The clone's olive complexion is marred with a myriad of colorful bruises along her brow, neck, jaw and arms. Her stomach and ribs have been reduced to a purple, near black color from the merciless blows she suffered.
It suits her.
She is intact and scar-free thanks to Hope's diligent medi-gel application. The days following the attempted hit, the clone's moods teeter. At times she is filled with profound sadness, lamenting, to Hope's irritation, the loss of life. Much preferred are the rare moments of white-hot anger, when her eyes burn green with hatred and contempt for her attackers. A trill of excitement races along Hope's body then: scraps of motherly pride and unexpected arousal. In those rage-fueled moments, the clone is indistinguishable from Commander Shepard.
When the clone drifts off to sleep, Hope studies the footage gathered from the attack, gleaned from cameras hidden around the apartment. The Blue Suns were vicious, true to their reputation. Hope is glad she went to them. It's remarkable that the clone survived, but Hope would have no use for her if she hadn't.
Shepard is a master at hand-to-hand combat. The clone is unskilled in that regard. It didn't help that she was dizzy throughout. Hope watches the footage of the clone pinballing from wall to wall, struggling to stay upright. Yet she is fluid. The blows she lands appear to be a matter of precision, despite how she later describes the attack to Hope. She isn't bad, only untrained. Better yet, she appears to have a natural affinity for biotics, her body pulsing with blue energy throughout the encounter, despite never having been trained. All in all, Hope is pleased. Now they can proceed to the second phase.
Since the prototype graybox injection, the clone has become more talkative. Topics range from music, to Shepard (most often it's Shepard), to dark energy theory. "Theory isn't enough," Hope tells her. "You need hands-on experience."
The clone is undeterred. She has a better grasp of the topic than Hope does, talking in detail about the scientific aspects and mathematical equations that frankly bore her. The clone eats ravenously and sleeps extensively in the days following the attack. It later explains, with some small hint of pride, that it is the expected result of her biotic use.
A week later she asks Hope to pay attention, unaware that Hope has been sharply focused on her since the attack. The clone takes Hope to the kitchen, grabbing three apples from a basket and throwing them up in the air. Hope waits for them to fall but they bobble, held in space by the clone who concentrates intensely, face radiant, despite the bruises, despite how she bites back any smiles.
Hope crosses her arms and smiles palely, barely suppressing her frustration. She knows how desperately the clone wants her approval. Clearly there remains work to be done.
The apples spin lazily in the air.
"At this rate you'll make fine entertainment at children's parties," Hope says coolly. The clone flicks her eyes away. "Do you think Shepard spends her time juggling? It's a nice trick but fundamentally useless." The apples crash to the floor, rolling in different directions. "Don't waste my time with this. Now pick up your mess." She exits the room. She has hurt the clone's feelings but doesn't care. It isn't her job to pamper her. It would be a disservice to pamper her. She will treat her whatever way is necessary to make her hard and inflexible as steel.
Jane Shepard's fingers are buried inside of Jack. The pit of Engineering is cold as the grave but Jack is wet and hot, squeezing her digits tightly below, even as she digs her stubby fingernails into the back of her neck. Shepard gasps, the pain sharp and fresh but still not enough to offset the numbness she has felt since being brought back.
She doesn't like Jack. She doesn't like any of the assholes aboard Cerberus' version of the Normandy. Joker's the reason she fucking died to begin with. There's Garrus, of course. He's like a brother. A dinosaur-bird brother. But there's no Tali or Kaidan. There's no Liara. There's a rambling salarian who doesn't know when to shut the fuck up. A krogan dumber than Wrex was. A boy scout that makes Kaidan look like a party animal. There's an icy bitch that never lets off her ass.
Shepard thrusts her fingers more deeply inside the convict. Shepard's looked at her records; she's a real piece of shit with a mess of tattoos. The kid is young and broken. Cerberus did a number on her. She's probably seen more shit than Shepard has. Jack thinks she's invincible, which is no doubt the reason she allows an unemotional fuck like this, even if she doesn't run with the "girl's club." Shepard calls bullshit.
She promised Jack more Cerberus data as incentive. Trades are fair. Shepard isn't sure if there is more data to give away but if there is and it'll piss Miranda off, it's a win-win.
Where the fuck is Liara? She was fuller than Jack. A woman. Not built like a boy with barely-there tits. She's all bone and edges. Shepard's fingers can find scars that the tattoos hide. Jack cries out, eyes fiery and disgusted on her. Shepard takes her face and turns it cruelly to the side. She doesn't want her eyes. She wants blue ones, clear and sweet on her. "Don't make a fucking sound," Shepard tells her.
Jack doesn't, face turned roughly away, chest heaving, body moving against her. Shepard buries her face in her neck but doesn't kiss her. Jack stiffens when she comes, clenching around Shepard's fingers before stilling. Shepard doesn't waste any time removing her fingers. The two of them stare at each other before Jack pushes her back and returns to the cot she'd been sitting on when Shepard visited.
