting his goatee in a mirror that extended from the dash. He gave himself a satisfied nod.

"You shouldn't have forced Carett's hand. The Alliance has been trying to get rid of him for years."

Solheim shrugged. "And we've kept that from happening so far, so he owed us. I just called in the favor."

"Illusive Man isn't going to like it," Miranda warned.

"Tim'll live," Solheim said, utterly unconcerned. Miranda suppressed the flash of annoyance that ran through her to hear the Illusive Man referred to so informally. She'd heard Cerberus agents call him Tim for years (though never to his face), and she'd always hated it. It was a nickname for a pet or a nephew, unbefitting such a magnificent man. If Solheim noticed her offence, though, he gave no notice. "Besides," he said, grinning. "If there is any heat for this, it'll fall on Antonich. I'm okay with that."

Miranda shook her head.

Solheim's face softened. "You alright, Miri?"

Miranda nodded curtly. Truthfully, she was not alright. The soreness from the cohexisol had abated quickly enough under the inhibitor the C-Sec doctor had given her, but all the same Miranda felt awful. Drained. Tired. Her thumb throbbed. She was starving – a biotic without her amp was still a biotic, with a biotic's fast metabolism, and she hadn't eaten anything in more than a day. She needed food and rest.

Still, she could eat and rest after she'd had a very long talk with a certain turian.

Solheim gestured to a compartment in the dashboard. "New omni-tool in there for you," he said, still preening. "Picked it up on the way here." He looked at her intently.

Miranda did not look back. She'd dealt with infatuations like Solheim's before – it was best not to encourage them at all. She busied herself instead reaching into the glove compartment and drawing out the plain silver bracelet containing her new omni-tool - the same model she'd lost. Unobtrusive, hardened against electronic warfare. It cost a small fortune. Still, Miranda couldn't help but feel another stab of hate for Garrus – it would take her days to get everything reinstalled the way she liked it.

"You know Miri," Solheim continued, "After all the trouble you've caused me you could stand to be a bit more grateful. Antonich's had me and Captain Emo lookin' for you for a day and a half now."

"That's your job," Miranda reminded him, carefully slipping the omni-tool bracelet past her bandaged thumb to rest around her wrist. It felt strange on her bare wrist – her old one had been sewed into the lining of her glove – but until she could get a replacement glove from Ariake it would have to do. "Why should I be grateful for you doing your job?"

"Coulda taken a sick day and let Leng find you. Instead I went for the fast option."

Miranda suppressed a shudder. As little as she cared to be around her former partner again, the brooding human supremacist was even worse. She wasn't sure anybody actually liked Kai Leng – in confidence even the Illusive Man admitted nothing but contempt for him – but all the same Miranda had to admit the man had his uses. So long as he fulfilled them far, far away from her.

Miranda scowled as she activated the omni-tool and it began its initialization process. Orange panels bloomed from her wrist, flashing her with terms of service contracts that stretched all the way up her arm telling her what she could and couldn't do with her new omni-tool. "And don't oversell it," she added, changing the subject. "I've only been out for nineteen hours."

"Forthy-three hours," Solheim corrected, finally flitting his mirror back into the dash. He looked at her. "Nineteen hours and a day. Your turian friend took you for a ride yesterday morning."

Miranda's eyes widened.

Solheim nodded uncomfortably, grimacing.

Miranda stared at her omni-tool's internal clock. He was telling the truth. Thirty-nine hours she'd been off the Normandy. Almost two days. Her mind raced. Suddenly the prospects of the ship leaving without her seemed a lot more real. The Normandy had been severely damaged – even with Tali's help the engineers would need days to restore it – and yet they wouldn't have to restore it all the way. A few critical system fixes would be enough to get it safely through another relay to another repair dock, light years away. She calculated in her head as she called up one of Cerberus' internal networks.

Solheim nodded again. "Yeah… You think you're upset… Timmy's been throwing a fit."

Miranda's fingers flew across her omni-tool's haptic interface as she entered her clearance numbers and requested the Normandy's tracking information. "Take me back to my ship, Adam," Miranda commanded, shaking her head. She had to get back there. Now.

Solheim just leaned back in his chair and sat in silence.

The omni-tool gave a displeased blat.

Access denied.

Miranda started. Access denied? She re-entered the information.

Access denied.

Her mind raced. "…Adam?"

Solheim sighed. "Yeah…" He scratched the back of his shaved head. "I'm supposed to tell you you're being reassigned."

Miranda just stared at him. "…what?"

"To Anubis Cell," Solheim clarified. He gestured to her omni-tool. "Details should be on there."

He was right – a single file waited for her on the omni-tool's home screen. Miranda felt numb as she opened it to reveal a half dozen encrypted documents. The thickest was a dossier entitled Person of Interest: Callen Earnest Bernein. Miranda glossed over it, enough to see that Bernein was a nobody. An arms dealer on Bekenstein with a habit of pissing off the wrong people. The sort of man who asked for death so sincerely that Cerberus had to install an agent to protect him.

She was being taken off the Normandy to be a bodyguard, then. A glorified bodyguard.

For one of the few times in her life, Miranda felt speechless.

"This is…" she trailed off, staring at the briefing in disbelief. "I've been on Lazarus for almost three years, an-"

"Lazarus is gone, Miri."

"I've practically run the Normandy, Adam!" she said. "I… Jacob can't do this without me!"

Solheim shrugged. "Taylor will be fine. And even if not…" he shrugged again. "Timmy's orders."

Miranda felt her anger flare and she whirled on him, eyes staring daggers. "You shouldn't call him that."

Solheim just shrugged, hands held up in mock defense as she returned to reading. The next document had her cover in it. She was to pose as Hayley Toloni and apply for a job as a secretary at Bernein's company, Corvin Development.

And then never leave the man's side. Take notes, integrate herself into the company, make herself useful. And above all, make sure Bernein lived until Cerberus' business with him was concluded.

A bodyguard.

The perfect woman. Cerberus' best agent – by far – was going to be a bodyguard.

"That bad, huh?"

Miranda didn't answer. Her mouth felt numb as she turned to look at Solheim. He looked apologetic enough. She nodded, dumbstruck.

"It'll be okay," he promised her. He took a deep breath. "You just… you've just gotto do the time. The Man probably just wants you back to your roots, you know? Back to Anubis, not babysitting some Alliance kid."

Miranda was silent.

"That being the case," Solheim continued, taking a slow breath, "We have a little time before I'm supposed to put you on a shuttle to Bekenstein. Want to go track down a replacement amp before you get started?" He stared at her, eyes hopeful. "Armali has a branch on this ward. I know you like their stuff."

Miranda barely heard him. She dialed a number into her omni-tool, an old one she'd used to contact the Illusive Man before.

Access denied.

Miranda shook her head. "He's punishing me," she said, redialing. "I was under orders to cooperate with the turian. His orders. And then the turian attacks me and now he's punishing me." The omni-tool protested and disconnected again.

Solheim's shoulders fell, disappointed, but he said nothing more as he finally fingered the ignition button that started the skycar. There was a shudder as its mass effect fields came on. Console panels flitted to life, bathing the two agents in orange light as the skycar lifted out of its dock, its autopiloting software steering it upwards to merge into the traffic lanes.

"I was under orders…" Miranda repeated. Starscrapers flew past her window but she couldn't tear her eyes away from her omni-tool. "I didn't fail."

Solheim didn't look at her. "I'm not judging you," he reminded her. His voice was back to its usual business tone. "Tim is."

---

15 years previously…

–

At Henry Lawson's parties, even the kids' table was spectacular - twenty feet long, made of real African blackwood and polished to perfection under a red silk tablecloth. A glass sculpture of Earth – Jordennliv Solutions'logo – stood four feet high in the table's center, glittering in the afternoon light, a gold-and-sapphire stud marking the company's headquarters in the Scandinavian Peninsula. The food served was no less opulent, course after course of rare meats and pastries imported from every corner of the planet were brought out by a small legion of white-suited servants. Not a morsel was synthesized – everything was fresh, rare, untampered with. Real food. Like people ate in the old days.

The meal alone cost more than most people made in a month.

And yet Miranda had to force it down.

At the next table, Henry Lawson was in an animated discussion describing his trip to the Mediterranean where – he claimed – he'd met Miranda's mother. It was a tired story – he told it at almost every one of his many, many business parties – and yet his guests sat around looking rapt. Business partners from the UNAS, doctors and researchers, even an Alliance captain, all of them sat and listened to the buffoon. As if they cared.

Miranda kept eating, driving her father's lies out of her head. She supposed none of his guests saw the holes in the man's story – like that the year Miranda was born the Mediterranean States were under quarantine for a plague and no outsiders would have been allowed in – but then again, she supposed that didn't matter. They weren't there because they liked Henry Lawson, just as he hadn't invited them because he liked them. He just liked being the center of attention and the rest of them liked to latch onto his underbelly.

Unfortunately, Henry also liked Miranda to be the center of attention. At her table she had her own bevy of guests she was supposed to be entertaining. Across from her was twelve-year-old William Richter, a little blonde-haired moron in an eight-thousand dollar suit. William was the son of one of Henry's business partners and heir to Grafttec Cybernetics, but Miranda doubted he could spell cybernetics, let alone invent them. Next to William were other boys and girls, all equally dolled up. All equally empty. Spoilt little morons.

Miranda hated them all.

Still, she'd made her small talk like a good little dynasty. She asked William how his family business was going, described the origin of each dish as the servants brought it out, laughed at their japes. She'd even sung a few lines of Rigoletto for them when one of them asked (like the trained monkey he was).

Henry was moving on through his story. Miranda had heard the story enough times that she'd been able to watch her mother's description evolve with each retelling. Pale and lovely, of course (sometimes dark - it varied depending on Henry's mood). With dark eyes and red hair. Or maybe green eyes and blonde hair. It was as sloppy as it was maudlin. No attempt at genetic consistency, no believable checks on the drama. In some incarnation or another, Miranda's invented mother was always some lovely proletarian that always fell in love with him, birthed Miranda, and died.

And then would come the worst part. Henry Lawson would look at her with a tear in his eye and say something sentimental like "at least I still have Miranda".

Miranda grit her teeth, steeling herself.

"At least I still have Miranda."

There was a chorus of awwww's and somehow Miranda managed to smile instead of throwing up.

Luckily her father didn't really like talking about her origins at any great length – even he was smart enough to know he didn't want people too interested in where she came from. Before long he'd moved on with his story to one of his other favorite topics - alien spies or the Chinese or the Starhook - Miranda didn't bother listening long enough to find out which.

Her critical part in the farce was finally done - her father wouldn't call attention to her again - and so Miranda set aside her fork and begged pardon from her table-guests. She folded her silk napkin and left it next to her plate and quietly excused herself, leaving the great slate patio where the guests congregated and heading down the path that wound behind the Lawson manor to the rest of Jordennliv Solutions' facilities. Her father was too absorbed in schmoozing his guests to notice her absence, though no doubt one of his guards had seen her leave. She'd hear about it later.

But she didn't care.

It was early winter, and snow crunched under Miranda's feet as she left the heated path. She crossed her arms over herself, shivering – the dress her father had had her wear to the party was hardly suitable for the weather – as she made her way down to one of the maintenance corridors that ran beneath the mansion. She unlocked the door with a key she'd tucked inside her glove, and stepped into darkness.

As clean and impeccable as the rest of the grounds were kept, the maintenance corridor was filthy. Miranda could feel the hem of her dress drag through the shallow layer of dirty slush on the floor as she locked the door behind her, could feel the cold water seeping into her shoes, ruining them.

That made her smile.

She walked the tunnel by the dim light of a few dusty fixtures, stopping only once to warm her hands against a steaming pipe before emerging on the far side of the manor, at the base of the engineering building. Steam belched from cooling towers on either side, rising up to meet the gray expanse of the sky.

"Niket?"

"Here." Twelve-year-old Niket Bhatnagar emerged from behind one of the towers, carrying a parcel.

Miranda smiled at him. "You find everything?"

Niket handed her the box. "Yeah," he said, looking nervously over his shoulder. "One of the guards stopped me but I just told him you sent me. They're scared of you, Miri."

Miranda grinned at that as she dug into the box. Inside was the datapad Mr. Harper had given her and a proper change of clothes. Niket stared away as she shed her ruined dress and pulled on an actual shirt and pants. She kicked her expensive shoes off in favor of warm socks and boots, and topped off the ensemble with a winter coat. "Finally," she said, steam roiling from her lips.

Niket smiled back at her. Her piecemeal winter wear matched his own and Miranda couldn't help but feel cheered. She'd met the boy – son of one of her father's guards – when he'd been assigned to bring her plant samples from the greenhouses for her biochemistry lessons. They'd become fast friends, especially when it had become clear how little her father cared for the idea. He didn't have a wealthy family or powerful connections – or anything material to offer Miranda at all, really – and yet he managed to be realer and smarter and better than any of the fools her father tried to stud her out to.

He wasn't afraid. Miranda adored him for that.

"Ready."

Miranda tucked the datapad into her coat pocket and the two of them gathered her shed clothes, stuffing them in the box. They started towards the biology research building, stopping to toss the box and dress into one of the labs' biohazard disposal hatches.

They headed down the path. "What are we doing this time?" Niket asked.

"Checking cell culture in D-lab," Miranda answered. "They're optimizing Birte's oocytes for somatic nuclear transfer."

"Right…"

"They're almost done with the genome," Miranda clarified. "They're getting Birte ready."

Niket's brows rose. "...I thought you said the genome would take at least six months."

Miranda tried to keep her expression neutral. "I was wrong," she admitted, as nonchalantly as she could. "My father is pressuring them. He wants it started." She hastened her step to escape the worried look Niket gave her.

They reached the biology annex. Henry Lawson's party had mostly shut down his facilities for the day – almost all of the principle staff were attending. All the same, technicians bustled about on their work as Miranda swiped a swiped access card to let them in the building.

"We're going to get in trouble," Niket whined, checking behind them as they headed down the main corridor, past murals painted with fluorescent micrographs of mitotic cells.

"No we won't," Miranda promised. She'd been meddling in Jordennliv company research for years and she hadn't been caught yet. She had hacked the company's intranet to include her personal terminal, and had kept an eye on all the projects, especially from the biology annex. Her father's true love was for the engineering department – his much-bragged-about Starhook system would revolutionize everything, he still claimed – but biology was where all the real action was happening.

