The clone is obsessed. This isn't the usual brand of hero worship Hope is accustomed to seeing. It's something more. Night and day the clone searches the extranet, seeking details on Commander Jane Shepard. Hope lets it explore, wanting it, in some ways, to find its own path before she drops the massive quantity of data that she has on the commander in its lap.
The clone has a child's capacity for learning. It takes in knowledge like a sponge, ingesting it, before quickly growing hungry again and searching for more. It reads constantly and Hope discovers that it has 'discreetly' created a massive new folder filled with images of the woman. It stops, in between reading Alliance News articles on Shepard, to open the folder and scroll through the images.
Sometimes it falls asleep on whatever their current kitchen table happens to be, in the midst of reading. Hope doesn't know if it's too stupid to rest when necessary or if it's pure excitement that forces the creature to keep going until it simply can't anymore. Hope shuts the computer and takes hold of its shoulder until it turns its shadowed eyes to her. "Off to bed. Now."
In the beginning the clone did so without question. Lately it stares at her. There is something bubbling beneath the surface. Hope furrows her eyebrows when it yawns. The small action, unseen before in the creature (partly due to how often it slept prior, like an infant) is jarring and unfamiliar. It wipes at its eyes, stands and moves past her, moving to the bedroom and collapsing on its side.
It no longer sleeps at her feet like a pet, choosing instead to sleep at Hope's side. Hope can't decide whether this is a mark of progress or if she needs to be more careful moving forward.
Hope finds the clone in the bathroom in the middle of the night, the door cracked open just enough for her to see. A laptop rests on the bathroom sink, with several images of Shepard open in separate windows. The clone looks from the computer screen to the mirror.
Hope watches it try to mimic the expressions on the screen. That's good of it. That's smart. Shepard's more than just a face. Shepard is movement, expression, a sauntering, predatory presence. Many of the pictures are infused with Shepard's customary arrogance. When she frowns, she looks dangerous. When she smiles, it's a scornful invitation.
Try as it might, the clone cannot manage the expressions. It tries over and over again and fails. Hope wonders if it needs to experience the emotions to be able to duplicate the appropriate faces. The clone lowers its chin, thoughtful and sad. When it catches Hope's reflection in the mirror, it slams the door shut.
Hope's startled by the act of defiance. It is the first time that it has acted against her. Is it embarrassed? Hope leans against the doorway and waits. She waits in silence for half an hour but the clone doesn't emerge.
Hope decides to prepare the necessary nutritional regimen the clone needs. She stole a good number of supplies from the Cerberus lab before leaving, those necessary to keep it strong and primed for dominance. She loads the chamber of the injection gun with the appropriate medication and hormones and waits in the living room, reading about the disappearing human colonies, baffled at the Alliance's inability and unwillingness to do anything about it.
Minutes later the clone emerges. It sets the laptop down on the coffee table and sits beside her, burying its hands in its hair, taking slow and labored breaths. The creature is upset. "You don't have to keep secrets from me," Hope tells it. Why did the clone choose to undertake the study in private? Was it meant to be a surprise? Or has the obsession moved to regrettable hero worship after all? The clone lowers its hands, elbows resting on its knees, leaning forward.
Hope sweeps the hair back from its neck. She doesn't ask, she merely brings the injection gun to the clone's neck and pulls the trigger once it's lined over its vein. The clone doesn't gasp but its expression twitches. Hope brings her fingers to the neck to massage the medicine in and reduce any minor pain it may feel later on.
"I don't look like her."
"Don't be daft. You're identical. The rest will come in time." Hopefully not too much more time.
The clone appears unsatisfied. "Why do I look like her?" It asks. Hope extends three large gel caps and a glass of water. "Are we sisters" It muses. "Are we twins?"
Hope had not planned on a philosophical debate on what it was. Not yet. Anyway, it's too young to know the answers. The creature must be hardened before it finds out that it was created to be spare parts for a hero Spectre. If it develops properly it will ask the necessary questions and Hope will have to tell it. The matter will be delicate. It's not every day you learn that you are only meant as a patch-up for the real thing. "Take this and drink it."
"Is Hannah Shepard my mother?"
"Drink," Hope instructs severely. The clone resentfully snatches the pills from her hand, taking them and swallowing them down with the water. It stands and paces. The creature is becoming restless. That's good. It will become more defiant but it will be more than a lump of flesh.
"What are these for?" It asks. "Why do I have to take them? Why do you pump me with whatever it is you're pumping me with?"
