The soft sound of the heart monitor was the first thing Shepard registered as she began to slowly wake up.

At first, she could only stare blankly at the rusted silver ceiling of the hospital room, wondering if she had died in the Citadel with Anderson and this was some sort of futuristic afterlife, a post-mortal fever dream left behind by a dwindling nervous consciousness. She flexed her hands, slowly, testing her body, flinching as a shock of dull pain ran up her arms at the attempted motion, before wetting her dry, cracked lips, blinking a few times, and weakly attempting to lift her head to look around her. The bed she was laying in was soft, almost uncomfortably soft compared to the stiff mattress she had gotten used to on the Normandy, and when she looked down she noticed that her armour was gone, replaced by a thin, white hospital gown. Smoothing the covers down over herself, she watched as her hand coasted over the curve of her baby bump, coming to rest at the bottom, still a bit dazed, as if not quite sure if everything up to that point had been some sort of strange, violent dream or an equally strange and violent reality.

Shifting herself up in bed a bit more, she grunted softly, still in pain, before looking over, only to realize that she was not alone in this eccentric, makeshift hospital room. Miranda sat beside her bed in a rusted chair, likely stolen from some military camp, her elbow leaning on one of the armrests, her hand supporting her tired head, seeming to have fallen asleep in her seat waiting for Shepard to wake up. Shepard frowned, surprised and touched, considering letting her simply rest, before the overstrong smell of medical sav suddenly hit her senses, causing her to sneeze, instantly waking Miranda from her sleep. Miranda sat up straight in her seat, looking over at Shepard with wide, surprised eyes, blinking a few times, before she suddenly seemed to remember where she was and settled down a bit, letting out a soft, relieved sigh. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she told her, speaking quietly. "About time you woke up. People were starting to get worried about you."

Shepard faltered, unsure what to say in response to this. "Who?" she finally asked, shortly, hoping to get a full account of who had survived the final battle. Following this question, she paused, considering asking Miranda just how long she had been out for, before another thought suddenly hit her, causing her eyes to grow wide with concern. "Garrus," she exclaimed, sitting up in bed, the word bursting from her lips in a gush of worry. No sooner had she done so when she flinched at the sudden rush of movement, letting out a shout of pain as her burned, bandaged hand flew instantly to her ribcage, where she could feel an enormous, yellowing bruise under her fingers, pulsing with heat.

Leaning forward in her chair, Miranda shushed Shepard, taking one of her hands and coaxing her back down against her pillows before resting a hand against her thin shoulder, reassuring her quietly. "Garrus is fine," she told her, gently. "Last I heard he was headed back to Palaven to help with the planetary rebuild effort. Some of the local relays were damaged during the final pushes of the Reaper invasion, so he's having to take a bit of a longer route, but… he said to tell you when you woke up that he would advise Primarch Victus towards concentrating a majority of their scientific team's efforts on fixing the damaged relays, so he could come back to see you when you were feeling better." Sitting back in her seat then, she paused, looking suddenly sad as she regarded Shepard. "He wanted to see you before he left, but you weren't out of surgery yet," she added, regretfully. "He talked to one of the doctors, but he had to leave before you got out. But, Shepard…"

Pausing again, she bit down gently on her plush lower lip, a faint frown furrowing her pretty brow as she took a thin breath in. "We didn't tell him you were pregnant," she told her, speaking quieter this time. "The crew, I mean. It seems… ridiculous, now, not to tell him, but… we wanted to wait until you woke up to give him the news. Officially. With all the details. We thought that was what you would have wanted, and… we wanted to respect your wishes."

Shepard hesitated, surprised by this news, before wetting her lips, still a bit stunned, and taking a deep breath in. "What would you have told him if I'd died?" she asked, morbidly curious.

Miranda paused at the question, considering, her lips pursing thoughtfully in a soft line. "We likely wouldn't have told him anything," she finally answered, honestly. "We would have dressed you in military blues in the coffin, and… covered your stomach with flowers, I suppose. But—" Exhaling sharply, she shook her head, holding up her free hand and waving it dismissively. "That doesn't matter, anyway," she amended, quickly. "It's beside the point. The point is, you're alive, and we wanted to wait for you to decide on what to do with Garrus. But, Shepard…" Trailing off again, she faltered, her frown furrowing a bit deeper in concern. "Eighteen weeks," she said, as if she could not quite wrap her head around it. "Eighteen weeks you kept it hidden from him. Shepard, how…?"

Shepard gave a soft, pained laugh at the question, letting out a small, hoarse cough as her cracked lips curved into an almost guilty smile. "You may not have noticed this," she finally answered. "But Garrus isn't the most observant person in the universe. Behind the scope of a rifle, he's the best marksman around, but in social interactions, he tends to be everywhere but in the moment." Coughing again, she raised her bandaged hand to her mouth, pausing as she cleared the dry, caked phlegm from her raspy throat. "He's a great guy," she went on, her voice cracking with effort. "But… easily distracted, you know. Not great at multi-tasking. One-track mind and… all that stuff." Letting out another few dry, husky coughs, these a bit louder than the last, she gripped the thin covers of her hospital bed, her other hand curling tightly around Miranda's, before finally relaxing her grip and letting out a gentle, exhausted sigh, leaning her head back against her pillows and allowing her eyes to flutter half-closed.