That was one of the first things she planned to do when she inherited control of the company - shut down Starhook and dump the funds into the far more promising cellular engineering and somatic cloning projects. She looked forward to seeing the look on her father's face when Jordennliv's profits doubled in the first year.

No one paid them any mind as Miranda led them down the stairwell to the basement level, nor even when they took the security elevator another level down to D-lab – the only one of her father's labs not connected to the company networks. Henry Lawson thought that kept it hidden, off the books, off the network, and off the blueprints, but it hadn't been hard to find once Miranda had known what she was looking for.

She'd been eight when she'd noticed her night vision was deteriorating and diagnosed herself with retinitis pigmentosa. Gene therapy existed to solve the problem, but despite the doctors' best efforts to keep her uninformed, it had gotten Miranda thinking. Thinking about the mother she had never met, the holes in her father's story.

Thinking about how retinitis pigmentosa was caused by a mutation on the Y-chromosome. It hadn't taken her long to dig out her father's secret.

She was an engineered clone of Henry Lawson, and it was his Y-chromosome, his faulty gene that had tainted her vision.

D-lab was Miranda's real mother.

D-Lab was empty today – Miranda had arranged for the sole employee not at the party to have a surprise clearance investigation, giving them the lab to themselves. The fearsome looking security door at the front was plastered in sterility warnings, but it yielded easily enough to a swipe of Miranda's keycard and the children stepped inside without so much as wiping their feet.

Inside, machines hummed quietly between mountains of glassware. In the dim light they looked like hunch-backed little men with gleaming glass eyes and tiny bladed fingers. Miranda did not bother with any of the consoles – she'd long ago bugged the lab's equipment so she could follow their progress from a distance – and headed instead to a trio of tall cell culture incubators marked 'FOR EUKARYOTIC WORK ONLY'.

She opened one. Inside, dozens of petri dishes and well plates were lined in neat rows, each meticulously labeled with project and patient numbers. She found the shelf she wanted – 11237-Duerr, B-09-11-2171 – and nodded to Niket. "These," she said, grabbing a handful of well plates and stacking them on the bench nearby. Niket started unpacking the rest while Miranda slid one of the samples into a nearby microscope. She adjusted the apertures with rote familiarity until Birte's cells came into focus.

They looked good. Healthy morphology. Growth rate consistent with expectations. No unforeseen complications. D-Lab's work was impeccable, as usual.

Miranda scowled into the eyepieces.

"So… when will she be born?" Niket asked, stacking the last of the plates. He closed the incubator with reverent care.

Miranda clicked off the microscope, returning the sample to the others. "Well," she said, peeling off the warning sticker and opening the lid to look at the dozens of tiny orange specks growing in the wells. "These will be done inside of two weeks." In the open air the cells were almost sure to be contaminated, but to be sure she traced a finger atop the top edge of the wells, feeling a bitter victory as she imagined the thousands of bacteria she was introducing. "Or maybe three," she said. She blew onto the exposed plate. "Or four." She forced herself to grin at Niket.

He frowned back. "Miri… Are you alright?"

Miranda put the lid back on the plate and opened the next. "To answer your question, though," she said, changing the subject, "They still have modifications to do on chromosome eight. A few new gene mods out of Johannesburg. Deep muscle density, a few biotic optimizations, a new myelin gene. Things you can't do ex utero. Assuming no changes to the project, they'll probably implant Birte by the summer." She looked at him. "So fifteen months."

Niket must have seen the worry in her eyes. He took a step closer. "Miri… Don't worry about her. Getting a baby sister is a good thing. It'll be okay."

Miranda turned away. It was not okay. Niket didn't know what this baby – this Miranda 2.0 – meant to her. Once, long ago, she had been a clone in a dish in a lab just like this. She had been Henry Lawson, doomed to his foibles, his fragilities, his foolishness. But she had been engineered away from that fate. Fixed. Repaired.

Made perfect.

That was the only thing that made it bearable. Perfection.

A new sister would destroy all that.

She was supposed to be perfect, but the next version would be born with more than two dozen fixes. Cutting-edge gene mods. Mutations reversed. She wouldn't have retinitis pigmentosis. She would be better than Miranda. And if someone was better, Miranda wasn't perfect. And if Miranda wasn't perfect, then she wasn't anything.

Niket had a life. A father and mother who loved him. A future. Miranda had only perfection. She was not about to see that taken from her.

"I know," she lied. "I'm excited."

Niket looked at her, disbelief plain on his face. "You don't look excited. You look scared, Miri." He took a step towards her. "Why is this suddenly worse? Did something happen?"

Miranda almost broke. She almost told him everything right there in the middle of D-lab, right there overtop of the cells that would one day give her superhuman sister life. She almost told him about the emails she'd lifted from her father's terminals earlier that week, the ones about marrying her off to William Richter as part of a business transaction on her fifteenth birthday. The ones about stripping of her place as heir of Jordennliv Solutions.

The ones about getting rid of her to make room for her sister.

"I'm fine," she lied again.

---

Presently…

–

"Mr. Hock sends his apologies that he could not meet with you in person."

Hock's representative was cleanly pressed and even-faced, his business voice well practiced to remove all but the slightest Afrikaans accent. He sat down at the table opposite Mr. Bernein with his datapad.

Earnest Bernein snorted through the wild tangle of his coal-black beard. "I don't want Mr. Hock's apologies," he said, waving a thick finger in the other man's face. "I want him. Here. Now." Bernein was a big man, and imposing. Handsome enough, with blue eyes and a coarse mane of hair he could never quite tame, but with the look of a fighter, an undertone of desperate tension in every move he made.

If Miranda didn't recognize his bluster better, she'd think he was about to punch the other man in the jaw.

Hock's man was unphased. "I'm sorry, sir, b-"

"Ms. Toloni!" Bernein bellowed, turning in his chair to look at Miranda. "Call up the agreement we made with Mr. Hock."

Miranda murmured her assent, calmly summoning the requested document onto a datapad and setting it in Bernein's meaty hand before returning to her previous task of pretending to be busy helping her omni-tool's VI transcribe the mens' words.

She kept her mouth shut.

Never mind that she was ten times the thinker and twenty times the fighter Bernein was on her worst day. Never mind that Corvin Development's projects were already accelerating after the scant two weeks since she'd been assigned to the company. Never mind that she was – quite literally – the only thing between Bernein and a bullet to the head.

Bernein was not a man to tolerate backtalk from his secretary.

Miranda suppressed a pang of anger at the fictional Ms. Toloni's obsequiousness. She missed her Sayleigh Walker cover – Walker had had a spine. Walker would not pass for a servant. Walker had looked like her, acted like her. An easy cover. A fun escape, an excuse to live a normal life – if only for a few days at a time – without trying to be anything she wasn't.

But Hayley Toloni was supposed to be bubbly. Flirtatious. Stupid. Unassuming. Servile. Basically, she was supposed to be Kelly Chambers.

And so she'd endured Bernein's constant hitting on her. She'd sat in at his meetings, attended his needs, even escorted him home at night, all the while pretending she didn't loathe him. Sometimes she got to do actual work - she'd helped get Cerberus agents hired into all of CorDev's key departments, and had started grooming one of the lab heads' loyalties so he could replace Bernein once the Illusive Man decided to let the man reach his well-deserved end - but the vast majority of her effort was spent pretending to be empty-headed and beneath notice.

She'd hated every minute of it, and even worse because after two weeks she still couldn't tell what the Illusive Man's interest in Bernein was. Bernein wasn't particularly smart or resourceful. He'd inherited his money, his company, his ideas. And even those were nothing special – Corvin Development's supposedly 'revolutionary' heatsink technology he was trying to sell to Hock was something Miranda's father had been working on more than a decade previously.

And he was an ass, a young man who thought he was still invulnerable. Who took umbrage if Miranda so much as spoke, but thought his money meant he could backtalk men from the Alliance, men from Cerberus, men from the Blue Suns. He had a list of enemies as long as his arm, and Miranda had already managed to sniff out and stop two assassination attempts – a fact of which Bernein remained maddeningly oblivious. By all accounts, Bernein was disposable. Even if his company mattered, there was no reason he had to be in charge.

But the Illusive Man knew what he was doing. He had bigger plans in motion, and he would let her in on them as soon as he was ready. She had failed him, she had proven less-than-perfect, but it was not the first time. He did not hold grudges.

The Illusive Man knew that weaknesses were part of who people were. He himself bathed in his vices. He smoke cigarettes – and not the newer, safer ones but the old ones full of tar and carcinogens. He drank to excess, he did drugs. He womanized. And he never apologized for any of it. When you confronted your weakness, when you owned your failure, you either fixed it or you embraced it.

The Illusive Man embraced it. Miranda fixed it.

He was giving her time to do just that. He was not punishing her. He was above that.

She just had to have faith.

And so every morning Miranda did her exercises, pulled on an unflattering CorDev company uniform, and dragged herself to work like she wasn't one of the deadliest humans in the galaxy.

"We," Bernein said, holding up the datapad, "had an agreement. Twelve-thousand of the mark four unit at eight fifty apiece." He snarled his words across the table. "That's more than ten million credits, and Hock can't come to meet me in person?"

Hock's man did not thaw. He stared at Bernein like he was looking at a monkey in a zoo, safe behind glass from any thrown feces. "Unfortunately," he said (though his eyes said he didn't think it was unfortunate at all), "Mr. Hock has decided to take his business elsewhere."

Miranda lifted her gaze to stare at Bernein in the moment of crystallized quiet that followed.

Bernein's expression hardened with anger. "…what did you say?"

Hock's man nodded shortly. "Mr. Hock regrets to have wasted your time, but he has decided to take his business elsewhere. He was recently put in contact with a company based on Earth that could produce a product with higher performance margins."

Bernein coiled.

Miranda set her datapad aside, readying herself to intervene if her erstwhile boss did anything stupid. She didn't have her amp in – it would have been a giveaway that she was vastly overqualified for a secretarial position even to someone as self-centeredly unobservant as Bernein – but all the same she found her fingers dropping into familiar mnemonics. Her heart pulsed.

Bernein exploded to his feet like a rearing animal. "WHAT company!?" he roared, toppling datapads to the floor.

Hock's man looked up at him with no expression. "I am n-"

Bernein wasn't listening. He grabbed the other man by the shirt collar and dragged him to his feet, puffing out his chest like a frat boy in a bar. Miranda calmed – she recognized fake bravado when she saw it. She pretended to return to her transcribing. "You tell that mealy-mouthed fuck to be a man and tell me to my face what company's shit he's fucking me over for!" Bernein demanded, eyes wild.

Hock's man apparently recognized fake bravado too, and extricated himself from Bernein's hulking grip. "Excuse me," he said, apparently unruffled. "But I'm afraid I do not have the company's name with me. It was Swedish, I believe."

Miranda's eyes widened as the answer came to her. Heatsink technologies like the ones her father had been working on for more than a decade. She felt her stomach bottom out. "Jordennliv Solutions," she said, practically a whisper.

The two men looked at her with equal expressions of surprise.

She met their eyes, frozen as much by the passing mention of her father's dynasty - the company that had once been her dynasty - as by her slip of the tongue.

Thankfully, Hock's man spoke first. "Ahh… yes," he said, adjusting his tie. He smiled professionally. "Thank you, Ms. Toloni. I believe that was it." He gave each of them a respectful nod. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Hock is hosting a gathering and I am expected." He headed for the door.

Bernein stopped him with a heavy arm. "We-"

"Mr. Hock," the man interrupted, voice steely, "only invites those with whom he does business." He pushed Bernein's arm aside. "Good day."

–

Bernein was mad. At her, at Hock, at Hock's man, at Jordennliv Solutions, at the hovertaxi's console taking all of eight seconds to process their destination. He sat in the back of the taxi and alternated between simmering silence and great, bellowing insults. Oh, he'd show them. He'd show Hock.

Miranda would have smirked at that if she hadn't been so preoccupied.

Jordennliv Solutions

The memories did not come flooding back – they had never left her, not for a moment. Her father's company had been her childhood home. She'd been born there in the basement of the biology annex, next to the steam tower, across from the grounds, in the shadow of the mansion. She'd met Niket there, met Solheim there. Met the Illusive Man there.

Met Oriana there.

Shot her father there.

She'd been with Cerberus for years before she'd finally worked up the willpower to stop obsessing on her father, before she'd finally been convinced that he really, truly, did not know where she'd taken Oriana. Still, she had never stopped watching. Back when she'd been undercover with the Alliance on Earth she'd sometimes taken shore leave to visit Jordennliv's product shows in disguise. Though it had once been a great jewel, once been all Miranda ever wanted, Jordennliv's glory days were now well behind it – the money Henry Lawson had spent on his daughters, along with the sudden loss of support from several high-profile companies frequented by a Mr. Jack Harper had hit it hard. Still, her father had been uncharacteristically shrewd about leveraging the company's existing patents into just enough funding to keep the research going. Their progress had been modest, but some talent still remained and gains - especially in the biology labs Miranda had once admired - were slow but steady.

As far as Miranda could tell, they'd been too slow and steady for her father to afford resuming work on a new daughter just yet, but she'd maintained an uneasy watch all the same.

Now he was doing business on Bekenstein. With the offworlders he'd hated so vitriolically for so many years - even human colonies like Bekenstein had been alien traitors in Henry Lawson's eyes, no matter how lucrative the markets may have been. Something had changed his mind.

That uneasiness was back in full force. Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

"That Earthborn fucker," Bernein was still snarling in the back seat. "I swear to God I will-" He stopped mid-sentence, staring out the window as if he'd just now noticed it was there. Outside the starscrapers of Milgrom's commercial district were giving way to private dwellings and mansions, luxury hotels and resorts. "Where are we, Toloni?"

Miranda recalled the address perfectly. Donovon Hock. 12828 SW Rothschild.

"A bar," she said instead. "You need a drink."

For once he did not bother arguing, just gave a snort and a nod as if it has been his idea – as if he was disappointed it had taken her so long to suggest it. He did not protest as she directed the hovertaxi to drop them at a towering resort fashioned after the Taj Mahal (if the Taj Mahal had featured alien strippers and miles of neon lighting).

She maintained her act long enough to lead him inside and buy him the strongest, most expensive drink she could find on Cerberus' credit.

Then she slipped out.

–

Miranda's unease was worse now, and for once it had nothing to do with fancy parties.