It sets its hazel eyes on her. They're greener, Hope thinks, when it's angry. "It's to keep you healthy and make you strong. It may not all make sense right now but it will." The clone glares at her. "Sit down." The clone doesn't. "Sit." Hope says, her voice harder still. It doesn't respond. The room is shaking, frames on the walls rattling, items on surfaces shifting. A light blue corona surrounds the clone. In this state, it's dangerous. Hope reaches out, her fingers brushing along its wrist. There's the snap of static electricity, and she pulls her hand away again. "Sit," she says again.
The clone sits. It looks helplessly at her, its eyes gleaming. Is it sad? Is it frustrated? Is it angry? "You said I'm supposed to replace her. I don't even know how to fight." Emotion chokes her voice. Hope blinks at it. "I want to learn. I want to train. But I'll never be an N7."
No. It won't. Not in the same way. That time in Shepard's life is over. Hope is still sure that those instincts are buried within the clone. They only need to find the necessary triggers to bring them to the surface. Shepard is a creature of instinct, not of thought, not of precision; she is a spark that ignites a blaze that causes incomprehensible damage. "You'll learn. You'll train. You'll become strong. And then you'll kill her. Is that understood?"
The clone doesn't look at her, hands clasped nervously in front of it. "I don't want to kill anyone."
Hope swears. It takes everything she has to not strike it. Whatever bloodlust Shepard has, she prays it's only lying dormant. If it's missing, if it will never manifest, then there really is nothing left to hope for.
They're deep in the lawless Terminus Systems, buried in the Omega Nebula. Hope has hired one of the rare pilots willing to take a small ship into an area fraught with piracy and civil wars. It came at a cost, but she has means, thanks to the small fortune she drained from Cerberus' coffers when she left. Her parents didn't raise a thief—they didn't raise her at all.
Beside her, the clone sits in a bucket seat. It wears a hardsuit and a helmet, its arms crossed and head tilted back. It knows little of the dangers of the Terminus Systems, despite Hope's explanations. It only knows that there is another operation in store and nothing is expected of it except to present itself.
An M-11 Wraith shotgun sits in the seat between them. Hope prefers the satisfaction of a well-placed sniper shot or the intimate and personal nature of pressing a barrel to the back of someone's head. There is an art to that. Shotguns are different, vicious, more honest somehow. Necessary for the worst-case scenarios when things have turned to shit. She has walked through mists of blood before. Despite being prepared for the eventuality, it is not how she would prefer things to go down.
Hope opens the black box that sits on her lap. The clone turns its head to look. An iridescent blue orb, smaller than a marble. At first glance it would seem like nothing remarkable, but it's the next evolution of graybox technology. It's experimental, so new that it doesn't even have a name. Miranda Lawson is clever. After the clone has killed Shepard, Hope might send Miranda her a thank you note for the brilliant schematic she provided—a schematic that Mr. Illusive refused to let her use. Not that Miranda gave it to her. Not that she ever would. Hope had to take it, unasked. That's the way of this world with the things you want.
The lab ship hangs like a rusted iron coffin in a black sea of stars. They dock, the pilot getting the shuttle some meaningful distance away, awaiting Hope's orders for pick up. The air is thin and cold, somehow humid and sticky as well. The clone removes its helmet and looks around the long, shadowed corridors with flickering lights.
"Down the hall and to the left. Third door on the right," comes a voice over the intercom, a voice that is either made shrill by nature or the aging intercom technology. It must be Dr. Ward.
Hope cast a wide net to track down a suitable party to perform the operation. It's illegal, of course. The Council and Alliance like to patent any technology that will give any one species that isn't their own an advantage. They'll talk about the dangers but that's never really mattered to them. What matters are results. What matters is staying on top of the game. Illegal or not that's exactly what Hope aims to do.
Half of the technology utilized by the known universe is never used in the way it was intended. Invented in 2160, the graybox was meant to help Alzheimer's patients. Instead it became a go-to for spies and thieves. This advancement is intended for those with brain damage, as Miranda feared Shepard would have. It could also be used to give infants of affluent parents a remarkable edge in their academic careers. It's a little like cheating—but cheaters do prosper and the clone needs even footing. It doesn't have the memories of formative years, of an academic career. Never mind the fact that Shepard underperformed as a student.