"Plus he has no idea it's even possible for me to get pregnant," she added, the words coming out in a sigh of breath. "Not by him, at least. This type of thing isn't supposed to happen, remember? It's all this Reapertech bullshit holding me together, which he doesn't know about, and I'm not about to tell him." Taking a deep breath, she stared at the rusted metal ceiling, blinking a few times as she thought. "He just kind of… didn't think about it, I guess," she finally answered, honestly. "It just… never really occurred to him. I don't know why it would."

"Because—" Miranda started to answer, but quickly cut herself off, biting her lip, turning her blue gaze downward, deeming the conversation not worth fighting over. "It's not important," she determined, holding up a dismissive hand and shaking her head. "What's important is that you're alive and well. Or, more alive than well, I suppose, but… well, you're alive."

Shepard smirked at this fumbling sentiment, wincing as her face gave a sharp twinge of pain at the motion. "That's about the best I can hope for," she answered, honestly. "Alive." Opening her eyes again, she took a slow, deep breath in, staring at the ceiling of the makeshift hospital room as she shifted her hands across her abdomen, folding them together over the outline of her stomach as she let her breath out in a low, low sigh. "Everything hurts," she told Miranda, speaking in barely above a thoughtful murmur, causing Miranda to have to lean in to hear her clearly. "My head… everything." Pausing then, she unfolded her hands, sliding the tips of her bandaged fingers under the pleat of her hospital gown, feeling around for the spot on her ribcage where the Marauder's bullet had clipped her side. It took her a moment to find it, with barely more than a tiny scar remaining of the fateful wound, and she slowly retrieved her hand again, letting it drop back to her side as she looked over towards Miranda, her brow furrowing in concern. "How long was I out for?" she asked, a bit louder this time, though she still had to strain to speak over a hoarse undertone.

"About a week," Miranda answered, truthfully, turning her attention down towards the fraying material of her previously pristine uniform sleeves. "A little more than that. Enough time for us to finish taking care of the rest of the Reapers. Once you activated the Crucible, it was mostly just a matter of cleanup, but…" Taking a deep, thoughtful breath in, Miranda looked up again, pausing as her pretty features twisted in thought, trying to decide how best to explain what had happened after Shepard had blacked out on the Citadel. "It… got nasty towards the end," she finally told her, honestly. "Once the Reapers figured out we'd found their primary weakness, they started pulling out all the stops, playing every dirty trick possible. They kept trying to distract us with bigger and bigger abominations… some of which were…" She stopped, shuddering faintly, her gaze dropping sharply to the floor, uncomfortable with the thought of the subject. Then, taking a deep breath, she looked up at Shepard again, steeling her expression, preparing herself to go on.

"When they realized that wasn't going to work either, they tried to retreat, to try again in another Cycle," Miranda told her, letting out a long, tired exhale. "But we wouldn't let them." Pausing again, she stared at Shepard, before a small, gratified smile began to creep across her plush lips. "You would have been so proud of us," she added, confidently. "We chased the Reapers from London to Manhattan to Sydney to Brasília. One of the toughest fights was in Tokyo, but we fought them there, too, and we won."

"You fought the Reapers in Tokyo?" Shepard asked, her sore face splitting into a puckish grin.

"We did," Miranda answered, returning the gesture with a knowing smile of her own. "One brave turian frigate even chased a fleeing Reaper through the relay into Dark Space. We never did hear from them again, but we can only hope they gave it hell on the other side."

Shepard nodded in understanding, tracing the tip of her tongue along the line of her dry, cracked lips as she thought. "Who got me out of the Citadel?" she finally asked, changing the subject, frowning a bit as the bruise in her side gave another faint twinge.

"A whole team of people went up to retrieve you," Miranda answered her, matter-of-factly. "Myself included. Garrus was the one who actually found you, though. Figures." At this news, Shepard blanched, feeling a tight, sickening twist in her stomach as she thought back to her broken armour and shredded undersuit, but Miranda did not even seem to notice, instead turning her gaze down to the hand still sitting in her lap, frowning a bit and tilting her head to one side as she considered her fraying uniform with interest. "He wouldn't let anyone touch you until we got you to the medical camp," she added, a bit quieter, almost as an afterthought. "And even then he was hesitant to let you go. We only got him to hand you over when we told him you'd die without surgery." Letting out a soft, drained huff of breath, she turned her attention up towards Shepard again, regarding her with pensive, almost curious eyes. "It took us a while to find you, truth be told," she added. "There were… so many bodies up there. But Garrus wouldn't let us rest until we found you. So… we kept looking."