Still, she did hate fancy parties. They reminded her of her father, of that world of lies and grandiloquence that he loved so fiercely. That world the Illusive Man had helped her rescue herself from.

But on the other hand, Hayley Toloni did like parties. Perhaps that was something.

Miranda tried to look like she belonged as she sat on a polished bench in Hock's garden and stared up at the partygoers arriving in their hovering limousines. She was still in her CorDev company uniform, severely underdressed. Some part of her wanted to run by one of Rothschild's famously-expensive luxury outlets and buy a fitting dress, perhaps some simple jewelry, but there was no time for that, and if the Illusive Man was disappointed in her enough to avoid her calls (she'd tried to contact him every night since she'd begun her assignment, to no avail), he would not look kindly on paying for an extravagant garment. So she settled for letting her hair down and pulling the splint off of her thumb. She balked to imagine what she looked like in a mirror but there was nothing for it.

So she smiled and watched and waited, telling herself she didn't know exactly what she was looking for. Perhaps there was another assassination attempt on Bernein brewing, she told herself. Perhaps even Hock himself had designs on it – the man was not known for his subtlety when dealing with rival arms dealers.

But those were lies.

She knew exactly what she was looking for.

She watched the limos for almost an hour, taking in every detail she could. The guests arrived one by one, all dressed up in their finery as if they weren't some of the galaxy's biggest murderers-by-proxy. Miranda recognized some of them from past work in Cerberus – arms dealers, mercenaries, thugs, private security forces – but many others were strangers to her. Miranda could see the host greeting each guest as they arrived. Donovon Hock laughed easily, his white suit gleaming in the sunlight as he shook a man's hand, chastely kissed a lady's cheek. There was nothing on the surface that painted him as anything other than a kindly old bachelor with too much money on his hands.

And then a hovertaxi pulled up and a man stepped out.

Henry Lawson's black suit – much like the one the Illusive Man wore – was all sharp angles and clean lines as was the fashion back on Earth, and he stood out from the pale colors and smooth curves of the Bekensteini formal wear the rest of the guests sported. He was grinning widely, flashing white teeth as he stepped out of his ride, no hint of anger or discomfort at being on a colony world. He still carried a cane – a beautiful glass and steel one that glinted like diamond – as a memento of the last time Miranda had seen him, but his limp was all but gone. He looked happy. Healthy.

Miranda felt like she was choking, mesmerized to lay eyes on her father again.

Her father greeted Hock warmly as the others had, shook his hand. They exchanged a few words – too quiet for Miranda to hear – and then as quick as that he'd strode past the guards and disappeared into the house.

Just seconds, and he was gone.

Miranda felt her stomach boil.

All her old fire returned in a heartbeat. Her father was dangerous. Her father was a moron with too much money, too many smart people working for him. It didn't make sense to see him away from Earth. He was hunting her, he was hunting Oriana, he was hunting something. Something he shouldn't have. Miranda had to follow, had to make sure he wasn't going t-

She stopped, her mind catching up with her.

She should turn around. Bernein was her mission, and there was no real threat to him here. If she didn't get back to the casino where she'd left him before too long, Bernein would note her absence and there would be hell to pay – not just from him but from the Illusive Man, for abandoning her duty. And if Bernein should pick a fight with the wrong person and be killed…

She could not fail Cerberus again. Not after the Normandy.

Following her father was not worth that.

Miranda hated the way he was already getting under her skin. She'd told herself a thousand times that they were through – by all accounts, he'd finally stopped trying to get her back. She'd won. She'd escaped. He could live out the rest of his years at Jordennliv and die and she'd read about his funeral in the newsfeeds and she wouldn't be so spiteful as to smile. It simply wouldn't affect her. She was above that. Over him.

And yet she would be lying to herself if she pretended she was over that part of her life, and if the Illusive Man had taught her nothing else, it was that lying to yourself was always, always a mistake. Lying to others about anything and everything could be justified as part of a larger game. But never yourself. You could trust yourself with your darkest secrets, your deepest insecurities.

But only if you chose to.

And only if you knew what they were.

She stared up at the house again, as if she could see through its walls to where a man who was everything but her clone sat and ate fancy imported sandwiches off of plates. She was not over him. She admitted it. She wasn't. She couldn't be. Maybe not ever. She would just have t-

"Henry Lawson's kid. Feel kinda stupid that I never made the connection, Princess," a gravelly voice interrupted from behind.

She whirled to see a familiar scarred face. A familiar shit-eating grin curled around a familiar cigar.

Zaeed Massani looked enormously pleased with himself. "You look just like 'im," he said, smoke rising from his nostrils.

---

15 years previously…

–

Miranda shivered as she lined up her next shot. As far as the calendar was concerned it was springtime but the weather hadn't caught up yet and her fencing outfit was little protection against the chill.

She ignored the cold, squeezing the trigger.

A hundred meters away, her target exploded into fragments that kicked puffs of dirt off of the impact berm. The report – much louder than usual, thanks to the drum rounds she'd borrowed from one of the guards – echoed across the gray dreariness of the Jordennliv grounds.

Miranda knew something had been off the instant she'd fired and, indeed, when the smoke cleared almost a third of her target remained.

She frowned and adjusted her gun, mind blazing through driver acceleration calculations that most people would have a VI work for them.

The pistols Mr. Harper had given her were works of art. Custom-made Laumann-12's made by a subsidiary of Kassa Fabrications at what Miranda was sure was an exorbitant price, they were perfect. Almost recoil-less, almost silent. Dissipated heat in a quarter second. Under standard settings accuracy maintained within a thousandth of a percent for up two twenty-eight minutes of continuous fire.

She treasured them dearly and it had hurt to saddle them with drum rounds like mere training pistols. Drum rounds were safer - they flew slower and even a direct hit from one was rarely fatal - but they were never meant for weapons of such precision. They threw off the guns' accuracy, left their barrels gummed up with metal residue that took hours to clean off.

But that was the price she had to pay for her little demonstration to be effective. Drum rounds were loud and scary, and that was what she needed.

Her gun's field pitches adjusted, she took aim at the next target.

Miranda briefly considered moving a few meters closer – she was already thirty meters behind the firing range's intended firing point, where the guards stood when they did their arms practice – but she quickly dismissed that thought. She had to put on a show today.

And even if her audience hadn't arrived yet, that didn't mean no one else was watching.

What if Mr. Harper was watching?

It was possible. Maybe even likely.

To be fair, the man was illusive. They hadn't spoken a word to him since the day she'd met him, more than a year previously. He rarely her father's frequent parties, and when he did he acted like he didn't even notice her. Even when Miranda had decided to look him up on the extranet she'd come up with next to nothing. For a wealthy businessman with associations with dozens of technology companies, Harper's name was surprisingly unknown.

And yet to Miranda, it was the only one that mattered. He had dominated her thoughts since she'd met him, and every time she pored over her memory of the man she found another trait that widened the gulf between him and her father. He was a thoughtful man, a man who could be silent and listen. A man who didn't beg for respect but demanded it. A man who cared about ideas, not about ownership. A creator, not a seller. An innovator, not a patenter. He was a liar like her father was, of course - Miranda had gotten very good at seeing dishonesty on a person's face and even Harper's implacable evenness of expression reeked of it - but he didn't believe his own lies. Even as he lied to your face, Harper was somehow pure and honest, untainted by the follies of normal men like Henry Lawson.

Harper was what he was and he knew it, and Miranda worshipped him for it.

Miranda had been made to be perfect, but before Harper she'd never met someone who knew how to be perfect.

And he wanted something with her. Most nights Miranda would find that new files had appeared on the datapad he'd gifted her, political writings or high-minded rhetoric, new versions of the Manifesto or dossiers on obscure politicians and businessmen. She read every one with gusto, learned to distinguish Harper's writings from the others. Learned about humans and aliens, about Cerberus and the Alliance, about independence in the face of a galaxy that wanted to annihilate you, about being human in a galaxy that wanted you to forget to. Not the business and science her father's tutors drilled into her, but philosophy, history, morality. She consumed it all. A few months ago she'd taken the next step and had started editing the texts as she received them, analyzing each one, appending her thoughts on this philosophical theory or that political scheme. Sometimes she'd write her own, and she'd pour herself into her words for days without sleep, until every one was as perfect as she could make it.

And though when Harper showed up to one of her father's parties he never so much as glanced at her, never gave any hint of recognition, somehow she knew he was watching her. Testing her. Grooming her.

He read her critiques. Somehow she knew it.

He watched her every move. She could not let him down. She could not show weakness, not ever.

And so she backed up another ten meters, checked the wind flags and the weather hookup on her omni-tool and took aim again.

She fired. This time, the target went down clean, nearly vaporized by the impact.

Miranda nodded, satisfied. She moved to the next target.

–

Miranda had three targets left to go when Birte finally answered her summons. The girl was her elder by a decade, and yet she stood meekly by the rangemaster's empty chair while Miranda finished her shooting.

Miranda didn't look at her. She could see her well enough with her mind's eye, the usual pale fragility Birte projected. She took her time with her last three shots.

Boom. One target disappeared. Miranda saw Birte flinch out of the corner of her eye.

Boom. The second. The drum rounds were so loud they felt like a punch in the stomach.

Boom.

The third shot's report was still echoing when Miranda finally turned to look at the third member of what her father generously called the Lawson Family. Birte was not engineered like herself, but she would have been quite beautiful if she would ever smile. Her blonde hair hung in an elegant braid down to her waist. Her garb was plain, befitting her so-called station, but she was graceful and athletic and – for now, at least – even lovelier than Miranda herself. But whether because of the thankless task she'd been given, or the dank loneliness of the Lawson manor where she spent her time, or even something farther back in her past (Miranda had never bothered considering where Birte had come from), Birte Duerr had spent the past several years looking like nothing in the world could cheer her. She rarely spoke, and spent what time she had left after 'babysitting' Miranda and the rigorous fitness regimen the Jordennliv scientists kept her on ensconced in her room.

As far as Miranda could tell, she was an empty person. She had nothing to offer Miranda.

But that wasn't what she was there for. You didn't need to be an interesting person to be a good surrogate mother.

Birte was bland but she was healthy. She'd been chosen after a long search for the perfect surrogate. A strong immune system. Strong bones, a strong heart, and no genetic predispositions at all. And she was all natural. Never been subjected to gene modifications, not even the baselines that were administered standard to most EU citizens before their first birthdays. From a genetic engineer's perspective, Birte was a rare blank state, with nothing at all to interfere.

Miranda walked past Birte as she palmed the rangemaster's console to set up another line of targets. There was a distant whirr as they clicked into place. Birte said nothing as Miranda walked back to her firing position and took aim again.

"You know, he says you're my handmaiden," Miranda said. She fired. Boom. Another target disappeared, and Birte flinched again "That's what he says at his parties. You're supposed to be a motherly influence on me." Boom. "It's good for me to have a woman around the house, he says." She did not bother pointing out how patently ridiculous that idea was. Even half her age, she'd far surpassed Birte in every way already. Miranda chanced a look at her so-called handmaiden. Birte was paler than usual and Miranda grinned, eyes fixed on Birte as she aimed blind down the range and pulled the trigger.

Boom.

Miranda didn't have to look to know she'd aimed well - but the way Birte shrank at the gun's report told her well enough.

Miranda had been clever. There would be no witnesses - Henry Lawson was away on business, Miranda had given the rangemaster the day off, And with the cold, everyone else would be inside. It was just her and Birte, out here with the veiled threat of a gun and a target and accuracy that any layman could tell was not achievable by a normal eleven year old. Add that to Birte's already mewling personality and all the battery of preparatory tests D-Lab had been putting her through recently, and it was perfect.

Birte practically shook.

Miranda finally holstered her gun, confident her demonstration had had its intended effect. "I don't know if you know what they're doing to you in the labs lately," she said. "And I don't care." Her face was expressionless. "The important thing is that I need you to no longer be a factor." She'd thought it through, so many nights now, and she was sure. Birte was the keystone. Miranda 2.0's genome was saved on a thousand different backups. The modified chromosomes were secured in refrigerated safes in three locations. Miranda could never destroy them all.

But she could get to Birte.

"A factor in wh-"

Miranda cut her off. "Under my fencing mask," she said, pointing to where it rested on the chair.

Birte obediently moved the mask. Sitting underneath was a tiny glass jar. The single red pill within shone in the morning light.

"Take it," Miranda commanded. She drew her gun again and took aim at the next target, as if that was that.

"W-What is it?"

Miranda fired and let the report die down again. "Something that will invalidate the gene mods they've been giving you. It will disrupt your hormones for a few weeks. Call it a month. You shouldn't notice any ill effects." But you sure won't be getting pregnant. She moved to the next target. "Take it."

"No."

Miranda looked at her with an even face. Birte was trembling where she stood but all the same it was more spine than Miranda had ever seen out of her. Still, under Miranda's pale gaze she cracked, and fast.

"Y…your father would-" Birte tried to explain.

"You are going to listen to me now, not my father," Miranda snapped, staring daggers up at the older girl. "My father is a moron. I know it. You know it. Somewhere in his black little heart even he knows it. He made me to be better than him, and I am." She took a step towards Birte. "And so you are not going to take his orders over mine. You are going to do the right thing. You are going to follow me. Because I am better."

She turned back to her targets yet again, but not so fast she didn't see the tears in Birte's eyes. Not so fast she couldn't see the fear there.

"This is better," Miranda said, lining up her next shot. "The pill lets us both have what we want. I'm letting you stay. I'm taking a risk for you, doing it this way. The only other way to do this ends with me leaving you in a ditch for him to find." Boom. "It's just like a birth control pill. Take it."

Crying, Birte swallowed the pill and turned to go.

She only made it two steps before the tranquilizer had its effect and she collapsed, unconscious.

Miranda looked over at her. Birte looked like a broken doll, face-down in the frosted grass, and Miranda felt a rare pang of regret for what her father had forced her to do. "Sorry," she said.

---

Presently…

–

"I been going to Hock's little parties since I was still running with the Suns," Zaeed was saying as he walked, arm linked with Miranda's, back up towards the house. "Usually pretty goddamn boring, if you ask me, but the man's got a hell of a taste in bourbon."

Miranda ignored him and tried to look awestruck by the splendor as Zaeed led her along.

"Never miss one," Zaeed went on, oblivious to her distraction. "One year I even went in a wheelchair with half a face hopin' Vido would show like usual." He chuckled bitterly. "So happens that was the year he stopped coming."

