THE "BASTION"

MAIN HANGER

ILMNOS, IALESSA SYSTEM

EARLY MORNING, NOVEMBER 15th, 2188

"ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?"

Miranda glared at him as he went back and forth through his ship, checking and rechecking his systems. It looked as if some repairs had been done, but a few remained.

"Nawt." Flynn adjusted a belt of pouches on his new outfit, a heavier and heavily-modified version of the off-duty Alliance issue soldiers wore. He felt better to have his own gear on, the various aches and pains of the last week mere minor annoyances now. Heavy boots and gauntlets completed the ensemble. Flynn had been permitted onboard after the Phoenix's engines had been encased in rigid foam and many layers of kinetic barriers and the rest of the ship could now be accessed with relative ease. He'd retrieved the Red Mane from Phoenix's hanger and parked somewhere more accessible. The Virago he likewise moved and was now in the process of "meshing" with the Mane. Both had been built with modular repairs and configurations in mind – and both ships were built along Alliance Black Op standards. The Virago could be – with some modification - attached and slaved to the Mane and configured to act as one vessel. The hardware had been configured. Now he just needed to tell the Mane to treat the Virago as a part of herself.

They'd been called to attend the interrogation of the Pandemonia captives and Flynn was prevaricating. He was not in the best of moods, knowing he had to have information and loathing that he had to wait to get it, knowing he had to wait for Shepard to get it. It also didn't help that Miranda didn't seem to know when to quit. He couldn't fathom why she was harassing him. She got to get rid of him for free. You'd have thought she'd been happy.

"I told you the mission isn't over and you are still working for me." Her stance was defiant.

"Aye, ye said it t'ree toimes a'ready. Repeatin' it over an' over hain't gunna make it true. I don' work fer free anymore an' it's cash or nuthin'. I'm thinkin' wi' me head this toime." Flynn stuck a few pistols into various holsters built into his uniform, feeling better with every weapon he strapped to himself. Brigid went to her customary place and he sat and began to run diagnostics on his ship. He felt rather petulant and was beginning to resent Miranda's presence onboard. The Red Mane was also his only real home. He had work to do, priming 'his girl' for her joining with the Virago. He also had to corral a few of those asari techs to finish the repairs on the Mane.

"Still using the past against me?" Miranda's voice edged into the bitter. "What did you think happened then?"

Flynn stopped and eyed the woman before him.

"Aye… Jus' another one in yer wake, roight?" His smile then was self-deprecating. "Wha'ever it takes ta get th' job done."

Miranda's eyes narrowed and she scowled. There was that damn accusation again, that childish implication. Did he honestly think that little of himself – that those eight days had been her, what… slumming? Just whose standards should she use? The last thing she needed was Flynn's misplaced attitude or distorted memories. She'd made mistakes, certainly, but for once they were on the same page and he was fighting her! Some people really needed to learn when to let go!

Miranda sucked in a deep and silent breath and decided. If money was all he thought about, then fine. Money meant nothing to her. A quick one-two called up her omnitool. A few furious keystrokes and his own omnitool chimed. Flynn counted to five in his head and opened it. A pending account transfer of considerable amount awaited him from 'Tempest Enterprises'. He looked back at her, his face one of skeptical disbelief.

"What," she demanded, her temper flaring, voice sharp. "Not enough?" She jabbed the keys again and the amount grew by a third.

"Yer serious?" His face said that he didn't quite believe it.

"What do you think?" Miranda's voice was low and scornful. "I still have my mandate and I'll do what I have to. If you have to be bought, then…"

"I remember wha' happened th' last time we were partners," Flynn muttered as he shook his head, looking at the numbers floating before him. It wasn't any less than he deserved. She'd cost him a lot, even though she'd never known how much.

"You weren't a partner, then," she spat. "You were an employee. You're one now. You seem to want to be bought so badly." Her voice had the edge to it that said she was containing a rather great deal of anger. Flynn's face darkened. He reached over and very deliberately hit the 'deny' key. His voice was glacial in its coldness.