Pausing then, Miranda hesitated, her pretty brow furrowing a bit as if she had not truly considered the sight that had awaited her within the Citadel up to that point. "At first we thought you might have been among them," she added, soldiering onward, though Shepard could tell it was becoming a bit harder for her to talk about. "The rest of the bodies, that is. But it only took a bit of searching to find out you weren't. We did find you eventually, though, along with Anderson, and…" She faltered, trailing off, a faint frown touching her features as her free hand curled anxiously in her lap, the motion just subtle enough that Shepard barely noticed it. "There's a team… working on identifying all the people who died in the Citadel," Miranda went on, thoughtfully, causing Shepard to look up at her again, attentive. "Some of them could be identified from their… from simply… looking at them, I suppose, visual identification but… others…" Wetting her lips, she took a deep, shaky breath in, as if the subject were difficult for her to talk about. "Others required a DNA test," she said, determinedly, pushing herself onward through her discomfort. "It didn't take very long, just a minute or so for each, but with so many people…"

Trailing off again, Miranda's gaze dropped from Shepard's face to the floor, and she took in another long, shaking breath, steeling herself, convincing herself to keep talking for Shepard's sake. "We gave the families a week to claim their loved ones," she finally went on, raising her eyes to Shepard's again. "Those that had families to claim them. The others were all cremated… respectfully. Then we held a non-denominational ceremony to honour them." Biting down gently on her lower lip, she let out a soft huff of breath, reaching up with her free hand to tuck a restless lock of hair behind her ear, trying to think what else there was to add to her story. "I wish you could have seen it, Shepard," she told her, truthfully. "It was… wonderful. Very touching, very… it… it did them proud."

"What about Anderson?" Shepard asked, a bit more fervently this time. "Did anyone get Anderson out?"

"Yes, someone got Anderson," Miranda answered, offering a quick, affirmative nod. "And the Illusive Man. An unknown benefactor put in a request for his body – the Illusive Man's, that is – but we weren't willing to let it go without some sort of reassurance that whoever it was wasn't an enemy of the Alliance. They still donated to the rebuild effort, even so, but…" She frowned, her pensive gaze dropping a bit, sucking in on her plush lips as she passed the pad of her thumb over the back of Shepard's bandaged hand. "We couldn't trace the account," she added, thoughtfully, shaking her head. "It was… very strange."

"And what about Anderson?" Shepard repeated, firmer this time, drawing Miranda's attention back again, causing her to look up in surprise. "Did you get in contact with Kahlee Sanders? Did Anderson receive a proper military burial?"

At this, Miranda hesitated, seeming somewhat taken aback, her pretty brow furrowing in a faint, confused frown. "Why would we bury Anderson?" she finally asked, concerned. "We got in contact with Kahlee Sanders, but it was to tell her to come to Earth once the fighting stopped. Shepard, Anderson isn't dead. The Illusive Man is dead, but Anderson… Anderson is still alive."

Shepard faltered, shocked by this news, her eyes growing wide as she took a deep breath in, shifting to sit a bit straighter in bed, ignoring the sharp pain in her side as she did so. "Anderson is—?!" she started to ask, but did not get a chance to finish before the sound of the containment door opening reached their ears, causing both of them to look over towards the doorway as a bent, green-skinned salarian in a white coat shuffled into the makeshift hospital room. He peered between the two of them as he entered the room, his murky eyes narrowing as he glanced back down towards the datapad in his hand, as if unsure he had gotten the right treatment room.

"Commander Shepard?" the doctor asked, looking up at the two of them again, uncertain. Now that the door behind him was open, Shepard could see that her hospital room looked out on an unidentifiable, worn-torn landscape, with several other crude hospital stations like hers set up along a stretch of barren, rocky street. It was impossible to tell just by looking outside where in the world she was being cared for, but she figured that was an issue for another time. Turning her attention up towards the doctor, she watched as he stood at the foot of her bed, making soft throat-clearing noises as he perused intently through the information on his datapad, as if looking for something in particular amongst the data. "Commander Shepard?" the doctor asked again, slower this time, seeming to have finally arrived at her file.

"That's me," Shepard answered, warily. "I'm Commander Shepard."

The doctor peered up at her at the confirmation, clearing his throat softly again as he dragged the information on the screen of his datapad downward, skimming over the details. "Commander Shepard, I'm afraid I have some good and some bad news," he informed her, letting out a deep sigh as he pulled his datapad to his chest. "The good news is that you're alive, of course. You suffered a concussion, but other than that there was very little major trauma apart from some broken bones, though we've managed to set and heal those with no problem."

"What about Admiral Anderson?" Shepard asked, quickly, causing the doctor to look up at her over his datapad with slight, unmasked annoyance. "How is Anderson doing? Is he okay?"