"So why do you still show up?" Miranda asked, annoyed.

"Aside from the booze? Guess I like the reminder he's still scared of me."

Miranda didn't look at him. As out of place as her plain uniform looked next to the fancy trappings of the other guests, Zaeed looked even worse. Out of armor, hair freshly combed, he looked almost alien, his gray suit and pale pink tie (all the rage, he'd assured her, some twenty or thirty years ago) well-fitted but impossibly mismatched with his scarred face. Jessie was nowhere to be seen – the man didn't even set off the weapons scanner when they stepped past the Eclipse guards guarding the steps to the patio. Only the cigar in his mouth remained as testament to who Zaeed Massani really was. And that was not a man Miranda wanted next to her at a fancy party.

Still, he was the one with the invitation, and he had offered to get her inside.

They made their way up the steps to the veranda and Miranda stopped, eyes still relentlessly scanning for any sign of her father. "I don't have much time," she said, voice hushed. "So when we get in there, you're going to go find my father and introduce yourself. Find out what he's up to."

Zaeed snorted. "Hell I am," he said. "This is my day off. You want to talk to daddy, you do it. I'm gonna have an unfriendly chat with any Suns that showed up and get drunk off my ass." He grinned. "Not necessarily in that order." Miranda frowned but he ignored her. "Besides, you're my date, Princess." He pulled an embossed invitation card out of his jacket and waggled it tauntingly. "Remember?"

How could she have forgotten? Miranda put on a stern face. "Mr. Massani, you will do what Cerberus tells you t-"

"You're not Cerberus anymore," Zaeed interrupted. "Not as far as I'm concerned." He looked smug. "I don't have to do a goddamn thing I don't want to."

Miranda was denied the opportunity to reply as Zaeed pushed forward to greet their host. Donovan Hock was a tall man, and looked down on them with a benevolent air. "Mr. Massani," Hock said, offering a manicured hand.

Zaeed shook it, grinning. "Hock, you pressed up bastard, how the hell are you?"

"Well enough," Hock said, with a magnanimous nod. He turned to regard Miranda, cocking his head. "And who is your guest?"

Zaeed grinned victoriously at Miranda, his amusement plain on his face. "This is my very lovely-"

"Daughter," Miranda interrupted. She paused. "Well, granddaughter, technically," she amended, shaking Hock's hand. "Sasha Massani, very nice to meet you, Mr. Hock." She smiled and curtsied showily, ignoring the way Zaeed's mismatched brows rose in surprise. "Your home is beautiful, sir."

Hock grinned at her, impressed. "You never told me you had a granddaughter, Mr. Massani," he accused, bowing to kiss the back of Miranda's hand. He stared at her. "Please, call me Donovan."

Zaeed growled. "Yeah, I-"

"Mr. Donovan," Miranda continued, cutting him off again, "I hate to be an ungrateful guest, but will your servants be offering any non-alcoholic drinks?" She hugged Zaeed to herself with one arm. "My Pop-Pop's doctor wants him to cut back before his liver gets any worse."

Zaeed's jaw hung open.

Hock took no notice, and bowed again. "Of course, Ms. Massani. I will tell my servants to make sure he is accommodated."

"And that he doesn't cheat," Miranda added.

Hock smiled and nodded. "And that he does not cheat," he agreed.

Miranda cast a victorious grin Zaeed's way, amused to see the astonishment and bloody rage jostling for purchase in the old merc's dusty mind. "Coming, Pop-Pop?" she asked, in a singsong voice. She settled back into his arm and gave it a tug. Zaeed followed as if in a daze.

"You are a lucky man, Zaeed," Hock called after them as they headed for the glass doors into the estate, "to have someone to look out for you."

Zaeed looked shell-shocked. "I… Uhh…" he stammered. His shoulders sank. "Yeah," he agreed finally, mumbling. "Real goddamn lucky."

–

"Oh, you are some special kind of bitch."

As soon as they were inside Miranda finally let go of Zaeed's arm, scanning the room for her father. "You aren't really trying to antagonize me further," she asked, distracted. "Are you 'Pop-Pop'?" Around her, clusters of people stood about in twos or threes, admiring Hock's impressive art collection or availing themselves of the appetizers offered by a small fleet of waiters.

"What more can you do to me? You already took my booze. I've killed for less."

Miranda ignored him as her gaze found her father through the patio windows. Henry Lawson was seated on a bench on Hock's back porch, talking animatedly to a human couple. His back was to her, but all the same Miranda shrank behind the nearest bookcase, pulling Zaeed after her under pretense of pointing out a framed painting.

"Do you have one of the Normandy's earpieces?" she asked, staring emptily into the painting.

Zaeed shrugged. "Nope. Like I told you, this is my day off. Not here to cause any trouble."

Miranda fixed him with a glare. "So you were kicked off the Normandy. There's no way Shepard would give you a day off to come cavort with these maniacs." It seemed only reasonable for Shepard to have kicked the rest of Cerberus off of the ship as soon as she was gone – it would explain why the Illusive Man had not sent her any news of the Normandy's progress. The thought was an enormous relief.

But Zaeed just shook his head. "We were in the neighborhood," he admitted. "Some mission for the other princess. But I'm not privy to the details. I'm just here for the party."

"So Cerberus still has personnel on the Normandy..." Miranda asked, incredulous.

"Everybody but you," Zaeed said. He grinned.

Miranda couldn't help but feel a little wilted at that. She'd told herself a thousand times already she was at peace with what had happened on the Normandy – if the Illusive Man wanted her off the mission, then she was off – but seeing Zaeed again was like seeing a figure from a past life. Her head brimmed with questions. Had they replaced her? Were they still going after the Collectors in the galaxy core? Had The Illusive Man retaliated for Garrus' attack? How was Jacob holding up without her?

She chewed her lip. She should be on that ship.

Zaeed gave a snort – his best approximation of a goodbye - and turned to walk away.

Miranda felt a jolt of panic – the figure from her past life was about to disappear. "Where are you going?"

"To find some goddamn juice," he growled, and stalked off into the crowd.

–

Miranda read her father's lips.

"…up more than three hundred percent, and we're-" he was saying, beforesomeone stepped through Miranda's vision, cutting off her view. She frowned at them while they lingered at a tray of hors d'oeuvres, then finally moved aside. "Forty one loci, I'm told, but they think we can get it down to thirty-one with a silencing technique we've developed…"

From her position at a table on the opposite side of the party, Miranda scowled and took another drink of the Suraboz whiskey she'd gotten from one of the waiters. Lies and shop talk. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to indicate why he'd suddenly changed his mind about offworld businessmen like Hock. Just the usual drivel.

In truth, her worries felt silly now. She had abandoned her mission - possibly endangered Bernein's life - just to trail her father to yet another mindless party. Had she not learned her lesson that nothing of use was ever said at one of these sorts of events? She had been getting herself worked up over nothing. Her father was scum, but an evil mastermind he was not.

She should have been shadowing Bernein.

Still, something felt wrong to her. As innocuous as his conversation had been so far, her intuition screamed that her father was up to his old tricks. The biology stats he was quoting were vagueries, too general for any real clues, but it was possible he was describing work on Miranda 3.0, wasn't it?

She kept watching, her mind conjuring up her father's voice in perfect time with his lips.

"…It was, oh, twenty-five years ago, and I was on a trip to the Mediterranean States when I first met-"

"There," came a grunting voice, and Miranda felt the weight of someone drop in the seat across from her.

She looked.

Was EVERYBODY at this party?

Shepard didn't give her a moment to register, and grabbed her hand to shake it. "Solomon Gunn," he said, in what she expected was supposed to be a suave voice. "Very nice to make your acquaintance. You are…?"

"Shepard?"

Shepard grinned, but said nothing as he pulled a cigar out of one of his fancy suit's pockets and lit it with a luxury omni-tool. He gave an elaborate puff. Behind him, Zaeed swished a wine glass full of orange juice and rolled his eyes, his annoyance at Shepard interrupting his partying obvious.

Miranda frowned, staring at Shepard. "You don't smoke, Shepard."

"Never heard of 'im," Shepard said, grinning around the cigar. "I'm Solomon Gunn. And Solomon Gunn enjoys a good cigar every once in a while." He took the cigar from his mouth and inspected it. "This is a... uh...," He screwed up his face.

"Cobol Five," Zaeed supplied.

"A Cobol Five," Shepard agreed, as if he hadn't heard the merc. He put it back in his mouth. "Imported, I imagine," he said, staring at Miranda, clearly proud of himself. "A brand I smoke often. Being Solomon Gunn."

Miranda heard a whisper in her ear – Kasumi Goto, cloaked. "Just go with it," she said. "He's having fun."

"What are you doing here?" Miranda demanded.

Shepard smoked his cigar awkwardly. "Why, attending a fine party, as arms dealers like myself are wont to do!" He smiled. When Miranda didn't smile back, Shepard's grin and goofy persona alike finally melted away. He sighed bashfully, pulling the cigar out of his lips. "Are you alright, Miranda?"

"I'm fine," Miranda insisted, teeth grit.

"Garrus told me he hadn't hurt you… but I wasn't…" he frowned to himself. "I wasn't sure I believed him."

"I'm fine," Miranda repeated, putting her injured thumb in her lap, as if Shepard could see the mending bone inside. "Really. Just… go away."

"Where have you been?" Shepard asked, leaning in. He looked guilty, conspiratorial. "I figured you would have been banging on our airlock door like two weeks ago."

"I've been reassigned," she said. "I'm no longer your problem to suffer. Now please, leave."

Shepard's face fell. "Look, Miranda… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened. Really. Let's talk about it. Let's fix it."

Miranda ignored him. Her heart roared at the chance to return to the Normandy, to see her mission through, and yet here, now, with him, she couldn't do it. It was impossible. He'd rejected her, he'd let his turian friend gas her and abduct her. Now, after all the trouble he'd put her through, he wanted her back?

Never.

She said nothing.

Shepard sighed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Miranda kept her mouth closed, staring blankly across the room as if she could see her father through Shepard's shoulder. When she didn't supply an answer, Zaeed spoke up. "Stalking her dad," he grunted, amused.

Shepard's brows rose. "Your d-" his voice caught as he remembered what she'd told him. "Your dad!?" he whispered. He turned, following her gaze to the patio. "Which one?"

Miranda stared daggers at him. "It's not your concern, Shepard, it's-"

"Fancy white suit, over there with teeth and the girl with the hair," Zaeed said, pointing.

Miranda tossed him a furious look, but the merc just grinned.

Shepard squinted down the patio and nodded, face drawn in a grim frown. "I see him," he said, staring at Henry Lawson with the same look he used to stare down mercs and husks, collectors and geth. It was not a good look.

"We have time," Kasumi's disembodied voice supplied. "I need a little while to canvas the house, make sure we don't run into any surprises."

Miranda could see where this was going. "No," she said. Her heart raced. "Shepard, this is a private matter. Stay out of this," she warned. "I don't want you t-"

Shepard looked at her and her stomach sank at the mischievous look on his face. Her words died on her tongue - he'd made up his mind. "Shepard ain't here," he said, back to his smartass grin. "Zaeed, keep a lookout."

"There's a Sun over there trying to pretend like he doesn't recognize me," Zaeed said. "He and I still have to chat."

Shepard shrugged. "Don't care. You can do that later."

"This is my day off," Zaeed reminded him. "Whatever you and the little Princess are doing here ain't my concern."

Shepard shrugged again. "Do it anyway, bitch."

Miranda and Zaeed stared, speechless as Shepard put the cigar back into his mouth. He was serious.

Their eyes followed him as he rose from the table and made for Henry Lawson.

–

To the outside world, Miranda looked cool and confident, enjoying her drink in the Bekensteini sunset, but inside she was shaking, barely able to tear her eyes away from where Shepard had taken a seat next to her father.

The earpiece that had been pushed into her palm by invisible fingers crackled.

"You sure?" Shepard was saying. She could see him offering his box of cigars. "They're Canbal Fives. I am almost one hundred percent sure they are imported."

Miranda buried her face in one hand, mortified even at this distance. It was bad enough that Shepard was talking to her father, but Shepard awkwardly pretending to be a debonair criminal? This would not end well. Her father and the two people he'd been speaking with stared at Shepard with cocked eyebrows. Still they said nothing, perhaps because Shepard had offered to pay for a round of drinks.

Shepard muscled on obliviously, a shrug in his voice. "Suit yourself." He puffed.

Her father spoke. "So… what do you do for a living again, Mr…"

"Gunn," Shepard supplied. "Solomon Gunn. I'm an arms dealer. Galaxy full of people that need arms, and somebody's gotto deal 'em. Ain't pretty but it puts the cigars on the table. Keeps the family fed. Pays the bills. You know."

"And what kind of arms do you sell?"

Miranda dreaded Shepard's answer.

"I resell, mostly," Shepard answered instantly. "Run 'em from some of the smaller planets too small for the Suns to care about. Mostly volus stuff, shipments of K-12-A's out of Alamanda, sometimes get ERCS surplus wares from Unbai." At least Shepard knew his guns. "Trying to break into Kassa but you know that is. Still, it keeps the family fed. Pays the bills. You know."

"I've heard the K-12's are quite lucrative."

"No kidding, Henry. Can I call you Henry? Yeah, K-12's sure…" Shepard paused, his confident façade straining for an instant. "…pay the bills."

"And keep the family fed, yes."

Shepard jumped on it. "Speaking of family, you have any kids, Henry? No kids myself. Selfish to keep these good genes to myself, I know, but what can I say? I'm a renegade."

There was a long pause. Even from across the terrace, Miranda could see the look of suspicion on her father's face, the transparent nonchalance on Shepard's. Shepard looked too eager, too curious. He was no cover agent. And with that obvious setup? Her father would be a moron not to 'd never answer.

"I have twin daughters."

Miranda grimaced. Her father was a moron. Still, something stirred in her gut to hear her father mention her. Somehow she'd always assumed her escape - or at least that one time she'd shot him three times - had hurt him so badly that he would refuse to speak of her, but now there was no contempt in his voice. He sounded more tired than anything. Was it possible he regretted what he had done to her? To Oriana?

Shepard laughed, his voice tinny through the earpiece. "Glad we're not all renegades, huh Henry? Two daughters, huh? What are they like?"

"Estranged, I'm afraid."