"You c'n fookin' go straight ta hell."

Miranda's face froze. She left without another word.

MIRANDA DIDN'T GO FAR, running out of steam as she stepped back onto the walkway that hung between the ships. Hanging silently to her left was the damaged and darkened Phoenix and she felt a pang knife through her at the sight of all the damage, at the injuries to her crew and losing Ellie. It was part of the life she led but it didn't make losses any easier.

"Dammit!" she muttered as she stared at her ship. Her mission was not over! She would find her missing crew, whatever it took, Flynn be damned.

She heard him curse as he stomped past an open hatchway on the Mane.

It had only been eight days. It had felt like more then, but… perhaps she'd read too much into it? Perhaps Flynn had as well. Today had felt like that day on Sjanus, standing there gun-to-gun, she outraged and he with that slightly-impish and wholly-infuriating smile on his face and she'd felt that first glimmer of… well, she didn't know what to call it then and still didn't, but it was a definite real something. Had it been enough?

She also remembered how they'd talked on Illium, his voice soft in that velvety darkness of their room, back when he was still struggling to hold on to the idealism that Torfan had tried its level-best to crush. Looked at with complete honestly, it had really been a wonderful eight days… …but had it been real? In the years that followed, the Illusive Man had considered Flynn for a few missions and she'd always talked him out of it. 'Unreliable,' had been her usual criteria for his rejection. Flynn had even been considered for Shepard's mission against the Collectors, his name high on the shortlist and she remembered rather vehemently vetoing his dossier. Had she done it because of actual practical concerns or fear of proximity? In retrospect, she knew it had been the right thing to do. Flynn on the Normandy. She needed a moment to assimilate that fully.

Flynn on the Normandy.

Talk about dodging a… !

Behind her, someone cleared his throat and she turned to see a man in armor with close-cropped hair and pale eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face nod his head in a slight bow as she acknowledged his presence.

"Miranda Lawson," He said as a greeting, in Shepard's voice, "I've been meaning to introduce myself." He bowed slightly from the waist this time, then straightened and held out a hand. "I'm Strike Captain John Patrick Shepard of the Phalanx Resistance. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Shepard…?" She began, taking his hand for a brief yet solid handshake, "but…"

"You haven't been told?" Miranda shook her head. "Apologies. We're common, apparently. I've met three others with my voice. Even our DNA tends to be identical with minor variants." He sounded faintly amused.

Miranda shook her head.

"I'm afraid the conditions of my arrival was less than ideal."

Patrick nodded, his manner completely understanding. She'd cut her hair...

"Of course. It's nothing nefarious, I assure you." He looked thoughtful. "How can I put this…? I don't know the precise term for it. I'm told I'm from a 'pocket of compressed space of which there are many'. Why they exist we don't know. I've been in several since leaving my own. The few I was in seemed to have …copies of people like us. One of them contains the Pandemonia who are …expanding." His eyes darkened momentarily. "The reason I had to leave mine."

"I see…" Miranda replied. He looked nothing like the Shepard she knew. Yet the voice, the eyes and the mannerisms were far too similar to be imitations. She looked down. He'd yet to relinquish her hand. He followed her gaze.

"Sorry." Patrick told her with a smile and let it go. "Old habits die hard." His voice had changed timbre, it sounded faintly …sentimental?

"I beg your pardon?" She frowned. She had the oddest feeling just then that she should have …remembered this man.

"Distracted – by an amazing woman. I am only human." It came out smoothly and sounded like something …he'd said to her before… with a familiarity there that shouldn't have been. It instantly piqued her curiosity.

"So… I can assume there's a Miranda Lawson in your space," she asked him, not really charmed, although such attempts were a welcome change after Flynn's peevishness.

Patrick froze internally for a long moment. The nod he gave her was stiff.

"Yes." The word was flat but the rest was not. He felt the cold feeling dissipate as he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. "It's gratifying to see such quality rings true wherever it is."