A shout comes from an unidentifiable location. Hope lifts the shotgun into position and smiles at the clone when she sees the worry on its face. Dr. Thomas Ward has a bit of a reputation. Brilliant and mad, he has a propensity for not only illegal experiments but also highly unethical, cruel ones. Cerberus had him in their sights but deemed him too unreliable, too self-involved to play by the rules in one of their labs.
The clone and Hope move through the ship. It creaks and groans. They pass foggy, dirty windows smeared with handprint and patches of red. Further along they see (when the lights decide to kick in) drags of blood along the walls, seeping beneath doors, and they hear the unquestionable sounds of screams, of fists banging against walls, crying. Somewhere, a woman giggles hysterically, the mirthless sound echoing through the ventilation system.
The clone looks more unsettled by the moment. "What is this place?" It asks. Hope keeps moving without responding. It goes to one of the windows to peer into the room. It looks for a way of entry and Hope is glad it doesn't find it. "We should help them."
"No. We're only here for one reason. We are not to interfere. Nod and tell me you understand." Hope looks at the clone who stares back at her, conflicted. "They're being taken care of. I promise. I know how it looks—but if it weren't for people like Dr. Ward, you wouldn't be here. Now let's move."
It reluctantly follows. They turn left and arrive at the third door on the right. The motion detectors pick them up and the door grinds open. There is a medical chair that was clearly cushioned with green leather once. It is now torn in places and stained with crimson splashes in others. A harsh yellow light shines on it. The clone takes a step back but Hope taps its arm gently with the Wraith and it learns to stay still.
"Dr. Thomas Ward," Hope says. The man has their back to them, looking thin in a lab coat that is far too large. The scarecrow of a man turns. He's tall with sallow cheeks, thinning hair and a widow's peak. His smile stretches far and his yellowed, horse's teeth become an afterthought after Hope catches the pulsing nature of his eyes. The man has changed considerably from the picture she last saw of him. Who knows what work he's done on himself. It's been years. Further time for him to drown in madness. Hope begins to doubt her resolve. He comes over and stretches a hand that she ignores. "Your ship is in shambles." She looks around the room. It looks clean, at least, despite the bloodstains. "Forget to make a power payment?"
"It's difficult to get repairs taken care of," he admits with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I've allocated the remaining power to where it's needed. Now let me see it." Hope holds on to the box. He looks at her impatiently and then at the clone, staring at it for a moment before turning its eyes greedily to the box. "You said the schematic would be mine." It sounds like a complaint.
"It will. If the surgery is performed to specification." There's a beat. "You've received the payment."
"I don't care about the payment."
It is a rare man that doesn't care about credits. It's useful but also makes him dangerous. Hope is relieved, at least, that he doesn't appear to care for the clone, that he doesn't ask questions, that he is instead, motivated by technology. "I've heard you can take care of anything. This…creature," she says with a sidelong smile to the clone, "is important to me. If anything goes wrong—"
"Nothing will go wrong," he snaps at her. "You. Sit." He points the clone at the chair. He scowls but the clone doesn't move. In a flurry of motion, he moves away, looking through cabinets and medical trays.
The clone stands anxiously. No doubt watching sci-fi horror vids on television has given it all the right ideas on why it should be skeptical. But this is not the time for skepticism and hesitation. "You need this," Hope tells it. "It won't be as bad as the last operation."
"I don't like him," the clone whispers.
"I don't care." Hope takes a moment when she sees how stung the stupid thing is by her words. Sensitive. It's far too sensitive. "Dr. Ward, care to explain the recovery process to our dear patient?"
"Unpleasant," he says, lifting a drill, giving the thin bit a few test spins. "But the worst will pass within a week. Nausea, vertigo, disorientation, exhaustion are the likely side effects. You'll live."
"It had better," Hope says sharply.
The clone looks at her. Hope gives Dr. Ward the box containing the device and pushes the clone towards the chair. She doesn't want to see that stupid look of fear in its eyes.
It's been three days since the operation. The clone alternates between stooping in front of the toilet like a drooping flower, voiding itself of the little food it manages to ingest, and curling up on the couch to sleep fitfully. It's near impossible for it to keep its eyes open and walking has become an adventure. Hope has cleared a path for it from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom, hoping to stop the clone's violent careening into furniture, walls and to the floor.
Hope continues to give it its regimen of vitamins and injections. They will stop once and if it starts a training regimen. This is only to keep her in optimal condition. The clone will have Commander Shepard's strength even if it lacks her fighting finesse. That will do for the time being.