"Admiral Anderson is on life support," the doctor answered, sighing deeply again. "We aren't certain if he's going to wake up, however. The good news for him is that he's still alive, if barely. The bad news is we're not sure for how long."

"And what was the bad news for Shepard?" Miranda asked, her hand curling anxiously tighter around Shepard's as she held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The salarian doctor sighed yet again, returning his attention to his datapad and nervously clearing his throat. "The bad news for you, Commander Shepard," he told her, his eyes narrowing as he read the information, before turning his attention up towards her again, regarding her directly. "Is… very bad news, I'm afraid. I regret to inform you, Commander, that your foetus, your baby, is… braindead." At this grave news, the doctor frowned, seeming genuinely concerned for the first time since entering her hospital room, drawing his datapad in towards his chest as he took a deep, sympathetic breath in. "I'm sorry, Commander," he told her, speaking quieter now. "The trauma the baby suffered in the blast from the Reaper was… catastrophic. We tried to save it, but there was nothing we could do. Reviving a clinically braindead patient is just beyond the capability of modern medicinal practice."

"Braindead?" Miranda instantly asked, causing the doctor to look her way again, surprised. "You said it's braindead? Cerebral or stem dead?"

For a moment, the doctor simply stared at her, as if this had been the last thing he had been expecting to hear. Then, fumbling with his datapad again, he scrolled back up the blocks of tiny text as he tried to find the matching report. "Cerebral death," he finally answered, looking up at Miranda again, concerned. "I'm not sure how that's relevant, however. The baby's brain has ceased to function. Legally, it's no longer classified as living."

"Legally, but not medically," Miranda pressed, causing the doctor's frown to deepen. "The heart and the lungs, are they still functional? And the body, bodily, is it… is it okay?"

The doctor paused again, taken aback, his almond eyes widening as he blinked a few times, as if unsure he had heard her correctly. "Bodily, it's… fine, I suppose," he finally answered, speaking slowly, still seeming more than a bit concerned by her line of questioning. "Incredibly. Or, as fine as it can be, all things considered." Turning his attention back to Shepard then, he frowned again, his fingers curling tighter around the edge of his datapad. "Commander, we had some concerns about your baby's developmental health," he told her, solemnly, clearing his throat again, gently. "From what we could tell on our ultrasounds, it seems to be…" He hesitated, his sallow face twisting into a look of discomfort as he tried to find the most polite way to tell her the truth. "Severely malformed," he informed her, frankly. "So much so that we could not even determine a gender."

"It's a girl," Shepard told him, the words leaving her mouth without thinking, her voice barely above a dazed murmur as she stared at a spot on the wall somewhere past him. Her face felt numb, her arms and legs like marionette limbs, weightless, wooden, unable to move on their own, the sensation in her extremities gone even as she pulled her hands in towards her, cradling her stomach over the covers, which suddenly felt unsettlingly thin. Her stomach felt alien, hollow, and unnatural, misshapen, like a half-empty fishbowl sitting in her lap, as if it did not even belong to her anymore. Her entire body felt the same way, as if it belonged to someone else and she was simply floating above it all, observing the scene from the outside. Her brain had gone blank with shock, her ears numb, ringing, the sound of a shrill, tinny whistle, impossibly high, quiet, but still loud enough to block out every other thought, every other conversation going on around her.

The doctor frowned at this confirmation, taking in a thin, uncertain sniff of breath as he looked back down towards his datapad again, scanning once more over the medical information. "Commander," he said then, speaking slowly this time, letting out another deep sigh. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but… if you think it might be kinder, considering your baby's severe disfigurement and the fact that it—" Shepard looked up at him sharply at this, her reddened eyes cutting, causing him to stop short, stammering. "I apologize— she," the doctor corrected himself, quickly, clearing his throat. "She is now clinically braindead… if you would like for us to terminate, even now, at five months… we would be happy to do that for you."

Shepard stared at the doctor a moment longer, her breathing ragged as she inhaled through her nose, feeling her entire body trembling under her as a tear skated down her freckled cheek. "Don't you touch my fucking baby," she finally told him, her voice shaking violently, barely above a venomous hiss.

Shepard's bandaged hand tightened firmly around Miranda's at these words, squeezing it, causing Miranda to look down in surprise at the amount of angry strength she had despite her serious burn wounds. Then, looking up at the doctor again, Miranda watched as his sallow frown deepened at this frank dismissal, before he took a deep breath in, preparing to say something in return. Before he could respond, however, she got up quickly from her chair, shaking her head as she crossed the room to him, taking gentle hold of his arm and turning him towards the door of the containment. "This is not the best time," she informed him, her voice quiet despite her hard, telling tone. "Perhaps come back in a little while. The Commander needs some time to herself." Then, depositing the doctor outside the door, she waved him off, ignoring his stammering retorts as she shut the door firmly behind him, before taking a moment to catch her breath, letting out a short, sharp, drained exhale as she turned to move back to her chair again. Sitting down beside Shepard at the bed, she looked up into her friend's frozen face, reaching out to take hold of the hand she had previously let go of.