Miranda felt a sudden pang of dread as she realized what was coming. Why Shepard had so ham-fistedly dragged family into the conversation. He wasn't checking on Oriana – he didn't even know about her - but he did know about Miranda's father, about how she felt about him. He was going to try to drag a confession out of her father and then say something stupid to impress her, something he thought was heroic. Some valiant defense of Miranda like "you missed out on a wonderful daughter" or at least "she deserved better" or something, as if that would make her forgive him. He was going to tip her father off with his misguided gallantry.

That stupid, stupid man. Miranda wanted to turn away, but she couldn't stop watching. Shepard was going to blow everything defending her.

But then Shepard didn't. "Oh well," was all he said. "You know how kids are. Gotto forge their own path. Leave the nest." He turned to look around. "Where are those damn drinks I ordered?"

The second passed, and Shepard said no more of daughters or what they deserved. Miranda frowned despite herself, somehow disappointed.

He could have defended her a little bit.

A voice in her ear almost made her jump. "You have a twin sister?" Kasumi breathed, barely over a whisper. "Hot."

Miranda batted her away under cover of adjusting her hair. "She's fourteen," she snapped, annoyed that she had not heard the thief approach.

"Err… I meant Shepard, then," Kasumi amended. "He's actually not half bad at this."

"That's only because my father is a fool," Miranda insisted, though she knew it was petty. As much as she hated to admit it, perhaps Shepard wasn't quite as dumb as she had anticipated. As transparent as his dude-bro overconfident badass persona was to her, it seemed to be fooling his marks, and that was what mattered. But she wasn't going to admit that to Kasumi. She sighed. "Don't you have canvassing to do?"

Somehow she knew the invisible thief gave her a smartass shrug. "Couldn't miss this."

Miranda's retort was cut off when something crashed.

There was a sudden commotion and a shattering of glass from across the terrace, and Miranda was on her feet before she caught herself, hands darting for the holster she used to wear. When her fingers met only emptiness she realized what she'd done and dove back into her seat in an instant, wishing for a moment she could be so invisible as the thief.

Luckily, nobody was paying attention to her. Across the patio, her father and Shepard were on their feet, yelling and red-faced. It was not hard to tell what had happened - her father's expensive suit was soaked head to toe in a whole tray of drinks that had been upended into his lap. Bits of broken glass glinted in the sunset. He was not pleased.

"What was that for, Gunn!?" he bellowed, waving his cane furiously in the air. The question was so loud Miranda had to rip the headset from her ear.

Across from him, Shepard was untouched by the spilled drinks, but just as furious. "The hell are you blaming me for!?" Shepard roared back. "It was the goddamn waiter!" He wheeled on the waiter before Henry Lawson could protest. "Where'd you learn to serve drinks, fucking Kahje!?"

The poor waiter looked terrified, and stammered apologies, incoherent in the commander's shadow. The party was dead silent - stunned by Shepard's explosion. Even Zaeed, keeping watch at the far end of the room, looked impressed.

"You ruined my suit!" Shepard roared at the waiter, face glowing with fury that Miranda had never seen in him before. He displayed a dampened sleeve – hardly a splash compared to what had happened to Henry Lawson's suit – and yet he shouted so loud and so angrily that Henry Lawson looked meek and reserved in comparison. "I swear to GOD you will regret that!"

Shepard stormed away from the table in an avalanche of anger, every eye in the party following him out.

–

Miranda watched her father fuss over his ruined suit. Not to be outdone by Shepard, he took it upon himself to lecture the harangued waiter further, waving his cane like stereotypically crotchety old man as he ranted about how servants on Earth would be beaten and fired for a mistake like that, beaten and fired. If his annoyance was getting through after Shepard's shocking outburst, however, there was no sign.

After a few minutes of bitching Henry Lawson was finally satisfied, and carefully gathered up his coat and his cane and made for the door in a huff, dripping a trail of alcohol behind him. Miranda watched him go, making no attempt to hide the smile on her face.

"I've got… six hundred odd credits left on me," Shepard's voice came from behind her. Miranda stowed her smile in an instant and turned to look at him. Shepard was leaned against a marble column as if nothing had happened, his hands in his suit pockets and a tired look on his face. "You think that'd make up for blowing up on that poor waiter for something he didn't do?"

"It'd be a start," Kasumi's voice said. "I'll sneak it into the poor man's pocket. Maybe I'll steal a fancy watch or two, throw that in as a bonus."

"Don't get him in trouble, Kasumi," Shepard warned, discreetly handing over his credits until they winked out of existence in a shimmer of cool air.

"Joking, Shep. I think he's had a hard enough day already."

Shepard nodded absently.

"That," Miranda said, feeling the slight change in pressure that meant the thief had finally padded away, "was very foolish. What if you h-"

Miranda's words died on her tongue as Shepard tossed a datapad onto the table in front of her. It was very rich, a diamond crystal screen set into a polished titanium chassis. On the back, the Jordennliv Solutions logo gleamed in gold.

Miranda's eyes widened. It was her father's datapad. She met Shepard's gaze, astonished.

Shepard grinned, mouthed "SOLOMON GUNN", then turned and walked away without a word.

–

It was the third message in his email. Dated less than a day ago.

From: Henry Lawson (president jordennlivsolutions_extr)

Sent: 4.10.2186 7:58:02pm EST

To: Unknown (proxy_2121857_58B82 Iliumproxy14_extr)

Subject: Rescue Mission

Absolutely not. She is not to be drugged. Oriana is worth more than your entire organization, Enyala. I expect her to arrive on Earth COMPLETELY untouched. That's what I'm paying you for. Don't make me regret going off-world with this.

Do it right.

(PS: Besides, it probably wouldn't put her down anyway – she's resistant to most neurotoxins.)

-Henry Lawson

-President and Founder, Jordennliv Solutions

-Jordennliv Village, 20-128, European Union, Earth

Miranda stared at it, trying to decide if what she was feeling was disbelief.

---

14 years previously…

–

Henry Lawson did not drink, but he'd poured himself a glass of scotch all the same.

He sat in a seldom-used armchair in one of the manor's hearth rooms, chin resting on his knuckles and pale eyes staring into the fire he'd had his servants kindle. The room was sweltering – far too hot for Miranda's tastes – and yet she sat a chair away, sneaking furtive glances at her father over the top edge of her datapad.

The EU investigator had come and gone already. He'd been little help, especially after Jordennliv Solutions security had already stomped all over the supposed crime scenes instead of waiting for the professionals. Birte's disappearance – abduction, Henry Lawson had insisted – had seemed to happen by magic. There was no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints, nothing picked up on the DNA scanner. Her things were gone.

There was nothing, the investigator had insisted, to suggest she'd been taken at all. More likely she'd run away, especially given the woman's apparent depression. It was known to happen.

Henry Lawson had a different theory.

"Aliens," he muttered to himself yet again, still staring into the flames. "Alien technologies."

Miranda afforded herself a satisfied smile behind her datapad. In truth, Birte Duerr was, at that very moment, on an Exogeni transport from Frankfurt Spaceport to Soto's Hope colony on Chasca, still sleeping off the tranquilizer Miranda had given her the previous morning. She was no longer Birte Duerr, either, but Laurie Somher, with all the right ident cards and such.

And Laurie Somher's name was on a colonial ledger. She was contractually obligated to stay on Chasca for ten years. Miranda liked to think the change of scenery would be good for her. Maybe she would stop being so limp.

But more importantly, Henry Lawson would never find her.

Miranda had covered her bases, disposing of Birte's clothes and toiletries so it would look like she ran away. She'd even left a bogus ticket order for a train ride to the spaceport in Paris on Birte's datapad for the investigators to find, but they hadn't even bothered to check.

Birte was long gone, and without a surrogate mother so was Miranda 2.0. And nobody was any the wiser.

It was a job well done, and Miranda felt a stab of pride knowing that she had beaten Miranda 2.0. That would be the end of it. Replacing Birte and all the work they'd done on her cells would be inordinately expensive - far too much to justify wasting even more of Jordennliv's resources on what was essentially an enormous vanity project. They would cancel it. And even if they didn't, even if her father decided to sink another few hundred thousand credits into a new surrogate mother, she'd just dispose of that one too. Send Birte a friend to keep her company.

It was all perfectly done, and Miranda felt a warmth in her stomach she hadn't felt in a long time. Her birthright to Jordennliv Solutions - in doubt for so long - was secure once more. Without a replacement daughter, her father would call off his plans to marry her to Richter, and in a few years she would inherit Jordennliv Solutions and helm it better than her father ever had. It would be her portrait in the main foyer, her name on the plaques. She'd take the company places it had never been, places no Earth company had ever been. She had ideas by the score already, ideas for biology, for cybernetics, for ship engineering. She'd start her own coalition but avoid all the mistakes CASAI had made, all the rebellion and failure. Maybe even expand into alien manufacture. It was a bright future.

Watching her father squirm was just icing on the cake.

Her father muttered, distracted.

"Months," he said. He must have seen Miranda looking at him, for he finally dragged his gaze away from the fire. "They're out to destroy my legacy, Miranda," he said, shaking his head.

Miranda put her datapad aside, burying the smile she felt under a look of concern. "Who is, Father?" she asked, anxious to hear his newest stupid theory.

He waved a hand. "One of my enemies," he sneered. "Pick one. There are three dozen men who would love to see me brought low."

Also one daughter.

Miranda kept silent.

"Only this time," he continued, "this time they brought aliens to do their dirty work for them. Some turian technology. Or quarian. Cloaking fields, or… or teleportation, maybe. It wouldn't be the first time the Citadel has hidden something game-changing from us." He returned his gaze to the fire.

It was a ludicrous suggestion, but in Miranda's young experience so many ideas born in bigotry were. If Henry Lawson had ever bothered to visit any extranet sites besides political blogs and the Jordennliv homepage he might know why teleportation was impossible, even for the aliens he mistrusted so much. He might know that cloaking fields didn't stop someone from leaving traces of DNA, and that the galaxy's most advanced personal cloaking device was designed by Ariake Technologies, a human company.

And if he'd ever spared a thought for anyone other than himself he might know why Miranda wanted Birte gone more than anyone else.

"You remember Mr. Harper?" her father asked, eyes glinting in the firelight.

Every second of every day is what she might have said if she was feeling truthful. "I think so," she said instead. "The tall man who smokes." She stared at him, heart suddenly aflutter. What about Mr. Harper?

Her father grunted noncommittally. "He called me today," he said, disgusted. "Said a friend told him what happened."

Miranda couldn't quite keep the smile off her face. Mr. Harper was smart enough to know the truth. He must have known she had done it. He must have seen how cleverly she'd set it all up.

"He told me I should count my blessings. Cut the project." Henry Lawson's tone was full of bile and feelings of betrayal. He almost spat, shaking his head slowly, side to side, like he couldn't believe anyone would suggest such a thing.

Miranda's heart soared. Her father would listen to Harper. Even he was not so stupid as to recognize the older man's genius in such things.

"Mr. Harper can go screw himself," her father growled.

Miranda's eyes widened as her fantasy evaporated. She stared at him.

He looked at her, smiling at her disbelief. "With an iron poker," he finished, proud of himself. "That son of a bitch is probably the one who did it. He's probably the one with the alien friends."

Miranda could hardly believe her ears. "Father…" she tried, clawing for words that would not just sail over his head. "Mr. Harper doesn't have much to g-"

"He can go screw himself," her father repeated. "I'm holding the course. I'll find a new surrogate. Do it through one of the designer baby companies, keep it secure. Birte was a sycophant anyway. Mewling. Worthless. Wouldn't want that infecting the baby anyway."

Miranda's stomach knotted, as much out of the disappointment of hearing his plans as out of the hypocrisy of her father calling anyone a sycophant. She took a deep breath and tried again. "If Mr. Harper wanted to-"

And then he said it. "What kind of father would I be if I gave up now?" He asked the question, looking straight into Miranda's eyes, a warm smile on his lips. As if he cared. As if he didn't see all that was wrong with that.

Miranda's argument died on her lips. Her mind, usually so sharp, so quick, could barely form thoughts.

She turned and stormed out, dearly glad she had left her pistols in her room.

---

Presently…

–

"Illium's a big place, you know," Zaeed said. He'd had a deep smile on his craggy face when he'd joined her at the table ten minutes earlier. Shepard and Kasumi had disappeared to the lower levels to do whatever nefarious deed they'd come for, leaving Miranda the only one he could brag to, and he'd wasted no time telling her all the juicy information he'd worked out of the Blue Sun he'd found after he'd started breaking fingers with a cocktail spoon. Even wiggling with excitement as the old man was, though, he'd sobered when he'd noticed Miranda's mood, and now he just stared, absently swishing his glass of juice, as Miranda reread the email for the hundredth time. "Plenty of places to hide," he added.

Miranda didn't answer. Zaeed didn't understand. He was a battle-hardened merc.

Oriana was a fourteen year old girl. She was in danger. How many of Illium's hiding places would occur to a fourteen year old girl? How many of them would be safe from Eclipse and this Captain Enyala?

How many of them would be safe from Illium?

Oriana was a smart girl but she'd never seen the things Miranda had. She was young and innocent, occupied by thoughts of boys and school and homework, if what Miranda had gleaned off of her Spaceface page was any indication. Not like Miranda herself had been at that age, running off to join a terrorist organization. Oriana was normal.

Miranda had fought to give her that opportunity. Had decided to stay away, now and forever, to preserve it. Had given up talking to perhaps the only person in the galaxy who might know what she was going through, just to keep her safe.

And now Oriana was in danger. Possibly captured already.

"Eclipse is a bunch of jackoffs," Zaeed said, still trying to cheer her (and quite unconcerned with the four or five Eclipse guards within earshot). "You put a bounty on their ass they couldn't find it with both hands."

"Shut up, Zaeed," she said.

For once he listened, going back to his juice. Miranda was thankful for the silence. Her head was a storm of thoughts.

There were plans to make. She had to move carefully. If the email was any indication, her father already knew exactly where Oriana was. As upsetting as that notion was, there was time to figure out how he'd found out later. For now, she had to assume she could not reach Illium in time to stop Eclipse from catching up. That left breaking Oriana out of Jordennliv Solutions back on Earth, or trying to intercept them somewhere en route. She'd have to be careful how she proceeded – no doubt her father would never risk Oriana's safety, but that said nothing about the girl's adoptive parents.

She had to be thoughtful. Calculating. Emotionless.

That was hard to do with tears streaming down your face.