She brings it tea and drinks and foods rich in electrolytes. The clone will puke them up but its system will absorb some of them before then. It won't last long either way. The clone eats and drinks, fingers grasping at its forehead. With every passing moment, Hope can see something changing in its eyes. There is an intelligence brimming, its eyes shifting from foggy to sharp and clear.
It complains little, for which Hope is grateful. The clone makes references to Beethoven and Mozart some hours after the operation, its voice hazy and curious. The procedure is working as intended. The process will take several months to complete as the necessary synaptic connections are formed and the data is assimilated by its brain. The graybox will be slowly absorbed into its bloodstream, leaving behind nothing but a multi-doctorate education.
As a reward, Hope secures it a tangible music player with quality headphones, loaded with the most esteemed classical music. She sets it beside the clone, who opens its eyes cautiously when it feels Hope's touch along its face and hair. "I have a few errands to run but I wanted to give this to you first."
The clone sets its eyes on her. They are dark, its face pale, dots of burst, tiny veins dotting her cheeks and nose from the constant vomiting. It looks at the device and back at her before sitting up. Hope brings the headphones over its ears and turns it on, starting Ode to Joy. The clone's eyes light up. Hope smiles without meaning to. "Why?" it asks.
"These past few weeks haven't been easy," she says lightly. "I know I seem hard. I only want you prepared. You haven't been in this world long. You haven't learned that the enemy will strike when you're at your worst. I have many enemies." There's a beat. "Would you like me to pick anything up?"
The clone shakes its head. Hope stands. Before she can move on, it takes her wrist. "Thank you," it says weakly.
Hope looks at it and pulls her wrist free. "Get some rest."
She exits the safe house, nestled in one of the Omega slums filled to the brim with the most despicable lowlifes the station has to offer. Hope was careful to go to a human sector, not one infected with Vorcha and Batarians, not one that is close to Mordin Solus or "Archangel." They don't stand out here though Hope is careful to not walk too tall, too proud. She knows she must look as broken as the rest of the degenerates to truly fit in.
She takes a cab to a restaurant district, one of the finer ones, and orders a steak and a glass of red wine. She speaks to the manager and asks to use his phone to make a call. His eyes drink her in lecherously, but he acquiesces and gives her a moment of privacy. She thanks him and closes the door. She dials the number. "This is Carter. You're clear to proceed. Kill her and you'll get the rest of your credits. I don't care how you do it, just get it done. You have an hour." She hangs up the phone.
Hope leans into the desk and inhales slowly. She closes her eyes and exhales. She tells herself this is necessary. Then she exits, happy that she's returned to her table just in time for the wine.
The clone's throat is raw from throwing up, its face taking on an alarming numbness, despite how it burns. The dull pain at the back of its head is a blessing compared to the first operation it had to endure. Instead, the clone feels a dull throbbing at the base of its skull, beating in time with its heart.
The vertigo and exhaustion are another beast altogether. The clone has difficulty standing straight and moves along the apartment on shaky legs, fingers trailing along the walls, providing a sight and balance that it does not currently possess. Every step is an unmapped journey, leaving the clone floundering.
It makes its way back to the bedroom and collapses face down on the bed. She isn't here but She gave it something. The clone has never received anything save for a legacy it isn't sure it wants. The pillows and sheets smell of Her and Her perfume and the scent of Her skin. Who is She? She of the Many Names.
The clone feels lost without Her. And tired. Fatigue weighs heavily upon it, the sensation similar to when it first discovered Commander Jane Shepard and took to the task of unearthing everything about the woman, to reading up on every shred of her existence.
Facts manifest in its mind, hazy like fog. Everything is on the tip of its tongue, the tip of knowing. The clone is standing on a precipice, obscure knowledge presenting itself tauntingly, only to disappear and come back more brightly. It knows now that the quarians are a wandering species without a planet to call home, but it doesn't know what they look like or what they eat. She assured her that Shepard is friendly with one.
This is the first time it has been separated from Her. It does not like the feeling; abandonment fills it like a vacuum. It takes hold of the headphones presented earlier and slips them onto its head, closing its eyes. It doesn't know what it's doing. She never explains much of anything. It hopes that it isn't disappointing Her. Sometimes She looks at it with such hope and promise. Other times She looks frightening, She looks as if She wants to bury it.
The music blooms on the headphones. The clone has never heard anything so beautiful, so melodic. The music moves it in a way it hadn't thought possible. There is a sensation that is far above anything it has experienced. It makes the clone feel…peculiar. Joyous…? The clone doesn't think She would like that word.
