A/N: Thank you for all the lovely feedback thus far! I'm always open to reviews.

The rest of the night passes without incident, and the Clone begins to hope that Hope won't say or do anything about Dreya. What she finds on her datapad the next morning proves her wrong. There the Clone finds an index of articles on Ardat Yakshi. At first she doesn't make the connection, but as she reads about the statistics of the monsters who pass as everyday Asari, who murder people through mind melds, the Clone's blood begins to boil.

Pushing her chair back, the Clone storms into the kitchen, to the woman leaning against the counter. "What the hell is this?"

Hope doesn't look up from her datapad. "I thought you might find that information useful."

"Dreya is not an Ardat Yakshi."

The ex-Cerberus agent sips her coffee. "How do you know for certain?"

"You're just assuming she is because she's a pureblood. Or maybe it's because you're a xenophobic bitch." The Clone turns to leave, grabbing her training bag on her way toward the door. Her appetite has dissolved, so she may as well get some extra drills in before class.

Hope calls after her. "Don't you find it odd that an Asari in her maiden stage is still living at home with her family?"

The Clone knows she should ignore her and keep moving, but her feet stop anyway. "Dreya has no desire to go dance in some club or blow someone's brain's out." She's an artist, the Clone thinks to herself, but she has a feeling Hope won't care.

"My sources say it's because her parents don't want to send her away to a monastery and tarnish their delicate reputation."

Blue energy surges across her body as the Clone fights to contain her emotions. She turns to face Hope as a new thought occurs to her. "Are you jealous?"

Hope wrinkles her nose. "Of course not." Her cheeks redden despite her.

The Clone dares to close the distance between them. Her heart races, though the Clone can't pinpoint the reason why. Maybe she still...likes(?) Hope despite everything. She tells herself that this isn't about attraction, or sentiment—this is a test, pure and simple. When she stands close enough to smell the spice of Hope's perfume, she strikes, but not with her hands. "You like me. Don't you?" She whispers softly.

Hope snorts, folding her arms-a defensive maneuver the Clone has learned to recognize. "Hardly."

"Really?" The Clone dares to nudge Hope's cheek with her nose. She hears Hope's breath quicken, or is that her own she hears?

Parting her lips slightly, as if to breath her in, Hope steps back. "Really. Now go. You'll be late for class."

Taking a small bow, the Clone rejoices inwardly as she files this information away for later. "If you insist." Leverage. If she were paying attention, Hope would be proud.