The Citadel, September 2169


Six months of the Eleanor docked at the Citadel. Six months of living on a space station, not a science vessel. Six months of real food and actual trees and clouds. There was Chinese food here, actual Chinese food, not the reconstituted stuff from back on the Eleanor, and Shepard's bedroom had a real window. If she wanted to run here, she didn't have to try and content herself with a few laps around the biotics classroom; she could sprint through neighborhood after neighborhood until her legs burned, a fast-shift kaleidoscope of faces and voices spinning around her.

So why couldn't she get rid of the sour taste in her mouth?

Probably because when class schedules came out last night, mine had "ballroom dancing" written right at the top. Shepard glared one last time at the offending datapad before she flicked off its display. It had to be a practical joke, though whether her mother or Lamia was at fault, Shepard didn't know. Maybe they thought it was a joke, but it felt like a punishment — worse, a punishment for something she didn't even know she had done wrong.

She didn't mind dancing. As soon as she had turned three and her biotics manifested, Mom had signed her up for every movement-based class their ship offered for little kids, and that meant ballet, jazz, gymnastics — if it meant Shepard came home too sleepy to send the furniture flying, then Mom had her enrolled. Gymnastics was always the best class, but dance had its appeal too: good music, lots of laughing, no competition except against her reflection in the mirror. When she started training with Lamia, she had to stop everything else. There simply wasn't time, but once Shepard felt her biotics respond to her silent commands, she didn't need any other class. She had all she wanted, hidden along her nervous system.

And Lamia managed to combine biotics training with hand-to-hand combat and endurance training, so even if Shepard wanted to keep dancing, she wouldn't have been able to. Five three-hour classes a week meant she barely had the energy to do her homework. If that had been Lamia's purpose from the beginning, Shepard wouldn't have been surprised.

But ballroom dancing? That was about as uncool as possible. The fact that the class was even offered at all on the Citadel was a surprise. Shepard had hoped something as hopelessly dorky would have gotten left behind on Earth, where it couldn't embarrass them in front of the other races.

I bet it appeals to Lamia, she thought, rolling on her stomach and burying her face in her pillows. All that fluffy romantic stuff. Just like those stupid vids she watches. Why do I have to get stuck with it?

At least the rest of her schedule looked promising: history of the krogan rebellions, a seminar on the turian Unification War taught by Agrippina Deloris herself, applied physics, Spanish — a cake class if there ever was one, thanks to Mom. Things couldn't go too wrong, even with ballroom dancing in her future.

Shepard groaned and threw off her covers. Even the air felt different here, more like a living thing than just something she breathed in, breathed out, and forgot. And if she didn't miss her guess, there were scrambled eggs with peppers cooking in the other room.

She shoved into a pair of leggings and a loose tunic, and pinned her long braid around her head. A quick glance in the mirror told her nothing new: still skinny, still pale, dark eyebrows winging high over cold eyes, too many freckles. At least she was tall; maybe she'd be too tall for anyone to want to partner with her, and she'd have to choose another class.

Wouldn't that be a shame?

Keep a good thought, she told herself, and bared her teeth in her mirror as her stomach rumbled. But first, breakfast.


"Your posture," said Lamia, with one of her bright, infuriating smiles.

"My posture," Shepard repeated, a miserable flush seeping into her cheeks. "That's why I have to take ballroom dancing. Right."

"You humans say form follows function," Lamia went on, still smiling. "But really, they're the same thing for a biotic. Your form is the function, so far as your nervous system is concerned. You have all the power, all the determination, that I could wish for — but you slouch. It's lazy, Shepard."

"I get results," snapped Shepard. "It's not like I wave my arms around and nothing happens. My posture shouldn't matter."

Lamia cocked her head, the tattoos above her eyes arching in wry amusement. Really, Shepard, said her expression.

If Shepard didn't already know she would lose the fight, she would have been thrown a punch, or a Singularity, but Lamia would have turned her into a red smear on the wall without breaking a sweat. She settled for a glower, and for sinking even deeper in her seat.

"Oh please, aren't you a little old to be sulking?" Lamia rolled her eyes. "Shepard, I'm not going to threaten you with being forbidden from lessons unless you take the class, but I strongly recommend that you do. Control over your body is control over your biotics. I cannot stress this enough — but I can think of far more unpleasant ways for you to improve your form."

Now it was Shepard's turn to raise incredulous brows.

"I have already thought of three," said Lamia, her tone dangerously close to a promise.

Shepard took the hint. As gracelessly as she could manage — if you think my posture was bad before, Lamia, check this out — she flounced toward the door, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her feet slip-sliding noisily over the floor.

"Five, Shepard," Lamia called after her.


