Miranda clenched her teeth, slamming the last of the mechs into a wall before brutally crunching the lot of them into a large ball of scrap. She let it drop, approving the dull clunk of dead weight. Running a hand through her hair, she tried to reestablish contact with Shepard, but found the communications lines cut—which meant someone had taken advantage of her preoccupation with the attack.

Well, she smile, the primary communications lines were cut—she still had secondary access to the system and it was time to find out who the little shit was that was ruining her plans, her project, and her peace of mind.

A blip appeared on her trace, originating at a secondary access terminal—a terminal far too close to the subject's most efficient line of travel.

Damn it, but she should have chipped the subject for tracking purposes, even if control mechanisms were off the table! She pounded a fist on the table, rerouted camera access…

She sucked air through her teeth, her eyes narrowing. Wilson stood at a control terminal, working feverishly. She recognized the jerky quality of someone who had memorized what to do as opposed to someone who actually knew what to do.

Someone had coached him; if he'd somehow got the overrides, somehow gained system access he could re-task the mechs…but to orchestrate something as big as crippling this station…well. That was beyond the little pyjak's scope.

Wilson suddenly started, his hand going to his ear as her looked over his shoulder. Clearly in response to some radio contact—Miranda was sure it had to be Jacob, because the subject…Shepard…wouldn't have the frequencies—Wilson quickly changed his position. For a moment he looked at the gun in his hand, then back at the doorway through which he seemed to expect company.

Miranda's hands balled into fists. She was alone, so she did not both trying to dim the flare of biotics—she only flared like this when she was truly in a rage, and only, only when alone. It gave her grim satisfaction to see Wilson shoot himself, but apprehension returned moments before Jacob—followed, mercifully, by Shepard—entered the room.

Jacob was an astute man…but a little too trusting of his allies. He would want to see outsiders infiltrating, not treachery from within. Cerberus usually did the infiltrate and sabotage song and dance. It was very rarely done to them…so lacking familiarity he would fall back on his own experiences and fallacies.

Poor Jacob. He would have to depend on Shepard to keep him alive.

Miranda thumped a fist on the worktop: she should have seen this coming! It was her job to see this sort of thing before it happened!

Shepard did not seem convinced of whatever Wilson said.

Despite her own self-recriminations, Miranda smiled like a venomous spider before it attacked some unlucky fly. Something Wilson said or suggested garnered an immediate 'no' reaction from both Shepard and Jacob.

If Wilson thought she was dead—Miranda glanced at the still-fizzling mechs—he might well try to convince Jacob that Shepard's safety came first…but it would only work if Wilson was very clever. And while he'd been clever enough to avoid detection while not under scrutiny…she couldn't see Wilson as being a very clever liar.

Jacob seemed appeased by whatever Wilson said next, but Miranda knew by instinct that Shepard, already undoubtedly suspicious of her surroundings and situation, did not accept it. It was something in the way she cocked her head as she apparently asked a question.

Miranda shut off the display, locked out the systems until only her own backdoor overrides would work. The station would, eventually, be found—either by accident or a Cerberus scrub team—she did not want all of Lazarus' files lying around.

Files which she quickly streamed to her omnitool, initiating the emergency download routines which would let her move while the precious data of the project prepared itself for transit.

She loved being an administrator.

The administrator…which meant she had a very clear duty, and one that would give her great satisfaction.

She was closer to the shuttles than Shepard or Jacob and, judging by what she'd seen in the security footage, she could probably reach the shuttles at about the same time as they did if she moved fast enough.

Miranda set off, the corona of dark energy solidifying into a barrier. As she walked, temper began to build. There would be no time to interrogate Wilson here. She wasn't about to transport a known traitor on the same vessel as Shepard.

Speaking of treachery, she had to wonder if Shepard's very premature waking really was a result of neural function being fully restored. Could it have been sabotage? Or both? Or had sabotage been the jump start to Shepard's metaphorical engine? She did not like unanswered questions, but her plan was already firm.

Miranda navigated the corridors quickly, finding no survivors and few mechs—they must have begun to filter off, or tried to coalesce around Shepard's position…

…but only until Wilson had to leave off using his terminal. No, it was more likely that the mechs had very basic 'seek and destroy' parameters. They wouldn't be particularly clever or tenacious.

Miranda found herself almost jogging as she got nearer to the shuttle bay. She reached it, found that no one was there, yet. Shepard and Jacob between them could handle whatever mechs blocked the way. OF that, she had no doubt.

Still…

She palmed open the only other door leading to this particular evacuation area.

She found herself face-to-face with Wilson; it was not a pleasant view. She took only a moment to clench her teeth and check to make sure neither Shepard nor Jacob were in the line of fire.

"Miranda?" Wilson's mouth fell open as he took a half step back. "But you were—"

Miranda's lip curled as she freed her pistol and shot him on the spot. "Dead?" she finished archly.