"Shepard…" Miranda began to say, but quickly trailed off again, dropping her gaze to her lap. She knew that there was nothing she could say to make the news any less painful, but she also knew that she still wanted to try, if only for Shepard's sake. "Shepard, I know… this might not be want you want to hear right now," she began again, speaking slower this time, her voice quiet, so as not to disturb her friend. "But there are… possible alternatives, if you wanted to look into… options outside of… conventional… medicinal practices." She hesitated, chewing her lower lip, unsure if she had said too much and overstepped her bounds, her thin free hand twisting anxiously in her lap as she waited impatiently for an answer. "It's… it's nothing… illegal," she added, even quieter now, as if afraid to even mention it. "In case you were worried about that. It's just not… entirely… orthodox, is all." She paused again, her brow furrowing, her hands growing white from wringing as she stared expectantly at Shepard, hoping for some kind of reaction. "I'm not entirely sure that it's safe," she continued, nervously, hearing her own voice start to shake with uncertainty. "Or even… that it will work at all. But I figure, with the possibilities at stake—"

"Miranda," Shepard said, quietly, cutting her off. Miranda stopped short, pressing her hands down flat in her lap as she raised her brows expectantly, waiting for an answer, but Shepard only took a deep, tired breath in. Then, looking over at her friend, Shepard considered her, staring at her for a long, silent moment, before reaching out a bandaged hand towards her and opening and closing her hand, indicative, motioning silently for Miranda to come in closer. Miranda instantly did as she was told, scooting her chair in as close to the hospital bed as she could manage, leaning over the side of the cot to best hear whatever Shepard had to say. "Get in with me," Shepard told her, weakly, causing Miranda to falter, surprised at the request.

"In with you?" Miranda asked, still speaking quietly, not wanting to upset her friend. "You mean— in the bed?" Shepard nodded, tiredly, indicating again with the open and closed hand, before Miranda let out a soft sigh, reaching down to pull off her boots and climbing up into the bed next to Shepard. Shepard shifted herself over towards the far end of the hospital cot, letting out a soft grunt of pain as she pressed in on her bruised ribs, before allowing Miranda to slide in behind her under the thin covers. Draping her arm around Shepard's form, Miranda fitted her knees into the crook of Shepard's, pulling her friend in close and realizing for the first time just how cold and thin she felt under her gown. Biting her lip, Miranda nestled her head against the hospital pillows, trying her hardest not to feel guilty as she snuggled in closer to Shepard, hoping to transfer some of her warmth over to her. Despite all the time she had spent on the Normandy, she had never once remembered to ask Shepard if she was eating correctly and taking care of herself, having been too focused on the baby to even think about the person carrying it.

"Thank you for being here, Miranda," Shepard suddenly told her, her voice hoarse, barely above a shaky whisper.

Miranda looked up, taken aback at the show of gratitude, trying hard to keep a lump of guilt from pushing its way up to her throat, choking her. "I'm only here because you were too stubborn to die," she whispered back, causing Shepard to give a soft, pained chuckle in return. Pausing then, Miranda moved her face forward until her nose and mouth rested on the back of Shepard's shoulder, thoughtful, before taking another soft, thin breath in. "And, Shepard?" she added, still speaking hesitantly.

"Hm?" Shepard asked, half-asleep.

Miranda hesitated again, wetting her lips, before letting out her breath in a soft exhale. "…Thank you for being here, too," she finally told her, quietly.

"Miranda," Shepard whispered, shaking her from her sleep.

Miranda groaned, turning her head to bury it deeper in the thin pillow of the hospital bed, waving a tired hand to shoo whoever was shaking her away. "It's still dark," she murmured, shaking her head. "There's still time to sleep. Go back to sleep."

"Miranda, we've got to go," Shepard told her, leaning in to whisper directly in her ear. "The doctors aren't around right now. There's no one to stop us from leaving."

Miranda frowned, now more alert, turning around in the bed to look up at Shepard, who stood directly over her, leaning eagerly over the edge of the hospital bed, looking as if she were about to burst if she stood still another moment longer. She had already retrieved her omni-tool sensor from the bedside table, and Miranda could see the thin metal band wrapped around the back of her hand from where she had put it on, ready to go. Her red hair was dishevelled, her hospital gown rumpled and lopsided, and when Miranda looked down, she realized that her friend's feet were bare, still wrapped in bandages, clearly too damaged to even feel the cold metal of the containment crate against her naked soles. Her frown deepening, Miranda looked up into Shepard's face again, watching as she kept glancing towards the hospital room door, as if expecting the bent salarian doctor to come through at any moment and stop her from leaving. "Shepard, no," Miranda insisted, shaking her head and reaching out to gingerly take hold of Shepard's thin wrist. As she did so, she could feel Shepard physically vibrating under her touch, wound up so tightly she could feel her heart racing even through her gloves. "We can't just run off like this," she told her, persistently. "You still need medical attention. You haven't even gotten your bandages off yet."