The class was fuller than Shepard expected. Most of the students were humans, from a pack of giggling ten-year-old girls with matching pigtails, to an elderly couple already practicing steps in front of a wall of mirrors. A few asari clustered in one corner, whispering to each other, and two turians stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, heads swiveling back and forth as they tried to watch everyone at once.

All told, there had to be almost fifty people in the class — more than enough camouflage for Shepard's humiliation. And — small but merciful blessings — none of those fifty people had a face that she recognized.

Maybe it won't be so bad, thought Shepard, as she leaned against the wall. She ducked her head, willing herself to be as small and inconspicuous as possible. I don't know anyone here, and no one's even looking at me. I'm just one more human. Nothing to see her.

"Sh—Eliza?"

Oh for fuck's sake, she thought, her back tightening as soon as she heard the voice, a wave of perfect, embarrassed resignation sweeping over her. It had to be him. Can this get any worse? She raised her head slowly, refusing to make eye contact with the speaker till the last second. "It's Shepard," she said, when the inevitable couldn't be delayed any longer, and she stared up at Michael Burton through her lashes.

Michael Burton. The bully, the snot-faced little prick who made tormenting her his life's work when they were twelve, screaming about pirates killing her mother and leaving her all alone. He'd done it all with a smirk too, like baiting her was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"Yeah, Shepard," he said, with the same smug grin, the grin that dared her to smash her fist through it. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Whatever." She stood slowly, one hand braced on the wall behind her in case she wobbled on her unaccustomed high heels, and craned her neck to see over his shoulder. Someone had a growth spurt, she thought, fighting a swell of grudging admiration. He had to top her by at least two inches, even with her heels on, and had the broad chest and shoulders to match. Narrow hips, lean legs — a swimmer's body, sleekly muscled and —

She cut off the thought, not before she flushed, and then a hot plug of anger stopped up her throat. Michael Burton was not hot. He was not cute. He was an asshole who liked trying to scare people, that was all, and Shepard hated bullies.

"Your mom still with the Eleanor?" he asked as she started to ease around him. Something in his voice caught her off-guard, and Shepard hesitated long enough for the tiny, nut-brown instructor to come bustling up to them.

"Oh!" he cried, and the delight in his voice cut through the low hum of conversation in the room. Shepard's heart sank; she already knew what he was going to say. "Do you two already know each other? Capital! Capital! And of a height! What a pair!"

Shepard had never felt trapped before, but she felt it then, as the instructor took her hand and placed it in Michael's.


She could feel the heat of Michael's hand through her shirt, resting on the curve of her waist, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through her nose until the urge to shove him away passed. All she could hear was his voice, three years younger, gleeful and wild: slavers! Slavers! They'll get you and no one will ever find you.

Michael cleared his throat, and Shepard nearly tore herself out of his arms. "So, why are you —"

"Shut up," Shepard hissed, not looking at him, touching him as little as possible. "Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear it. Just dance."

Michael's face crumpled, and Shepard had long enough to feel guilty before his features went rigid and he fixed his gaze over her head.

The first strains of the waltz filtered through the comms, and Shepard decided that she'd play that song as she tore Lamia's head off her shoulders. She'd even make sure to stand up straight while she did it.


The idea would have seemed ridiculous to Shepard an hour before, but dancing in silence with Michael was even worse than attempting conversation. Every other pair in the room managed at least some conversation, even if it amounted to laughing at each other as they stumbled through the basic steps. She and Michael stonily refused to speak to each other, barely touching, not even making eye contact.

Shepard stifled a sigh. She'd been the one to tell him to shut up, and she'd have to be the one to break the silence. Or was it a stalemate?

"So," she said, with a glance up at Michael's face. He stared over her head, not blinking, with a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Ballroom dancing."

He gave her a short nod. Shepard held down another sigh, and pushed forward.

"Why'd you get stuck with this class? Did you start up with your old asshole routine again, and someone finally got sick of it?"

The muscle in his jaw jumped again, but Michael didn't reply. He kept steering them through the other couples, leading her with sure, firm hands.

"Come on," said Shepard, knowing she was being the asshole, and unable to stop herself. It felt good to push him, to goad him about being a cruel little kid, and to take back a little pride for herself, and for the scared girl she had been. "I mean, it had to happen sooner or later. Being cute couldn't get you out of everything forever."