"Thanks," Shepard says.
"Fuck off."
Shepard doesn't linger. She takes the clanking steps up, making sure to avoid the grating Donnelly and Daniels. Miranda asked to see her over an hour ago but Shepard doesn't want to give her the impression that she's in charge of anything because she isn't. She'll talk to her when and if she damn well chooses. The most urgent matter at the moment is a pain that has been flaring beneath her flesh for weeks now.
It began as a tingle and has become a dull thrum. Now it feels as if there is lava burning under her skin. She takes the elevator to her cabin, her eyes skittishly touching on Liara's framed picture before entering the bathroom. In the darkness before the motion detectors pick her up, there is a bleeding, orange glow. Shepard washes the indiscretion from her hands, scrubbing until Jack's scent is gone.
She peers into the mirror, easing a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her skin is coming apart, hot to the touch. She touches it experimentally, wondering if she's imagining the red sheen to her eyes.
What the fuck did Cerberus do to her?
The lab has long been overgrown with wild plants. Hope assures her they'll move along in another few days as the carnivorous plant life will consume the facility and them if they linger long. The clone doubted her at first, but with a little bit of digging she discovers that Hope is right and it's just the way of Pragia. She should have known better than to question her but is glad that she can. A twitching smile comes to Hope's lips when the clone pushes back against her.
Electricity remains functional though beakers litter counters, smashed into pieces. Tables are turned over and there are empty crates stacked along the walls. Whatever this lab was once, it no longer is and likely hasn't been for a very long time. The clone doesn't like it and has grown wary of these sorts of spaces.
Despite this, Hope seems in better spirits. She wears formfitting pants, boots and a tank top. She ties her hair up and assumes a fighting stance. "Let's see what you're made of." She smirks, as if a joke has been made. The clone stares at her arms, smaller than her own but defined. The tank top clings to her, hugging her hips and breasts until the clone's mouth goes dry. "Have you given up already?"
The clone knows what she wants. She approaches cautiously, lifting her arms, rolling her fingers into fists. Hope smiles and a tremor moves over the clone, making her unsteady. The lab is chilly but Hope told her they would build up a sweat. "I don't want to hit you," the clone says.
Hope's eyebrows narrow and quick as a whip she pummels a fist into her face. The left side of the clone's face goes numb before it begins to throb. "Then lie down and let me beat you to death. Better yet, let me find another batarian and turian to do it for me." The clone's jaw hardens, her heartbeat jumping. Hope takes another swing and the clone jumps back, the edge of Hope's fist brushing along her nose.
"You wouldn't do that."
"I'd do anything to make you fight," she spins on her heel. The clone is ready to try to defend against a punch, instead, she gets a foot buried in her stomach, sending her stumbling several feet backward. The clone goes lightheaded. Biotic power is beginning to course through her. It is electric and hot. She takes a breath to steady herself, to bury it. Hope was clear that this was only meant to be an exercise in hand-to-hand combat, no biotics.
"Not anything," the clone defends, unwilling to let Hope speak ill of herself. The ire in Hope's face grows and this time She pursues her, full lips parting as if in anticipation. When Hope strikes, the clone is ready. It raises an arm, effectively blocking Hope from reaching her target. What she doesn't expect is another quick spin, for Hope's elbow to collide solidly with her face. The unexpected blow staggers the clone. The pain is blinding and she realizes too late, that it is a mistake to lower her arms for even a moment. Hope launches, jumping into the air.
A roundhouse kick, the clone realizes.
The next instant she's sailing through the air, doing a 360 before crashing violently. Her neck aches horrifically. The clone wipes at her face, blood running down her mouth and nose. Hope follows, features dark, straddling her, taking a fistful of the grey Alliance shirt she has forced the clone to wear and yanking her to a sitting. The clone can't look at her. Hope's disappointment washes over her in waves and it makes her sick to her stomach. "I barely even tried," Hope growls, "and you didn't try at all. You're fucking lucky the men who went after you were incompetent. Maybe they should have finished a useless—"
Hope doesn't finish the sentence. She's sent hurling back several feet through the air. The clone pales. She shouts Hope's name, getting up on wobbly legs, out of breath and stumbling after her. Hope has pushed off the floor, kneeling by the time the clone reaches her. The clone notices, with horror, that she's split Hope's lower lip. Pained, she reaches out to touch it gingerly. Hope's hand snaps around the clone's wrist, squeezing tightly. "I'm sorry," the clone says, anguished. Hope said no biotics. Hope said no biotics and she blasted her back like a rag doll. What's worse is that she can't control it. What if she hurts her? What if she kills her? "I didn't mean to cheat," she says hoarsely.
A small smile pulls Hope's lips up. "That's bloody more like it."
Miranda Lawson has the niggling feeling that Commander Shepard may have been a mistake. The thought is so alarming that she tries to bury it under all of Shepard's positives: she is an incredibly capable fighter and she has inspired loyalty that borders on zealotry. Most importantly, she defeated a Reaper.