"Listen," Zaeed was saying, "Shepard and the princess will be back soon enough, and we can-"

There was an ear-splitting screech as an alarm went off. It echoed through the house with a deafening report, so loud that the guests ducked for cover, hands clamped over their ears. The initial burst died out, giving way to a long klaxon noise, quieter but still so loud the windows shook.

Miranda and Zaeed's eyes met.

"Well shit," Zaeed observed, but his voice was lost in the blaring tumult. Still, it was not hard to guess what he'd said. Something had gone wrong below. Shepard and Kasumi had been caught.

The party dissolved into chaos in seconds. Everywhere people were shouting. Guests screamed as the sound of gunfire echoed up from the lower levels, while Eclipse guards scrambled to restore order. Miranda and Zaeed found themselves rustled up out of their chairs by one assault-rifle wielding merc, who shouted ineffectually underneath the roar of the alarm bells.

"Everybody out!" an Eclipse woman was shouting through a wrist-mounted megaphone, holographic tech armor panels blooming around her. "Party's over, go go go!"

The guests stampeded for the doors in a rush of pushing and shoving and trampling feet. A second Eclipse guard grabbed Miranda by the shoulder and shoved her towards the exit, brandishing a pistol in one hand. Everything was tangled limbs and shouting and the booming wail of the klaxons.

And somewhere in the chaos, Miranda's careful planning evaporated.

The Eclipse guard who'd pushed her never knew what hit him as her boot rose to contact his chin. He fell backwards with a crash, toppling a statue in the process, and Miranda was on top of him, wrestling the gun out of his hands as he struggled, confused.

"Miranda!" Zaeed bellowed from somewhere behind her, and she felt armored hands on her shoulders as another guard tried to tear her off of the downed man. The gun in her hand jumped twice, silencing the fallen merc's shouts in two plumes of blood that spattered across Hock's polished marble floors.

At the sound of gunfire the crowd evaporated, scattering every which way like startled deer, a chorus of screams as they clawed desperately to get away from the fighting. Half of the Eclipse guards were trampled under terrified partygoers in an instant.

Everything was chaos as Miranda twisted in the grip of the second merc like a mink, stomping down on the man's insole and pushing with all her not-inconsiderable strength. He staggered backwards, helmeted head slamming against the floor before Miranda finished him off with another shot from her stolen pistol.

A third guard came surging towards Miranda, assault rifle firing

"Massani!" Miranda shouted, diving and rolling to avoid a burst of gunfire that powdered one of Hock's exquisite columns, covering bookcases and fine art alike in ash.

"What?" Even in air thick with dust, Zaeed's broad form was easy to make out amongst the crowd, the other partygoers parting like water around him as he stood amongst the chaos, a bemused look on his face.

Miranda came surging out of the dust, knee first, and planted her weight right into the standing guard's gut. He stumbled backwards, coming to a stop against an astonished Zaeed.

Then Zaeed found himself, set a heavy hand on either side of the merc's head, and twisted. There was a gruesome snap and the man crumpled.

It was only seconds, and three armed men lay dead.

"Come on!" Miranda ordered, pointing to the third guard's fallen assault rifle. She emptied a few pistol rounds into his head before making a beeline for the front doors. She had to hurry. There was no time to be thoughtful or calculating or unemotional. There was only time to end this, now.

"Jesus, Princess," Zaeed cursed, grabbing the weapon. He followed Miranda out of the front doors to the terrace where a pair of abandoned hover limousines idled. "What are we-"

"Follow me," she shouted, ignoring his question and peering down at the grounds in front of Hock's estate. Below her, she could see a small platoon of guards scrambling up the hill from the security barracks, drawn by the pounding alarms and gunfire. Guests ran the other direction, scattering to waiting cars or taking cover behind decorative shrubs. Miranda scanned desperately for her father, praying he'd run into someone he hadn't told about his Starhook system yet. Praying he hadn't left the premises yet.

There was a man in a black suit. Too tall. There was another. Too fat.

Then she saw him. Still wet, his suit stained with the spilled drinks, his lavish cane glinting in the setting sun. He scrambled for a hovercar at the far end of the grounds, rushing to escape as fast as his stiff leg could take him. Rushing off for safety, rushing off to go kidnap her sister.

Like hell.

Fury radiated from her thoughts as Miranda bolted after him, pistol drawn and firing.

Eclipse guards returned fire but she ignored it, sprinting down the hill with mad purpose. She was a blur, almost Olympian as she vaulted the hood of one of the abandoned limos, rolled, and kept going.

Far below her, her father was getting away. He'd tossed aside his cane and now he half-stumbled, frantic, afraid, as if he knew what was coming. Just a few meters left.

Gunfire rained in all directions.

Her father reached the hovercar door and dove inside.

She squeezed the trigger, saw the car jolt with the impact. She'd missed. The door slammed. She kept firing, saw the car's rear viewscreen shatter, saw bulletholes appear in its door panels. She squeezed the trigger again and again, even as the car lifted off and veered away, desperate to escape.

Time seemed to slow as she finally stopped running in the middle of a decorative garden. She breathed, focusing herself, drawing on thousands of hours of marksman training back on Earth. Drawing on gene mods that improved her spatial recognition, her depth perception, her fine muscle coordination. She fired and fired and fired until the hovercar was a speck in the distance

"Get" boom "back" boom "here" boom "you" boom "BASTARD!" she shouted.

Then suddenly she felt herself thrown to the ground, tackled behind cover and crushed under a man's weight.

"Are you," Zaeed panted above her, "Goddamn. Insane!?" He was out of breath, having sprinted the distance behind her.

"Get off!" she demanded. The car!

"You're unshielded you crazy bitch!" he snarled, rolling off of her. "Get your head back in the goddamn game!"

Miranda rose to a crouch and peered around the edge of the stairwell wall Zaeed had tossed her behind. The hovercar was gone, her father with it.

Her heart felt like it was going to explode. Oriana...

Gunfire erupted all around them. A half dozen Eclipse guards had taken positions down the hill and sent suppressing fire screaming up at the terrace. Projectiles pinged off of the limos, shattered Hock's windows, sent tiny puffs of vaporized concrete flying. It was only by sheer luck she had avoided being hit already.

Even so, it was only reluctantly that the calculating part of her resurfaced and reminded her that Zaeed was right. She was going to get herself killed.

"I apologize," she said, and she meant it. She did Oriana no good by dying. She cradled her stolen gun as rational thought returned to her. She would have other chances. She could still save Oriana. She just had to survive.

"Great goddamn job," Zaeed was bickering, peering out around from the other end of the stairwell and ducking back from the blistering hail of gunfire that responded. "This is a goddamn fantastic position you've put us in."

Miranda ignored him. Her mind was working again. She remembered the estate's schematics – at least those she could find on the extranet – with perfect clarity. Hock had spared no expense defending his art collections – aside from more than thirty mercenary guards to defend just three entrances, the estate was rigged with heuristic spectrophotometric scanner suites, a pair of state-of-the-art security VI's connected directly to Rothschild's extensive police network, and biometrics that made the ones on the Citadel look like toys. Hopefully Goto had dealt with the external alarms, or they would be swamped with police in a matter of minutes. "I saw three Eclipse positions, Mr. Massani," she said. "Correct?"

Zaeed nodded, eyes narrowed, his own gun clenched in his hands. "Eleven, twelve, and two o'clock," he agreed. "Two o'clock mighta had an asari."

Miranda closed her eyes, envisioning the battlefield. "I saw a service entrance on the north face of the building that will lead to the lower levels," she said. "I propose we eliminate the eleven o'clock group and then make a run for the patio." She gestured to a position up by Hock's house with a nice, long, chest-high wall that would make excellent cover. "From there we can engage the other two groups and keep them away from the service door and away from Shepard. Is that acceptable?" That was their best chance at survival, and once Shepard and Kasumi rejoined them they would have no difficulty eliminating the Eclipse force down to the last man.

Zaeed nodded his understanding. "No more theatrics," he ordered.

"Agreed," Miranda said, and they got to work. Zaeed was right - their position was too far forward, too undefended compared to the Eclipse firing points - but it didn't matter. Human perfection and the galaxy's greatest mercenary were not foes to be trifled with, and they made efficient work out of the guards. No more theatrics. Just thoughtful, calculating, unemotional strategy.

But all the same, every man Miranda shot just looked like her father to her.

---

13 years previously…

–

The day had come.

Miranda waited by the magtrain tracks where she'd promised to meet Niket, nervously gripping the straps of her backpack. She'd packed it the night before in the cover of darkness – some fraction of her enormous wardrobe, some money, a few replacement omni-tool parts, some other things she couldn't even remember. Enough to fill the bag until it was ready to burst. Enough to live on, she hoped - she'd never been away from the luxuries of home and it was hard to guess what she needed.

The excitement of the moment and memories of when she'd packed a very similar bag for Birte filled her head.

The day had finally come. Twelve days ago Oriana had been decanted at a secure facility and transported to Lawson manor with her wet nurse. Healthy and screaming, two ounces heavier than Miranda had been. No abnormalities. New perfection.

And so it was time for old perfection to leave. She was not going to sit around and wait for her father to marry her off.

It was funny, really. It wasn't long ago that she had been ready to be what her father wanted her to be. She had tried – sincerely tried – to prevent Oriana's birth, but only because of the threat she posed to her claim on Jordennliv. In time she would have even accepted an arranged marriage – she'd marry some manipulatable fool and absorb his company, hopefully something in North America that would give her a power base on the other side of the ocean. And she'd have done it all proudly. That was what she was made for, trained for. That was who she was.

The thought of running away from all that had never even occurred.

But now Miranda wondered why it had taken her so long to see the light. Her father was squandering her, squandering the years of work it had taken to design her, squandering the fortune he'd spent on tutors and experts from around the world; a violin teacher, an Olympian fencer, her rangemaster, her linguistics tutor. Squandering the untold millions she could make him.

And he was going to toss her away like refuse. He had forged perfection and then given up on it.

Harper would not make the same mistake.

Miranda turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. Niket showed up, breathless from the run up from the village. She waved.

"We need to keep this short, Niket," she said as he huffed and puffed his way up to her, his own overtaxed backpack full of possessions. "Your flight leaves in an hour."

"I know," he said, panting. "I just wanted," he swallowed, "I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye, Niket," Miranda said, not without warmth.

He looked at her, and for a moment it was quiet. "You're really doing it, then?"

"Waiting on you, Niket," she said, and smiled to put him at ease.

He reached to pull his backpack off. It hit the gravel with a thud. "And you're sure," he said, picking through one of the back pockets, "that you can't tell me where you're going. Be a pen pal, or something?" He wouldn't look at her.

"It's for your safety," she reminded him. "Yours and your family's. My father will try to get me back. If he finds out you helped me, even suspects…" she trailed off. "You could be in danger. That's why you need to go now." She'd arranged for Niket's father to get a generous job offer from one of her father's competitors in North America, one too tempting to resist. It had worked, and the Bhatnagar had begun moving preparations immediately. Today they were flying out of Frankfurt.

Flying far, far away. To safety.

Niket smiled sadly as he found the object he was looking for, a faded piece of paper. He knew enough not to argue with Miranda when she was right (which was just shy of always). "I'm just… I'm going to miss you," he admitted.

"You'll make new friends. Better friends than me."

"Better than you?" he asked, a brow raised.

"Better friends," she repeated, grinning despite herself. "Obviously not better people than me."

That laughed as Niket closed the distance between them and they hugged, listening to the crinkle of their jackets in the cold air. The stayed that way for a long time, minds awash with thoughts. "I'll miss you too, Niket," Miranda admitted, barely a whisper.

Then they were done, and they stood looking at each other across the train track. Just like that, their friendship was over.

Neither one of them wanted to be the first one to step away.

It was only after a minute had passed and neither had moved that Niket held out the paper, and Miranda took it. On it was scrawled a pair of names and a UNAS address in Niket's chickenscratch handwriting. Miranda looked at him expectantly.

"I know you said you had a place," he said, looking sheepish, "but if… if you don't… That address is for a couple that would take you. A distant relation. They'd love to take you."

Miranda sighed. "Niket… this would connect me to you." She moved to hand the paper back.

"No, no," Niket insisted. "Haven't spoken to them in years. No connection to my family, not really. Distant relations. Just…" He scratched at the back of his neck. "Just in case. Please. Please take it."

Miranda looked at it again. The paper fluttered in the breeze, bizarre in its archaicness. Not a datapad or a holo screen or even a communicator panel. A piece of paper. Useless. Outdated. Obsolete.

Imperfect.

She smiled and put it in her pocket.

–

They left at the same time, heading in opposite directions. Niket went back up the track towards the village and the manor to rejoin his family, and Miranda cinched her backpack straps a little tighter and turned towards the great unknown. She listened to Niket's crunching steps recede into quiet.

And then as soon as he was out of earshot she tossed the backpack in the ditch and turned around, fiery determination in each step.

Back to the house.

Her guns felt heavy in their holsters.

She had one loose end left.

---

Presently…

–

Miranda could not precisely remember joining Cerberus at all, and it was a rare detail that she ever forgot. She remembered in perfect clarity the first time she'd put on the uniform, a white-and-black jumpsuit she'd rarely taken off for years afterwards. She remembered the first time she'd seen the logo, stamped on a man's armored chest as he waited for her, leaned up against a shuttle atop a cold hill. She remembered her first assignment as Sayleigh Walker. She remembered every word of that first conversation with The Illusive Man on Cronos, the day he'd explained to her why she could never call him Mr. Harper again.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember the critical moment when she'd decided to be not just a free woman but a Cerberus woman.

But a Cerberus woman she'd been, all the same. She'd skyrocketed up the ranks. She had been assigned wet work for Anubis Cell by the time she was sixteen. By eighteen she was head of deep field logistics. By nineteen she was working side by side with the Illusive Man himself. At twenty-three she'd been tasked with bringing a man back to life. She was the shining star of the whole organization, second in command only to the Illusive Man, and he'd treated her very well.

Now she was betraying his orders. She was abandoning her post.

But she had no choice. The request for help she'd sent to Cerberus' network had produced no answer.

And Shepard had.

"It's four skyrises," Jacob was explaining, pointing at the holoprojector. "All called Naysyara Tower. Best I can tell, there's easy access from three sides." He traced the routes, causing colorful icons to bloom at his fingertips. "Major skylanes, big enough to fly a gunship on without attracting attention."