Michael's eyes flickered down to hers, his dark eyebrows lifting. "Cute, huh?" he said, and the smug, satisfied edge in his voice was so familiar that Shepard was twelve again, for a heartbeat, and the sudden shift had her stumbling over her own feet. "Aw, Shepard, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't — goddammit, you shit," she snarled, and drove the heel of her shoe into his foot as he spun her around. Michael barely flinched, and his smile sharpened. I should have kept my mouth shut, Shepard thought, in savage fury — at him, at herself, and at Lamia for putting her in this position. She felt the first telltale shiver in her fingers and counted the heavy thud of her pulse until the urge to let her biotics faded. If she flared her corona in public, Lamia would never forgive her. "You were a fucking asshole, okay? You made my life miserable, you got away with it, and now you're here. So go ahead, laugh it up. You get a second chance. But better take your shots now, because I sure as hell am not sticking around for more of this."

Shepard knew the pairs around them were staring, and that some of the younger couples were tripping each other because they were too busy listening to her to pay attention to the music, but once she started talking, she couldn't stop. The infection went so much deeper than she thought; she had to dig it out by the root.

She took a deep breath, ready to release more of the flood, more you're an asshole, I cried every night for a week and you laughed, and nobody laughs at me, and now I can smash you into a wall before you know what's happening —

"I'm sorry," said Michael, low and sincere enough to send a shiver up Shepard's spine.

She closed her mouth so quickly she caught the tip of her tongue in her teeth, and the sudden bright stab of pain made her tighten her hand on Michael's. He squeezed back.

"I was a total asshole," he added, still in the same low voice. "And I — I'm serious, Shepard, I'm sorry. What else do you want me to say?"

Shepard shrugged. She felt deflated, like Michael's apology had pricked her in the lungs and all her air leaked out through the tiny hole left behind.

"You want to step on my foot again?" he asked.

The question startled a laugh out of her; it left her mouth in a shrill, jagged run that caught the attention of everyone nearby who hadn't been listening before. "Shut up," she said, still laughing. "Or I will."

"If it'll make you feel better," said Michael, steering them out of the crowd and out toward the edge of the crowd. The music filtered through to Shepard distantly, but Michael kept them moving confidently through the steps. All she had to do was follow his lead.

"You've done this before," said Shepard. She let some of her admiration slip into her voice — easier than apologizing.

"Every week." Michael adjusted his hand on her waist; he didn't draw her closer, but she felt the heat of his palm through her thin shirt, and stared down at their feet to hide her flush.

It's Michael Burton, she scolded herself. I hate him. He's an asshole. He doesn't mean it when he says he's sorry. He probably just wants something.

"My mom made me come with my big sister," Michael said. "I hated it at first. Stupid girly dancing, right? But then, about a year ago, I realized that I, uh, liked it. It's simple. Swimming's great and all, but there's so much pressure. I have to win for it to mean anything. But dancing? That's easy. You just show up, you follow the steps, and it's…easy." He cleared his throat, smiling crookedly at a point over Shepard's shoulder.

"And the fact that you're surrounded by girls means nothing, right?" Shepard said, wishing she could yank the words back into her mouth as soon as Michael looked down at her, surprised and wary. She smiled up at him and shrugged, another wordless apology.

"Why're you here?" he asked, still smiling, still not quite making eye contact. "You mouth off to someone?"

"Not quite," Shepard hedged. "Biotics training. It's supposed to help my control, or something."

"Or something? You're not going to blow me up or —" Michael stopped. "Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"No, it's okay. I'm used to it." Shepard blew her bangs out of her eyes. "I'm out of the walking-bomb stage of things. The worst I'd do is accidentally shock you."

"Or step on my foot."

"Or that," Shepard said, not realizing she had flashed Michael a grin until he smiled back. He has dimples, she thought, her stomach flipping in a strange, almost pleasant way. But I hate him. And his dimples.

"Like I said, you can do it if it makes you feel better." Michael shifted his hand on her waist again; this time, he drew her closer, adjusted her position to match his, and hating him suddenly seemed impossible, with his warmth spreading over her skin. "But I…I am sorry, Shepard."

"Stop apologizing," she said, more harshly than she intended. "It's…it's not fine, but it's done. Just forget it and dance, okay?"

"Okay."


"So," said Lamia, as Shepard came into her classroom. "You survived, with pride and slouch intact. Was it as torturous as you thought it would be?"

"Not exactly." Shepard slipped out of her shoes and pulled off her hoodie. "It was lame, but I guess I can see why it works." Without turning around, she moved to the warm-up equipment, focusing on the weights instead of on Lamia's expression. If she turned around, she knew she'd give herself away, and she couldn't handle Lamia's particular brand of self-satisfaction, not when she still felt Michael's hand on her back.

"So you'll be going back on Wednesday?" Lamia's voice gave nothing away.

Shepard nodded, still not turning around. "Guess I'll give it another shot," she replied, hefting a twenty-pound weight in her left hand.

After all, Michael's form had been perfect.