The music swells and dives. It hears what sounds like a door opening in the distance. Has She returned? She has given so many aliases that the clone isn't sure which one is real. It isn't sure it knows anything about Her. Should it worry it? It isn't sure. Only recently has it learned what worry is, what worry feels like. It is… an unfavorable feeling.
The clone sighs softly and stands. It ought to greet Her. One step and then another. The process is difficult. The recovery is only meant to take a week and the clone hopes that it will take no longer. It has seemingly awoken only to endure pain.
It sees a shadow and the clone turns its head quickly, rewarded only with a flash of color as everything seems to move in slow motion.
"Visual," comes a gruff, gravelly voice. There's one heavy footstep and then another. Something isn't right. There is gleaming blue armor with a splash of white. The clone doesn't recognize the thing in front of it. Tall, humanoid, but with a greyish-brown exoskeleton and beady eyes that peer out from a mandibled, vaguely reptilian face. It knows about dinosaurs. It knows about birds. It has not seen whatever this creature is.
Data emerges from the fog and takes shape. Turian. It's a turian. The first alien species encountered by humans when they ventured outside their solar system. There was a misunderstanding, followed by a brief war. The First Contact War. The humans would have lost, had the galactic council not intervened on their behalf.
"This is the hit?" The other thing has four eyes and a fanged mouth, also clad in blue armor. Like the things on Torfan. Batarian. "With all the credits we're being paid I thought this would be tough."
They both lift their guns at the same time. Eyes widening, the clone lifts its arms at the same time they pull the triggers. There's a flash of blue. Did it do that? The sound of the weapons is deafening. Its ears ring, but it isn't dead. It isn't harmed.
"Shit! A biotic!" The turian says. "Shoot her!"
They called it 'her.' Is it more than an 'it?' Is it also a 'her?'
The clone bolts, tripping over its own feet, landing behind the couch, unsure of how it still lives, unsure of what that pulse of energy just now was, only knowing that it feels further worn because of it.
"Come out, bitch," the batarian reaches a hand behind the couch, grabbing a fistful of its hair and lifting the clone to its feet. The clone doesn't have a chance to say anything before the batarian rams 'her' head into the wall. Numbing, crippling pain flares throughout its forehead. Everything's blurry.
The clone instinctively throws its elbow back and feels it connect with something, hears the howl of the batarian. Its heart hammers rapidly. There is ice in 'her' gut, sweat on 'her' skin. It's difficult to breathe and there is an overwhelming desire to run, run, run so it stumbles to the bedroom and shuts the door. It's barely out of the way when bullets punch through, leaving black, clean marks.
The turian kicks the door open. The clone's screams are cut short by a vicious fist to the face. Blood sprays from its mouth, hitting the sheets on the bed. She wouldn't like that, it thinks. The left side of its face is numb and throbbing.
It doesn't hurt as much as the operation. Suddenly, the clone's grateful that She never gave it medicine, that She made it endure.
The wind is knocked out of it when the turian's foot connects with its stomach, dropping the clone to her hands and knees.
"Who are you?" The clone demands, wheezing in between words, not sure if it's sweat or tears running down its face. "I haven't done any—" The turian cracks his knee into its face. A fountain of blood sprays out and the clone coughs.
"What are you doing?" The batarian asks, looking bored.
"You know those things humans keep as pets? Cats? They play with birds and rats once they've caught them."
"You're the fucking bird," the batarian says. "We've got an hour."
The turian's mouth flaps. The clone doesn't know if the turian is smiling or irritated. "It's been five minutes," the turian says. "Looks kind of like that dead Spectre, doesn't she?" Is it also a 'she?' "Think Aria would pay for her?"
"That cheap bitch?" The batarian laughs. The clone glares at them. It tries to get to its feet but the batarian smiles, bringing the butt of the gun violently against its forehead. The clone crashes back onto the bed and breathes raggedly. The batarian squares its shoulders and lifts the gun. "Let's finish her off. We get paid by the job, not by the hour."
Its finger is squeezing on the trigger when the clone rolls to the side. A spray of bullet tears into the bed and the turian laughs. "Oh, this is going to be fu—" He goes flying back, untouched, crashing into the wall. The clone's hand is outstretched, blue tendrils coiled around 'her' arm. The turian stills, stunned before shaking his head, setting its beady green eyes on the clone. "Kill her! Kill her, kill her, kill her!"
