Beta-read by Saberlin.

-J-

Miranda settled in the cockpit, leaving the door that separated it from the rest of the cabin open.

Jacob settled opposite Shepard.

It took effort for Shepard to force her face blank, to put on a mask of neutrality. She didn't like the confined space. More accurately, now that the crisis was over, she didn't like being caught on a shuttle with a pair of Cerberus operatives…though she had to wonder how dedicated Jacob was. He wasn't cut from the cloth of a fanatic.

Most people would have kept the knowledge that she was caught in a Cerberus net from her until the last possible minute.

"So," Shepard said calmly, "what does Cerberus want with me?"

"Cerberus wants you to answer to a few questions, first," Miranda answered bluntly, as though she knew Shepard made a concentrated effort to keep distaste out of her voice when using the entity's name. "It's necessary to evaluate your…condition.

"All right, what does Cerberus want to know?" Shepard asked, not restraining the snarl.

"Miranda," Jacob prompted quietly.

"Jacob, it's been two years since the attack..."

Shepard stiffened, her face turning pale. She felt herself go pale. Two years?

"...and while we know she's physically able, we can't say we know anything about how mentally able she is. I need some assurance that her memories are intact." Clearly, Miranda felt the personality was largely intact.

"I've been gone two years?" Shepard asked, her lips almost numb.

Jacob sighed. "Two years and twelve days."

"I died out there," Shepard said softly. She meant to say more, but found herself unable. Her eyes stung, her throat suddenly constricted. She had died…and they wouldn't let her stay dead. She hadn't wanted to go, but being dead had advantages: she didn't have to live in doubt, or fear, endure pain or heartbreak…

It was a demoralizing thing…and the demoralization showed in the tears gathering in her eyes. Dead people were beyond the cares of the living…but they couldn't leave her alone.

"Yes," Miranda answered simply. "Suffocated in the vacuum first, then burnt up on reentry. It wasn't pretty when we assessed the full scope of trauma."

To most, Miranda's words would have sounded callous, unfeeling, even cruel—but oddly enough, hearing about the event in such unvarnished terms was good for Shepard. It made her feel less like a walking miracle and more like…a victim of some ghastly accident. A coma patient.

People came back from comas all the time.

In a way, the 'tear off the medical tape' declarations made what could have been gruesome revelations less so. They were hurried and done with, rather than given to her slowly so as to make the blows as soft as possible…and in so doing make the telling far worse.

The blunt delivery of the bad news was, to Shepard, infinitely preferable.

Then again, she knew her feelings didn't come into this situation anyway: no one had shown any regard for how she might feel about 'coming back'. "I see."

"Good." And, forgetting she had authorized Jacob to do so, Miranda began a battery of questions—questions revolving, Shepard thought grimly, around the worst events of her life.

"Miranda," Jacob finally interrupted. He got up and pulled the door separating the cockpit from the cabin partially closed then began feeling about under the seats, his back to Shepard.

Shepard, at first, thought this was his way of giving her a minute to herself without actually leaving her unsupervised.

She was half right. She heaved a heavy sigh, forced herself to categorize the new information as something she could sort out later.

As though this was a cue, Jacob sat beside her with a medkit in one hand. "Let's get that leak fixed, huh?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. That's—"

Shepard touched her middle, found the orange goo still damp and that her midriff still hurt. "No blood, I'm fine…"

Jacob, frowning, reached out, pressed a hand firmly against her stomach and pulled it away quickly. Before Shepard could retaliate, he held up the hand for her to see. Orange goo dotted his glove, evidencing that the material was not from a workspace, but that it was actual seepage—and in response to direct pressure, blood droplets blossomed on her shirt.

Shepard, unthinking, pulled at her shirt, looking down through the neck to find that her midriff was a shattered mess of unhealed flesh, smeared with orange gel and, now, blood. "The hell is that?" she demanded, her voice spiking sharply.

Miranda slid the door open, in response to Shepard's audible distress.

"If it's red it's blood. If it's orange it's synthetic gelatin," Miranda answered as Jacob produced a pack of wet wipes.

Shepard shook her head. "Just the packing—I'm a real mess. Those aren't going to help."

"Among other things, the gel helps prevent your body from rejecting some of the cybernetics and protects some of the more…delicate inner workings." Jacob, somewhat sourly, frowned at Miranda, as though he felt Shepard should be spared the gruesome details.

"Just the pack," Shepard said softly, "please." He reminded her, in that moment, of Alenko. Just a little. Alenko, as team medic, wouldn't have liked one of his patient's injuries discussed so scientifically while they were still…oozing.

"Probably best—the docs will want to patch that themselves." Jacob nodded, fished it out, tore open the cover and held it up so Shepard could remove it herself. "You got that okay?" he asked.

"Fine." Shepard tugged her shirt up with one hand, placed the gauze pad, and nodded to Jacob and his roll of tape, indicating he had her permission to anchor the bandage.

"It to dissolves slowly," Miranda continued, "so the body gets used to having foreign matter—your synthetic additions—in there. It's also why you don't look as out-of-shape as you probably feel."

Shepard nodded: she'd wondered about that. In fact, as she processed the new information, she might not still fit in her old uniform.