"So it's wide open," Shepard said, a determined grimace buried in one hand. His eyes flickered across the projected map. "They could land troops on any of the skypads. Or all of them. Hold the whole complex at once and keep it that way until they have Oriana offworld." He pointed and the image swirled in confusion for a few seconds before realigning to face him. Shepard frowned.

"This would be easier in the CIC," Jacob offered yet again as he dragged the image back to its proper orientation. The holoprojector in Shepard's quarters had never been designed for multiple users at once.

"It's fine," Shepard insisted, folding his hands behind his back to keep from disturbing the map again. "We'll do it here. Keep going," he said, nodding towards one of the towers. "What kind of roof access?"

Jacob hesitated, catching Miranda's eye for the briefest second. It wasn't hard to guess why they had crammed into Shepard's cabin instead of plotting their mission in the usual place. Miranda's brief trip through the ship had already turned more than a few heads. The rumors would be flying already.

Miranda just shook her head. It didn't matter to her what the gaggling fools that crewed the ship thought. Besides, no head had turned so sharply as Garrus'. He had not torn his gaze away from Miranda since she'd come aboard, just leaned against Shepard's empty fish tank with an obvious look of mistrust on his plated face.

"It... uhh... It's not all bad news," Jacob continued. "There's probably no roof access." He pointed to the ornate, spire-like roofs of the structures. "These overhangs are only a meter or two deep, for VIP skycars. Eclipse mostly runs A-61's. No place to land at all. Unless they're packing one of the older A-50's they'll have to land down here," he pointed to the plaza nestled between the four towers, "and take a service elevator up."

"So if we surveill all four elevators and keep an eye on the plaza…"

"Exactly," Jacob said.

Shepard rubbed at his chin a moment more before nodding, satisfied. He turned. "I'll call Liara to see if she can get us eyes on the towers."

"Shepard," Garrus said, the first he'd said in many minutes. "Wait." Shepard stopped. Garrus gestured towards Miranda. "Is she back on the ship?"

Shepard's face fell a little. As much as Garrus had glared, Shepard had not so much as met Miranda's eyes since they'd spoken on the Kodiak ride back, since he'd agreed to help her. He followed Garrus' gesture to stare at her now, and hardly held it a second before turning away, face guilty. "Now is not the time," he evaded, turning back to his communicator console. He tapped the keys, calling up a link to Dr. T'soni's office.

"Back off, Garrus," Jacob warned, eyes narrowed in anger. He took a threatening step towards the turian.

Garrus ignored him. "Now is the time, Shepard," he insisted, voice quiet. He continued to look at Miranda with his beady little eyes. Miranda simply stared back. "Are we letting our guard down because her sister is moving?"

"She's being abducted," Jacob corrected.

Garrus shook his head. "I don't like it," he admitted. If anything, Miranda's silence seemed to be unnerving him more than if she was defending herself. "I want a straight answer."

"I just want my sister," Miranda said. Somehow, all of the anxiety she'd felt about the Normandy over the past weeks seemed to evaporate. For the first time, she honestly, truly didn't care about Shepard, about the Collectors. About any of it. But she needed help, and Jacob and Shepard were the closest things she had to friends anymore. "I want her safe. That's all I care about."

Garrus' mandibles flickered in irritation. He had a younger sister - Miranda remembered her from the dossier - but he was stony-faced at her words.

Shepard, on the other hand, nodded, convinced. "You don't have to go," he said, staring at his turian friend. "I'm leaving you here. It will just be Jacob and Miranda and I. Just a few hours." At Garrus' silence, Shepard's shoulders fell. "We'll talk about it, Garrus," he promised. "You asked me to trust you when you took her off. Now I'm asking you to trust me."

"Now that you are letting her back on," Garrus finished, disapproval plain on his alien face.

Shepard didn't answer, instead busying himself with the communicator. He did not meet his turian friend's eyes.

It didn't matter, because Garrus kept staring at Miranda.

–

Jacob had ostensibly been assigned to escort Miranda around the ship for the crew's safety, but the way he was acting it was obvious who he was really protecting. All the same, people stared as the two of them made their way down to the crew deck, ignoring the way Jacob glared at them to get back to work.

Miranda paid the gawkers no mind. Her thoughts remained on her sister. Every other thought felt numb and unmoving. Even as she scanned the Normandy, noting the tiniest details of the repair jobs, of the crew dress code, of Samara's serene expression as she passed by, her mind refused to process any of them. Like she was in a dream.

"We'll get you a new gun," Jacob was saying, gesturing to the pistol she'd lifted off of the Eclipse guard on Bekenstein that didn't quite fit into her holster and swung bulkily with each step. "Don't have the mats to make a perfect replacement straightaway, but we can get you an older model Laumannfor the time being and I'll make the requests for top of the line licenses."

"That's fine," Miranda said. It would do the job.

Jacob stared at her for a moment, concern on his face, but did not bring it up. "Your... your omni-tool is gone too, I'm afraid. The quarian got to it before I could and had it taken apart by the time I found her." He looked at his feet. "All the data's gone, Miranda. I'm sorry."

Miranda said nothing, turning to head towards her quarters until Jacob's hand on her back stopped her. She turned to look at him.

"Not going to want to go in there either, Miri," he said. He looked ashamed. "Mordin's taken it over. I... don't think anyone thought you'd be back."

Miranda stared at the door to her former quarters. The thought of lab equipment disrupting her previously-pristine organization made her want to spit, but there was nothing for it. "We'll see if I am," she said, sighing.

"Of course you are," Jacob insisted, leading her back the other direction to the shared crew quarters. "Shepard never told Garrus to do what he did, you know. He was asleep at the time. Garrus acted all on his own." Two crewmembers working at the consoles looked up when they entered, twin looks of astonishment on their faces before they scampered out like they were on fire. Jacob cast an angry glare after them until the door cut it off with a shick.

Jacob and Miranda were alone.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the neatly-made bunks.

"You can have mine," Jacob said, reaching up to drag the blankets off of one of them. "I've been sleeping in the armory or the inducers lately anyway," he lied. "I know it's not like you're used to, but it's comfortable enough. Just try to sleep second shift if you can - Donnelly is on third and he snores." He faked a grin.

Miranda didn't return it.

"Also," Jacob said, reaching into a pocket, "I did manage to nab your amp before they got to it. Almost had to fight Jack for it." He tossed the amp to her.

Miranda stared at her old amp. It was mostly clean and undamaged but for a few reddish smears along the crevasses of the hookup panel where her blood had stained it. She lifted her hair and hooked the amp back into place behind her neck. It settled with a content click and hummed to life, filling her head with a familiar buzz that felt just as unreal as the rest of the Normandy. Miranda regarded Jacob with a weak smile. "Thank you, Jacob," she said.

"Miri... We'll save her. You know that."

"Yes," she agreed.

"You're alright?"

Miranda stared at him. Of course she wasn't alright, and he knew it very well. He hadn't coddled her in years, not since she'd beaten the habit out of him in their second mission together. Now he was practically hovering with worry.

"I'm fine," she said, brushing thoughts of Oriana, of her father from her head.

Jacob's eyes narrowed. Miranda had never been a fantastic liar, but against him she was positively hopeless.

She was about to repeat herself when Jacob hugged her in a crushing embrace, and for once in her life she hugged back.

–

Her room was a mess. As soon as Jacob had headed off to get her a new gun, she'd left the crew quarters behind to take a look at the damages. She'd been unable to resist.

Now she wished she had taken him more seriously.

Her room was almost unrecognizable. She'd expected to see it trashed, ruined in the wake of her fight with Garrus. Maybe even still covered in cohexisol. Some testament to what had transpired there.

But it was gone. Her bed, her desk, her console, her closets, every single item had been removed. In their place were dozens upon dozens of scientific instruments and incubators that hummed quietly about their work. The walls had been made immaculate and shone white, unblemished with bloodstain or scratch. The only closet compartment still present - where she'd kept her extra softsuits - was full of electronic equipment and beakers.

There was not a hint at all that someone had ever lived there.

Miranda's eyes were wide as she paced the room, staring at each offense in turn. She could name most of the lab machines well enough from her time with Lazarus Cell, but the thousands upon thousands of samples in each incubator were beyond her comprehension, labelled in tiny scratches of Goroti salarian shorthand that Miranda suspected even EDI could not translate. Even with the loss of most of his lab equipment in the collector attack, Mordin had made good progress on his attempts to study collector tissue, and many of the plates - previously dead - were bespeckled in brown-black growths that ringed the electric fields the salarian had set beneath them like biological halos.

The room stank like life and chemicals.

Everything was gone. Even if Shepard did let her stay - and a sneaking voice inside her tried not to cackle at the knowledge that he would - it would take weeks to set it back the way it was. And that was assuming Mordin didn't tranquilize her first.

Whether she was back or not, she wasn't XO anymore. They had thrown her out and given her room to collector cell cultures without a second thought.

Miranda didn't know why that thought upset her so much.

The door slid behind her and she turned, expecting to see Jacob with the same nervous smile on his face.

But Garrus was not Jacob, and Garrus was not smiling.

Miranda met his eyes, and for a long moment the two of them stood in silence in the very room where he'd gassed her.

"Nineteen hundred meters," Garrus said finally.

Miranda stared at him.

"When I did my initials for Spectre training in Cipritine, that was my final rating. Given twenty-five seconds to aim, I could hit a target nineteen hundred meters away with ninety-eight percent accuracy." He stared at the sniper rifle in his hand. "It's been mostly close quarters since then. Haven't kept it polished. But I could still do fifteen hundred easy."

"So?"

Garrus stared at her, predator eyes gleaming. "There are eight buildings less than fifteen hundred meters from the the Naysyara Towers. Eight vantage points from which I could kill you if I wanted. It would be easy."

Miranda did not blink. She'd heard tale of better turian snipers, and Garrus would not intimidate her now. Her mind was dominated instead by images of her father hobbling for his life, of her bullets glancing off of his hovercar, a mere four hundred meters away. Garrus would have made such a shot with ease. But that was very different. "There are only three meters between us now," she pointed out, toeing the floor tiles. "Should be even easier."

Garrus stared daggers at her. He was still.

"No?" Miranda asked, smiling sweetly at him. "Why not? Out of grenades?" She took a few steps towards the steely turian, watching his eyes follow her path in silence. "Don't favor your chances in a rematch?" she asked. Some part of her mind leapt at the idea. Garrus had caught her by surprise before, had had to use gas. A fair fight would be decidedly less fair, no matter how much he outweighed her.

Garrus seemed to realize this too, and said nothing.

"That's what I thought," Miranda said, reaching up to pat the scarred side of the alien's face.

She turned back to the room. "I was impressed, Garrus," she said, trailing her hand down the door of another incubator. "Really, I was. You managed to do something unexpected for once in your life, and you beat me. You could have been rid of me forever."

She stared at another plate. "But you left me alive," she said. "You almost made your own decision. Almost got out of someone's shadow." She stared at him. "But you let what Shepard would think interfere, and it cost you your one chance. You won't get another one."

Garrus was silent.

"So I have a proposition for you, Mr. Vakarian." She stared viciously at him, daring him to speak. "Attack me again, whenever you like, and see if you catch me unawares. See what happens to you this time." She held out her arms. "Or," she said, "We can work together. You can follow orders like you're supposed to. You can accept that this is a Cerberus ship as much as it is Shepard's, and stop sabotaging the mission with your petty mistrust."

Some part of Miranda wanted to blackmail the turian into something more. He could follow them to Illium, set up one of his oh-so-special vantage points, and keep an eye out for her father. Her father was generally too much of a micromanager, too self-important, too stupid to sit back on Earth where it was safe and let Eclipse do the job for him, and there was a very good chance he'd come to Illium to oversee Oriana's capture. He wouldn't be on the front lines, but he'd be near. And if he was, Garrus could kill him. He wouldn't escape a proper sniper, no matter how fast he hobbled.

But as much as she pretended to be able to predict Garrus, she knew she shouldn't push it. It would be all too easy for the turian to put a bullet in her head instead, and Shepard might never know the difference.

She had to take the high road.

"If you do," she said, "I am willing to consider your massive lapse in judgment a temporary massive lapse in judgment and let bygones be bygones. It's a small price to pay for my forgiveness."

Garrus' mandibles flickered. He was thinking.

She let the silence drip for a few seconds.

"And if you don't," Miranda added finally, smiling, "I will kill you, like you should have done to me. I have no reason to chain you up where your little girlfriend can find you."

Then, with a swish of her hair, she headed for the door, confident her point was made. Garrus would do what she said. He understood that he'd lost, that Shepard would not send Miranda away again. He understood vengeance. And he understood that she would not let him catch her unawares again.

"Nineteen hundred meters," Garrus called after her.

Miranda ignored him.

---

13 years previously…

–

"Fifteen million credits… And I will take over your education, at my expense."

Miranda's gun had never felt so heavy. Her hands shook.

At the other end of the barrel, Oriana cooed obliviously. She was alert for two weeks old, eyes darting about her pen at the diagrams and drawings painted thereon, at six different alphabets, at drawings of all of the major sentient races, a map of the galaxy. Things that before long she would be compelled to memorize, to repeat each morning, to be slave to for the rest of her life.

"Once I deem your education complete, you will have an additional million credits per year until you choose to leave my employ."

Miranda swallowed heavily and adjusted her grip. She had to do it. In the preceding months she had tried – earnestly, desperately – to take Niket's advice and not see her gestating sister as a threat. They were twins, identical within point eight percent. Made by the same techniques. Made from the same blueprints. Identical within point eight percent. They were effectively equals.

But Miranda would always be just ninety-nine point two percent equal of Oriana, not the other way around. Oriana was updated. Genetically superior. Where Miranda was once perfection, the slow crawl of technology had taken that title from her and gifted it to her sister.

As long as Oriana was alive, she was nothing. She had not been able to stop Oriana from being born, but she could stop Oriana from growing up.

"But more importantly, you will have resources. Other people that see the way you do. You will have drive. Power. Purpose."

She knew there would be no going back from it. Her old life was was going to be Cerberus now.

She would not go on any missions straightaway, of course. Harper had said he wanted to finish her education. Finish honing her where her father had discarded her. Fifteen million credits, he'd said, but Miranda didn't care about the money anymore. Money was simple. Material. Any dynasty built on money, however great, would eventually die.

"In exchange, all I ask is that you give me your best, at all times, in everything I ask."