As the batarian lifts the assault rifle once again, the clone tugs instinctively. There's nowhere left to run, but 'she' will not die before finding out what 'she' is. What Her name is. The batarian looks dumbfounded as his rifle is torn away from him, flying through the air and into 'her' hands. The clone looks down at it, not sure how to use it, not sure how 'she' got it…
biotics
…only knowing that it is a weapon and it can be used. But the clone isn't sure that it wants to—the batarian rushes the clone and its finger finds the trigger and pulls. It's hard to pull on it and the clone isn't expecting the kick. The shots fire wild, grazing only the batarian's armor but hitting the turian in the neck. It makes disturbing, gurgling noises and the clone goes dizzy with guilt.
The assault rifle slips from its hands and clatters to the floor. The batarian swings his massive arm but the clone lifts 'her' arm and blocks the punch, spinning off to the side. 'She' is surprised by its own gracefulness, but the moment doesn't last long. The batarian wraps a brutal hand around the clone's neck, slamming 'her' into the wall once, twice, making the room spin. It's already so tired.
The clone tries to remove the hands from 'her' throat, but cannot. The batarian is angry about its dead turian friend, its mouth is wet and slimy, his stench like a dense wall. The clone whips a hand up, digging 'her' pointed fingers into one of the batarian's eyes. The batarian screams and the clone uses the opportunity to break free and slip away, instinctively grabbing the assault rifle as 'she' exits the room. Stumbling, 'she' falls to 'her' knees in the living room.
It's battling gravity and losing. Get to your feet, get to your feet, get to your feet. If occurs to the clone that if it loses this fight, it will not see Her again. It seems a more terrible fate than death itself. The batarian charges out of the room, bleeding goop from its damaged eye. It's strong, and 'she' can only manage a small cry before the batarian has picked 'her' up, hurling 'her' over the couch. The clone crashes brutally, smashing the glass coffee table.
Everything is blinding and whirling, sharp pain shoots up the clone's back and 'she' feels nauseated and wants Her and doesn't know why this is happening. The assault rifle is some inches away and the clone grabs it just as the batarian hops over the couch. It's luck, the clone thinks, that the timing of the swing allows the assault rifle to smash ferociously into the batarian's temple. The batarian groans, grabbing its head as the clone climbs to its feet, pushes him again somehow, in that way that makes her arm glow blue and her hair stand on end.
The batarian skids across the floor and the clone closes the distance and mounts him. She screams, bringing the butt of the gun down on its head once and then over and over again, listening to the cracking sounds, being splashed by the viscous substance that oozes out of the batarian until the clone's throat burns and it can barely make sound. The batarian has stopped moving. She isn't sure when he went still.
The apartment is a disaster. The clone looks at the dead batarian in terror, crawling away from him, vomiting once more on the side of the couch, like a cat, and the clone isn't sure if it's from the revulsion coursing through her or from the recovery process of the most recent operation.
"That's why Torfan happened, you son of a bitch," the clone spits but hates the words, not knowing if 'she' fully agrees with them. All 'she' has is anger and fear, blood and pain. Attempts to stand fail and all 'she' can do is cling to the couch, wanting to cry, wanting Her.
It sits for several minutes, disoriented and feeling sorry for itself. Facts clarify in its mind. Techniques for killing batarians and turians. Suddenly it's so clear when 'she' no longer needs the knowledge. The clone isn't sure 'she' wants to know how to kill but now understands the necessity.
Time passes. She returns. The clone didn't hear, despite the broken glass, despite the disarray. Her footsteps are silent. She looks frightened and worried. She kneels at the clone's side with great care, touches 'her' face delicately. The cool touch is soothing against 'her' pulsing, bleeding face. "I don't know why this happened," the clone says, happy that it stays any tears threatening to spill.
She looks around, angry, disgusted, relieved. "You're human. That's all the reason they need," She says. "What matters is you're alive." She wraps Her arms around the clone, drawing it close. The clone inhales Her fragrant scent. She has never done this with it before. The clone has seen similar behaviors on television amongst friends, family, lovers. Is She any of those? It's comforting. Her voice is comforting. "I'm so glad you're all right. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."
The clone stares at Her and is happy that She wasn't here when the attack happened. It wants to cry. Maybe 'she' did earlier. "I need to know your name," it says raspily. She is running her thumbs gently down 'her' cheeks. "Why don't I know your name?" It trembles.
It is with great care that She helps the clone to its feet. "It didn't matter before." She looks at it, different than usual and the clone momentarily forgets all the pain. "You can call me Hope."
Somehow, the name is fitting.