"I'm fine, Miranda," Shepard insisted, looking down at her, now seeming a bit exasperated. "Really. I've never felt better. I just need to go." Her fingers drummed against her leg as she spoke, tapping out an agitated, rhythmless tattoo as she glanced up towards the door again, pulling a bit on the hand that held her wrist, trying to will Miranda to get up. In return, Miranda sat up a bit straighter in bed, now fully awake, and shook her head, giving Shepard's wrist a short, light tug, getting her to pay attention again.

"Shepard, you're in shock," Miranda told her, frankly, letting out another soft, tired sigh. "As your friend, I can't in good faith let you leave the hospital when I know you're like this. You're going to get yourself even more hurt than you already are. I can't stand by and let that happen."

"Miranda, my baby is dead," Shepard answered, firmly, looking down at her again, all sense of good nature gone from her voice as she stared at her with wide, fervent eyes. "There's no reason for me to be here anymore. I'm going to leave whether you want me to or not." Taking a deep, shuddering breath in, she clenched her teeth, steeling herself, registering for the first time the words that were passing her lips. It was one thing to hear those words coming from a medical professional, someone impersonal, but to actually hear herself saying them was another experience entirely, one much harder than she thought it would be. "I thought, as my friend, you might want to come with me," she added, speaking slower this time, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. But I'm leaving. I can't be here anymore. I just… can't."

Miranda hesitated, taken aback by this show of stark, brutal, honest emotion. Then, letting go of Shepard's wrist, she let out a soft sigh, pushing herself up and over the railing of the hospital bed before landing quietly on her feet and turning to face Shepard again, giving her a worried, telling once-over. "They're going to know you're leaving early," she told her, speaking quietly, watching as Shepard began to move around the room, collecting up what little get-well trinkets she could carry with her. "You're not exactly dressed like a civilian, and besides, I'm pretty sure visiting hours are over. They're going to know something's amiss when they see someone moving around out there in the dark."

"I don't care," Shepard answered frankly, shaking her head as she stuffed an unopened model kit into a stiff canvas bag that already held a box of hand-made hard candies. The get-well gifts were all dull, makeshift and compact, small terms of endearment her crewmates had been able to salvage from survivors selling their belongings for food money, and Shepard paused in the middle of the hospital room floor, holding a hand-stitched hanar to her chest as she looked around at the remainder of the gifts, trying to decide which ones she would be forced to leave behind. "They can try and stop me if they want," she added, dropping the stuffed hanar into the canvas bag as well. "It won't matter. I'm getting out of here." Turning in place, her gaze moved next across a tiny pair of knitted booties, and she crossed to them, picking them up and turning them over, before shaking her head and letting them fall back onto the floor again. Miranda's frown deepened as she watched Shepard work, moving busily across the confined space, before she crossed over to where her friend had been standing moments earlier, picking up the pair of booties she had let drop back to the hospital room floor and examining them, thoughtfully.

"Your baby's not dead, Shepard," Miranda told her, quietly, turning the booties distractedly over in her hands as she spoke. "She's just… braindead, is all. There's a difference, there… there is a quantifiable, medical difference—"

"Please stop, Miranda," Shepard whispered back, cutting her off, shaking her head as she turned to face her again. "Please. Let's just go. I have to get out of here, let's…" Letting out another sharp, shuddering breath, she brought her hand up to her head, allowing it to rest there for a moment, before shaking her head again and letting her hand drop back to her side once more. "Let's just go," she said, quietly, slinging the half-empty canvas bag over her shoulder. "Please, Miranda. Let's… let's just… go."

Miranda hesitated, considering Shepard for a long moment, noting the dead, defeated look in her eyes, the weary slump to her once-proud shoulders, the bandages covering a good portion of her burned, bruised and broken body, making her look like some sort of half-asleep mummy. Then, taking in a deep, tired breath in, she pulled up her omni-tool, accessing her personal bank account, and transferred a hefty sum to the post-war medical organization's charity account. "That should do all right," she said, closing out her omni-tool again. Picking up a nearby digital photograph Shepard had nearly overlooked, she tucked it and the knitted booties into the canvas bag on her friend's shoulder, before taking hold of Shepard's bandaged arm, looping her own arm carefully through it, and making her way to the door of the hospital room. Sliding the door open, she peered outside, checking to see if the coast was clear before turning to give Shepard an affirmative nod.

"Everyone seems preoccupied," she whispered. "Or possibly asleep. No one on patrol, at least for the time being."

"You're a good friend, Miranda," Shepard told her, quietly, giving the arm looped through hers a squeeze, causing Miranda's lips to curl faintly into a soft, almost guiltily satisfied little smile.