Harper was offering her a chance to be part of a real dynasty. A permanent dynasty. A dynasty for her and everyone like her. A dynasty for perfection.

He had been playing his game a long time. And now he wanted a partner. He wanted her to help him win it for the humans.

"I expect for you to master every subject and discipline I set before you."

She would need to be perfect. Without reservation. Without hesitation, even in the face of the darkest tasks.

She leveled the gun at her sister once more, grimacing.

But then Oriana reached up to touch Miranda's pistol, unaware of the danger. Her fingers wrapped around the barrel. And then she looked at Miranda, and for the first time the sisters locked eyes.

Miranda lowered her gun, unable to look away from her twin. She found herself remembering the paper Niket had given her.

"I expect for you to become part of an ideal."

She had no reason to do it. She had no real connection to Oriana. No real feelings for the child. They weren't sisters - not really. Oriana's existence invalidated everything Miranda was, everything Miranda ever would be.

And yet it had taken her thirteen years to realize what a grave injustice her father had committed against her. Somehow leaving Oriana to the same fate seemed unacceptable.

She didn't know why, but the decision came to her in an instant, and she pulled out her communicator. She dialed in the number Harper had given her. Someone on the other end picked up immediately, silently.

"Tell him my price went up," she said, more confident than she'd ever been about anything. "If he wants my help, he has to do something first."

"I expect you to strive for perfection for yourself, and for all of humanity."

---

Presently…

–

He'd been silent to her calls for weeks, and yet somehow Miranda knew the Illusive Man would be waiting for her now. Oriana had been saved, and Niket had been killed, and yet there was only one thing on her mind. As soon as she'd stepped back aboard the Normandy she'd set to rearranging the former conference room, pushing Mordin's samples aside until there was enough room to use the QEC.

The Illusive Man's image and flickered as she stepped onto the platform. He was sitting in his usual chair, his usual cigarette perched in his hand, his usual unreadable expression on his face.

Miranda wasted no time. "You did it," she accused. Her head was awash with an angry storm of thoughts.

The Illusive Man took a decadent draw from his cigarette, glittering eyes staring through her. He exhaled slowly. "I did," he admitted.

Miranda hadn't wanted to believe it, but by the time they'd left the towers, Enyala and Niket and a half dozen Eclipse mercs dead behind them, her head had been fixed on betrayal. It hadn't been hard to make the last elusive jump to the truth.

And once she'd made it, it was inescapable. It made sense of all the data.

Miranda shook her head. "Why?" she asked, and her voice sounded very small, even to her.

"It was a necessary evil," the Illusive Man said, utterly unruffled. "I tasked you with securing Shepard's trust and you could not. I had to pursue alternative options."

"Alternatives like Oriana?" Miranda demanded. "You are not taking her."

The Illusive Man's face didn't move, but all the same Miranda saw the flicker of surprise there. "After so long, is that still what you fear?" he asked, and his voice had a strange pity in it that she had never heard before. "I don't want her," he said. "Nor do I want her in Henry Lawson's hands to be ruined." He stared at her. "I wanted you on the Normandy. Back in Shepard's trust."

Miranda looked at her feet. So it had all been about Shepard. All a game to make her vulnerable before Shepard, make her need his help, make him unable to send her away. That was why the Illusive Man hadn't retaliated against her expulsion from the ship. Why he hadn't contacted her, why he'd thrown her into a thankless assignment, beneath her talents but in Shepard's path.

Garrus had been right - it was all a trick, a game. All for Shepard's benefit.

And Orianahad been a pawn.

And she had been a pawn.

Miranda had never felt so violated. And she'd never felt so stupid. "I fell for it. You..." She stared at him as if she was only now seeing him, her tongue frozen. "I did exactly what you wanted." She'd always believed she was special, somehow above the petty concerns that made the galaxy so easy to manipulate. She'd always been on the Illusive Man's side - the players, not the pieces. But now that she'd tasted the other team, he had played her as easily as he played anyone else.

The Illusive Man actually smiled. "The trick to this game we play has never been knowing exactly what someone will do. It is planning for all eventualities at once. If you had not run into Shepard and your father on Bekenstein, I would have arranged it some other way." He took another draw from his cigarette. "But yes, in this case, I did know exactly what you would do." He looked pleased with himself.

Miranda stared at her feet, feeling very much a child again.

"You're a magnificent creature, Miranda," he continued. "You've never fully believed it, but you are better than your sister will ever be. Better than Shepard will ever be." He paused. "Better than I will ever be." The compliment felt empty. "But your perfection comes with a cost. There's only ever one perfect response to any situation. You only ever act one way."

Miranda stared at him.

"Sometimes," he said, "it takes imperfection to get the job done."

"You put Oriana in danger for this," she said, and her fists clenched in rage. "Niket is..." she swallowed heavily. "Niket is dead for this."

"And my plan worked. Oriana is safe. You are back on the Normandy. Shepard will not doubt you again, not now that he's seen you like this."

Miranda stared at him.

"Make me proud," he said. "Like you always do." He terminated the call.

–

You only ever act one way.

Miranda snarled as she palmed the button that would take her back up to Shepard's quarters.

–

---

Codex Entry: Transcript of the audio log of Dr. Mordin Solus, Normandy SR2 science lab, 04-08-2186

Mordin Solus: Plate samples, nutrient mix 210.2 plus BC additive, group three plates show growth. Sixteen replicates, average of sixty-three point four colony forming units represents thirteen percent capture efficiency. Hmm... Improving.

*audible beep*

EDI: Statistical analyses are updated, Dr. Solus.

Mordin Solus: Good. Promising results. Will expand experiment, BC variants against ergoline/hydrocarbon mix additives in 210 nutrient mix variants, all primary and secondary cell morphologies.

EDI: Your proposed experiment would require one hundred fourteen thousand plates and a combined storage and incubation volume of approximately three point six cubic meters.

Mordin Solus: Acceptable. New laboratory space in former XO quarters suitable.

EDI: It will take fifty-seven minutes to equilibrate to standard growth conditions array.

Mordin Solus: Noted. In meantime will revisit secondary project, Horizon N103, Solus, experiment four one eight.

EDI: Ongoing engineering project Horizon N103, Experiment 418 resumed at 8:42:18 Earth standard time. Last modified on 04-02-2186 at 18:48:42 Earth standard time in shared crew quarters. Resuming audio log record as per standing Cerberus orders.

Mordin Solus: (sighs) Log recordings still requested?

EDI: Yes, Dr. Solus. Operative Lawson's absence defers maintenance of all previous orders to Operative Taylor. Logging operations shall continue unless Operative Taylor or outside Cerberus personnel indicate otherwise.

Mordin Solus: Suspect Mr. Taylor uninterested in laboratory audio logs.

EDI: Operative Lawson may yet return.

Mordin Solus: Unlikely. Foolish to operate under that assumption.

EDI: Then I must inquire as to why you've kept the doctored wedding photo.

Mordin Solus: Hmm… Fair point.

*sounds of machine initializing*

Very well. Begin log. And summon primary test subject.

EDI: Recording begins at 8:43:50 Earth standard time. The primary test subject will be with you shortly.

Mordin Solus: Excellent.

(clears throat)

Project Horizon N103, continuing development of seeker swarm countermeasure. Sensory scramblers performed to expectations on Horizon but subsequent experiments on live specimens of species 01-a have suggested scramblers would be insufficient against high swarm densities. Necessitates development of secondary countermeasures against accidental collision stings or in case of scrambler failure.

Experiment 418 involves conceptual validation of EL-series 'biotic vaccine' concept developed in experiment 398 in live subject. Can resistance to swarmer paralysis be induced in human subjects? Believe possible. Research on toxin extracts from dissected swarmer specimens suggest nervous interference-based mechanism. Element-zero based toxin injected into bloodstream, rapidly interacts with motor neurons, producing residual mass effect fields upon nerve signal conduction. Similar to mechanism of natural biotics, excepting tight binding of toxin-element zero adducts to nerve tissue. Nerve impulse mass effect fields are focused upon nerves themselves – similar to shearing 'warp' field – resulting in painful localized tissue damage. Nerves reflexively self-paralyze. Unknown why toxin does not affect critical nerves in brain, or sympathetic nervous system. Presumably binding action of toxin-element zero adducts highly specific. Suggests toxin ineffective against non-humans. Experiments pending.

*knocking sound*

Mordin Solus: Enter

Kenneth Donnelly: Hello? EDI said I was needed

EDI: Mr. Donnelly is suffering from an unspecified illness, Dr. Solus. I suggested you might wish to evaluate his condition.

Mordin Solus: Excellent. Yes, come in. Please.

Kenneth Donnelly: Thanks, Doc. I could use the help.

Mordin Solus: Ill, you said. Describe symptoms.

Kenneth Donnelly: Umm… okay. Exhaustion. My head has been killing me for days. Hardly feel like I can move.

Mordin Solus: Fascinating. Go on.

Kenneth Donnelly: I'm… like… It's like I just woke up. I'm groggy, you know.

Mordin Solus: Fatigue expected. Common side effect of element-zero exposure. Should be transient.

Kenneth Donnelly: Eezo? No, no. I've been careful. The core wasn't damaged. No leaks recently.

Mordin Solus: Internal exposure, Mr. Donnelly. Most likely direct injection. Please, continue.

Kenneth Donnelly: …Mordin…

Mordin Solus: Test subject slow to respond. Cognitive decay?

Kenneth Donnelly: Wait, test subject? No, no, no, no way Man. I'm not doing that again. Keep those damn bugs away from me.

Mordin Solus: 'Damn bugs' dead. Dissected. Specimen AM-102 embalmed in preservatives. No further specimens of species 01-a acquired. Should be safe from repeat incident. Future tests, free of insect analogs.

Kenneth Donnelly: I don't care. I am sick, Mordin. I've got these damn headaches, and I-

Mordin Solus: Test subject reports headaches. Unexpected.

Kenneth Donnelly: No! Stop it! I'm not a test subject

Mordin Solus: Test subject displaying irritability.

Kenneth Donnelly: Stop writing!

Mordin Solus: (sighs) Test subject displaying selfishness, unwillingness to assist in critical studies for protection of ground team. Very well. Experiment 418 suspended. Without willing human test subjects of sufficiently durable physiology, must discontinue countermeasure research project Horizon N103. Hope electronic countermeasures sufficient for future missions. Would hate to see inconveniently timed paralysis of critical squad member result in mission failure.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Donnelly.

Kenneth Donnelly: W… Mordin, wait. I'll… I'll do it.

Mordin Solus: Excellent. Knew you would agree.

Kenneth Donnelly: Yeah, whatever. Just… just make it quick.

*sound of Mordin Solus rummaging through equipment*

Mordin Solus: Beginning phase two of experiment 418, testing immunity in human subject pre-inoculated with biotic vaccine test inoculant EL-13.

Kenneth Donnelly: Wait… phase two?

Mordin Solus: Biotic vaccine was delivered to Mr. Donnelly at t equals zero on April second, 2186, Earth standard time. Subject was sleeping at time of injection, and has displayed signs of fatigue, cognitive decay, head pain, irritability, and selfishness. Will investigate side effects further.

Kenneth Donnelly: You've been drugging me in my sleep? I've been sick because of you?

Mordin Solus: t equals one hundred thirty four hours. Preparing to inject three milliliters of paralytic toxin, sample 616 from dissected seeker swarm specimen AM-103. Sting will be simulated using pneumatic dart. Delivery mechanism believed to accurately replicate actual sting in delivery volume, concentration, location, and pain response.

*sounds of dart-launcher initializing*

Kenneth Donnelly: Pain response!? Mordin, wait! I've changed my mind.

Mordin Solus: Subject showing signs of unreasonable paranoia. Attempting to flee.

Kenneth Donnelly: It's not unreasonable! You're insane, you're frickin' insane!

Mordin Solus: Upon injection, please attempt to move until you are no longer able in order to assist measurement of paralysis kinetics.

*crashing sound*

Kenneth Donnelly: No, no, Mordin n-ahhh!

*sound of pneumatic hiss as dart fires*

*inaudible*

*more crashing*

*sound of Kenneth Donnelly stumbling to floor, paralyzed*

Mordin Solus: Fascinating. Subject successfully travelled one point four meters before complete paralysis. Evidence for mild immunity at low doses.

Kenneth Donnelly: *inaudible*

Mordin Solus: Congratulations, Mr. Donnelly! Immunity approximately one point eight percent, comparable with projected estimates for low dose biotic vaccination. Experiment 418 successful.

EDI: Dr. Solus. Mr. Donnelly's heart has stopped beating

Mordin Solus: (sigh) Very well. Experiment 418 a qualified success. Some alterations to protocol necessary. Will keep adrenaline cocktails on hand for resuscitations.

*sound of Mordin Solus rummaging through equipment*

Still, results encouraging, yes? Should begin design of follow up experiments. Alter dosage, additives, delivery method, delay period.

EDI: Yes, Dr. Solus. I will begin preparing mixes for experiment 419.

Mordin Solus: Good. Please request Dr. Chakwas perform a physical check-up on Mr. Donnelly when he awakens in a few hours.

EDI: Of course, Dr. Solus. Shall I inform her as to why?

Mordin Solus: Hmm... Not aware of any immediate need for disclosure.

EDI: Of course, Dr. Solus.

–

---

A/N: And, once again, I return. With another chapter-that-could-choke-a-horse. Seriously, this chapter took me like five nights in a row just to edit.

This is a chapter I've wanted to write for a long time. I was wary from the beginning of changing major plot elements of the game, but I thought that there was one that really, really needed it, and that was Miranda's defection from Cerberus at the end of the game (especially given that it happens no matter what choices you make). The idea of Miranda - an intelligent woman who defends the philosophy behind Cerberus the whole game - suddenly abandoning deep-seated beliefs for no reason that I can see other than "SHEPARDS TEH HERO LOL" strikes me as a pretty glaring disservice to the character. I hope you guys can see why I think this chapter mostly fixes that issue.

Should be 6 chapters left. I keep rearranging, though (and agonizing about whether to add a seventh one about Jack), so who knows?

Many thanks, as always, to my betas (in this chapter, Angurrvdel, Vocarin, and hcjung10), my readers, and all the people who take the time to review/PM/email/twitter me. Thanks, guys. Thanks also to Koobismo for the use of his Adam Solheim character.

Chapter 26 was a goddamn good time to write. Chapter 27 should just go.