Patrick's manner was so sincere Miranda couldn't help but smile. He smiled – and it seemed like a relieved smile - almost the instant she did. It didn't fit on his face, as if it were …unused, almost forced, something he did not employ often. She sensed no threat from the man, rather the contrary – an intense and friendly interest, which conversely made her faintly wary. Such intense interest was commonplace for her, usually noticed only by its absence – or its potential ferocity.

"You received far more media exposure here, however. For good reason from what I saw."

Miranda looked mildly irritated albeit more by the fame than its mention.

"Ah, well, you probably shouldn't put too much stock in that."

"Certainly not. Never believe the propaganda. Regardless, a remarkable set of achievements, of which you should be justly proud. Remarkable."

"Thank you." Miranda found herself smiling again, the praise from this Shepard more than just praise. It was a genuine appreciation of what she'd done – almost a pride in her. A rather odd response from a stranger. She felt her curiosity grow.

"That's a beautiful ship," Patrick said casually, hands behind his back, looking up at the Phoenix, showing off a strong profile. "Pity about the Piercers."

"Piercers?"

"Your attackers. Information retrieval. The Pandemonia aren't known for their subtlety." His gaze returned to her. "Your crew?"

"Not good." Miranda's face went grim. "We'll recover."

"I don't doubt it." The conviction in his voice surprised her. How close was he and this other Miranda?

Liara's voice in the distance reminded everyone of the interrogation.

"Will you be there?" Patrick asked, extending his hand again. Miranda took it.

"I will."

"As odd as this might sound given the circumstances," Patrick chuckled softly. "I'll be looking forward to it."

"It was …very interesting to meet you," Miranda told him, the smile on her face unbidden.

Patrick made a slight bow again.

"I'll do my best to stay that way."

Miranda released his hand and he nodded and then marched away. She watched him go, her curiosity growing.

Patrick breathed a sigh of relief, his tension draining. He'd have rather faced a squad of Inquisitoria alone than what he'd just done, but he'd come out reasonably unscathed. Perhaps, a little devil deep inside himself whispered, a little better off.

Then he saw Hour wave at him in the distance and saw the frown on her face. He could already hear what she would say and usually he'd agree. But not, he thought, this time.

ON A SCREEN IN THE COCKPIT of the Red Mane, Flynn watched the man leave and watched Miranda gaze after him, her body language clearly interested.

Another one in her wake?

"Roight so," he muttered to himself and shut off the monitor. "We'll jus' see abou' tha'."

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Hour shook her head as he drew near.

"I have no idea what you mean," he said, walking past her. She fell in beside him.

"Please, subtlety is not something you're good at." She grabbed his arm and stopped him. "You don't know anything about this one."

"Are you ever going to give me any credit?" He pulled his arm from her grip.

"In combat, absolutely. Just don't project," Hour warned him. "We've been fooled before."

"Usually I'm the paranoid one. Talking is just talking. That's all I was doing." He started walking again and she followed. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"You still want to do it this way?" She shook her head and her voice was mocking. She needed to get him back on the ground. "Of course you do. Now that you've 'spoken'."

"Is this because you're growing more cynical or can you just not handle it when I'm feeling optimistic?"

"Your optimism is dangerous. You stop thinking clearly. You've got this singular focus that narrows your vision. You can't just shed a decade of…!"

"Don't be insulting!"

"The Holoshan Cascade!" Patrick stopped as Hour barked that at him. "You remember that. You remember what she made you do!"

"That one was an aberration!" Patrick snapped back with a snarl as Hour shook her head in frustration. "Mind your own damn business!"

"Dammit, John! Stop thinking with your heart! You're not good at it!"

"I know what I know!" He waved her off and stomped away. Hour glanced back up at the Red Mane and the woman who looked so familiar, but history was history and she and her Shepard were as alien to this one as any non-human.

"It's not what we know, John," she sighed. "It's what we don't."