"I'm a terrible influence," Miranda whispered back, realistically. Then, giving Shepard's arm a short, gentle tug, Miranda pulled her out of the hospital room and into the open, checking to make sure Shepard remembered to hold her gown closed as they made their way quickly towards the edge of the camp, heading for the nearest makeshift circulation centre.

The walk from the hospital camp to the circulation centre was a long one, the rocky, uneven pathway lined on both sides by a collection of tents, most of which appeared to be military-issue. Dirty-faced families of all species huddled within the tents, some cooking their dinner out in the open by firelight, others having shut themselves inside with all their belongings, not wanting to risk being seen by other desperate survivors and having their things stolen out from under them. Despite almost a week having passed since the official end of the Reaper War, the sky over the military camp was still so choked with dust and debris that it was nearly impossible to tell if it were actually night or just appeared that way. Endless identical tents had been erected across the open, war-torn terrain, stretching as far as the eye could see, with the sound of low conversation and coughing buzzing in Shepard's ears as she walked, a dreary, unwelcoming cacophony of desolation and discontent. The bandages wrapped around Shepard's feet had begun to unravel before they even reached halfway to the circulation centre, but she said nothing about it, instead limping behind Miranda as best she could on her injured soles, causing her friend to have to slow down to accommodate her wounded gait.

Frowning faintly, Miranda paused, glancing down at Shepard's feet, before letting out a worried huff of breath and looking around for something amongst the rows of dirt-streaked tents. "We need to get you some shoes," Miranda told her, causing Shepard to give a grunt of disapproval, which only earned her a critical look.

"I don't need shoes," Shepard argued, shaking her head as she reached down to tug at her bandages, trying in vain to wrap them again. Miranda's troubled frown deepened as she watching Shepard's fruitless attempt to re-wrap her bandaged feet, before she finally gave a light tug on her arm, leading her over to the side of the path and pointing to a small volus family gathered around a fire, indicating for her to take a seat among them.

"Take care of my friend," Miranda told the two larger volus, who instantly turned their attention to Shepard, their beady, glowing eyes intent as they blinked a few times, surprised and curious. "I'll be back in just a moment. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere in the meantime."

Shepard turned to look at the four volus, who all stared back at her, seeming just as confused about having her dropped off in their care as she was. "Are you injured?" the first volus finally asked, speaking quietly, causing Shepard to look over at him, attentive. "You look like you just came from the hospital camp. Do they know you're walking around in your condition?"

"I'm okay," Shepard lied, shortly, glancing up over the volus' shoulder towards where Miranda had disappeared to. "They needed the bed, I… I'll be okay. Just a couple minor scrapes and bruises, is all." Frowning a bit, she tucked her thin knees together, huddling in on her underfed form as she shifted a bit closer to the fire, trying to benefit from its warmth. She could hear the two younger volus huffing and snuffling a few feet away from her, both of them staring intently at her as she warmed herself by the light of their fire, but she decided to ignore their stares, instead focusing all her attention on the flames ahead. She guessed the children were likely twins, from their similar size and matching exosuits, but she did not want to speak out of line and offend any of them in case she was incorrect, or in case they ended up not being children at all. "What brings your family to Earth?" she asked, turning her attention back to the first volus, figuring him to be the family patriarch.

"Business," the volus answered, matter-of-factly, sucking in a breath as he lifted his head. "I sell specialized weaponry and weaponry upgrades. It's a lucrative business, all things considered… so long as you have reliable suppliers." Taking in another deep breath, he tilted his head, the watchful beams of his eyes narrowing critically in thought. "And for suppliers to be reliable, you need reliable transportation," he added, now sounding much less enthused. "Which means… inter-systemary transportation."

"…Oh," Shepard answered, frowning in return as she realized what he was trying to say. "So… I guess you haven't been doing much business since the local relays shut down for repairs, then."

"Not as much as I would have hoped," the volus answered, truthfully. "But it's enough to keep my family afloat, and that's the best I can hope for right now. At least until our ticket comes up and we can go back to Irune."

"Your ticket?" Shepard asked, confused. "What do you mean, 'your ticket comes up'?"

"Would you like some supper?" the second volus spoke then, cutting the conversation short, causing Shepard to look up at her in mild surprise. This was the first time she could remember ever meeting a female volus, though she figured she could have seen any number of them in passing during her visits to the Citadel, as there was no noticeable difference between the female volus' suit and the suit of her male counterpart. Reaching forward to the pan sizzling over the open fire, the female volus tipped it to one side, pouring a bit of soupy, bubbling black-grey liquid into a palm-sized bowl. "You should eat something," she told Shepard, holding the bowl out towards her, insistent. "Especially for your baby's sake."

"Darla, that's rude," the male volus insisted, speaking in barely above a hiss, shaking his head as he held out one stubby hand towards the bubbling bowl, stopping her from handing it over. "You can't just assume the human is pregnant. Besides, you don't know if she can even eat that. You don't want to hurt her accidentally with your terrible cooking."

Darla Voss huffed at this accusation, pulling the bowl of broth in towards her as she vibrated agitatedly at her husband. Then, turning her attention towards Shepard again, she set the bowl of broth aside, hardly seeming to notice as Shepard's eyes followed it, curiously, before returning to her masked face, fully attentive once more. "You'll have to excuse Hamil," Darla told her. "He isn't used to having houseguests. We've only been on Earth for less than a year, you know. Not enough time to learn all the customs." Letting out a long, dejected sigh then, she lowered her glowing gaze, her stout hands coming to fold together in her lap as she stared at the dusty ground at her feet. "We hadn't even fully settled in yet when the Reapers attacked," she added, sadly. "It's not easy getting used to these things, especially with our children here with us. We're still adjusting to it all."

Hamil Kerr grunted at this, frustrated, causing Shepard to look his way again as he settled down a bit further in his seat on the ground like a fat bird ruffling its dewy feathers. "If our damn ticket would just come up, it wouldn't be such a problem," he grumbled. "I have no idea what's taking so long. We put in our request the first day the shuttle became available. I know there's a lot of requests coming in, but you'd think they'd honour first come, first serve."

"Shepard!" Miranda's voice suddenly rang out from behind them, causing Shepard to turn sharply towards the sound, attentive. Seeing Miranda standing a few yards away, Shepard pushed herself unsteadily back to her half-bandaged feet, offering the volus family a nod of thanks before turning and heading towards where Miranda stood. Her arms appeared to be full of what looked to be threadbare material, but as Shepard got closer, she could see that what she held was not just material, but secondhand clothing. "This is the best I could do on a moment's notice," Miranda said, handing over a pair of pants, which Shepard was eagerly quick to slip into. "They're not maternity, I apologize, but I did remember to get you a belt. Better that than nothing, I suppose, though I figured you wouldn't want any underclothes, considering…"

She trailed off, making a sour face, before deciding it was better not to finish that thought and handing over a worn-looking shirt, watching as Shepard pulled it on over her hospital gown and removed the gown from under her shirt, sliding it out the bottom. "I look like a frigate," Shepard sighed, pulling the shirt down as far as it would go, making a face as it stretched skin-tight across the curve of her swollen stomach. Smoothing the material a few times over her stomach, she sighed again, just as frustrated, before holding out her hands towards Miranda again for the next piece of secondhand clothing. Miranda frowned as she handed the threadbare sweater over next, watching as Shepard pulled it on over the too-tight shirt, zipping the zipper up to her neck and flipping the hood up, hiding her face from view.

"It's a bit small," Miranda apologized, noting the obvious curve of her stomach under the material of the shabby hoodie. "It was all I could find on the spur of the moment. Most of what was being sold was men's clothing… slacks and dress shoes, primarily. I suppose people don't have much need of formal wear these days."

Shepard huffed, distractedly smoothing down the front of the hoodie, as if hoping that might help somewhat with the conspicuous curve of her stomach. Then, giving up the effort, she shook her head, letting one hand drop to her side while the other rested tiredly against the weary small of her back. "They're going to wish they'd kept those when the only jobs available are for expensively-dressed people with Engineering Degrees," she commented, darkly. "You won't be able to get a job for anything after this War. That's what always happens. Prices go up, well-paid labour demand goes down."

"Don't you have an Engineering Degree?" Miranda asked, raising one eyebrow as she set a pair of well-worn boots down in front of Shepard, holding out a hand to help her balance as she stepped into them, shuffling her bandaged feet down into the ragged soles.

"I do," Shepard answered, blowing out a short, sharp breath to flip her bangs out of her eyes. "And look at me. I joined the Navy. And that was before the War." Finished fitting her feet inside, she started to bend down to tie her boots, but Miranda quickly stopped her, holding out a hand towards her before ducking down to tie the laces, herself. Shepard frowned, her hand returning to the small of her back, watching as Miranda finished with the laces before straightening again and running a hand back through her hair, taming it back down a bit. "I can tie my own damn shoes, Miranda," Shepard told her, embarrassedly, speaking just loud enough for Miranda to hear her. "I'm not handicapped, just… a little bruised, is all. I don't need you to do everything for me. I'm a Navy Commander, y'know, it's… it's humiliating to be treated like I can't do anything for myself anymore."

"Shepard, you're five months pregnant," Miranda returned, looking up at her and letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "You don't need to be a hero anymore. You activated the Crucible to defeat the Reapers – let other people do things for you for once."

Shepard opened her mouth, preparing to object, but then, after a moment, she closed it again, simply letting out a frustrated huff and crossing her arms across her chest. "Fine," she muttered, reluctantly. "But – no more tying my shoes, okay? Let me retain a little dignity."

"Deal," Miranda agreed, amenably. Then, reaching over to Shepard again, she took hold of her bandaged arm once more, sliding her own arm through the bend in her elbow and pulling her friend in close to her side.