So far, Shepard has kept them alive, despite her recklessness in battle, and they've secured the first selection of squadmates. They have gone to Horizon, found and battled Collectors and come out on top. So why is she unsettled?
Shepard's antagonistic attitude may have something to do with it. Miranda never expected Shepard to play nice but her open hostility is troublesome. Time and time again she ignores any direction Miranda tries to provide, spitting and spiting all that could prove beneficial to squad and mission because it's coming from the mouth of the "Cerberus Cheerleader." Shepard's taken to Jack's mockery of her quite well, much to Miranda's consternation.
Frankly, Miranda has enough on her plate without having to worry about Shepard. And she does worry. EDI keeps an "eye" on everything but not only that; the ship has all-encompassing 24-hour surveillance. Miranda knows Shepard is fucking Jack. It surprised her for a number of reasons but Shepard is childish and the fact that Miranda abhors the woman is likely reason enough for Shepard. What's worse is that Shepard's spoon-feeding Jack classified Cerberus data. Cerberus' reputation is somewhat fragile—thanks to Shepard's previous efforts to shed light on the black-ops group. To think of that lunatic Jack having access to it… And why does Shepard give it to Jack? To fuck her? More likely it is to fuck Miranda and Cerberus.
Miranda had been under the impression that Shepard and Liara T'soni were an item—at least from the exchanges Miranda and the asari had previously, as well as Shepard's keen interest on all matters related to the woman. When Miranda refused to provide details on Liara's exact location, Shepard's discontent and contempt for her and Cerberus grew.
The woman is too focused on aliens. And her body is rejecting the implants. That is most worrisome of all. For two years Miranda slaved over the woman, working night and day, turning her from a pile of burnt flesh and shattered bones to a living, breathing being. It came at a cost, as these things do. It's more than the astronomical credits necessary to facilitate the project and bring her back. It was two years of Miranda's life and now her reputation is at risk. A lot of the implants are new, neural technology, highly experimental but with big payoffs. There was always the chance that Shepard would start to reject them. Miranda just never expected the process would begin so quickly.
If she had been allowed to implant her with the control chip things might be different. For example, she thinks bitterly, Shepard would agree to help her get Oriana to safety before her father snares her in his clutches. Instead, Shepard blew her off, stating there were other, more important things to do.
Currently those things include getting hammered at Purgatory and blowing through credits on asari strippers. Miranda's disdain grows. She has long been searching for the confidence the Alliance and the Illusive Man have in Shepard. It had been a bitter pill to swallow but she discarded her pride and asked not once, but twice for Shepard's aid. The Illusive Man refused her request to go on her own, stating that she was "too valuable" to risk, reminding her where her loyalties and obligations lie. Despite her status and her gifts she is only a pawn to be used to achieve others' ends. In some ways, it is a feeling she has been trying to outrun for the majority of her life.
It is rare that Miranda gets angry. Anger is a waste of time; it's better to put one's mind to practical solutions. She knows that but can't help the anger. For two years she dedicated her life to bringing Shepard back. She averaged two to three hours of sleep a night during that time. Despite her talents, it began to wear at her. She took some of it out on Wilson, much to his irritation. At least that traitorous, lecherous bastard has been taken care of.
It's a pity the Lazarus Project facility was destroyed. She would have liked to search Wilson's records, to see what other subterfuge the man was operating. He had a hand in working with the clones the Illusive Man insisted be created. Most of them didn't survive, lungs and hearts not developing properly, others' brains never growing. The creation of life is a difficult science. In a way, she can grudgingly understand her father's obsession with both her and Oriana, despite the disgust she feels.
Her work on the clones was limited. She was the head of the Lazarus Project and despite what she would have once described as the Illusive Man's over-cautiousness for what Shepard might 'need' if her work failed, she was sure that there would be no need for the clones, that Shepard would be brought back exactly as she once was. Failure was not an option and while, yes, Miranda has made mistakes in the past, she has never failed.
Confident, she allowed Wilson and Jones to oversee most of the clone work, provided that they kept her up to date on any developments. When there were developments, they were bad. Miranda wasn't surprised, given the project leads. If they expected any criticism they were disappointed. Miranda only instructed that they keep working—happy they were not interfering with her own work. Truthfully, she was somewhat grateful to them. The clone project reminded her too much of her father's. Motherless creatures, designed for excellence, for the most part discarded when they ended in failure. Hadn't Miranda made sure Shepard came back the right way? There are no deformities, the organs are in perfect condition, but the woman couldn't care less. Shepard owes her but isn't interested in paying her debts.
No matter. Miranda knows where she is. She walks through Omega. Her destination: Afterlife. No matter the difficulties in her life, she has always been persuasive. She'll use a gun to get what she needs—but it's rare that she has to do anything more than talk to get what she wants.
She ignores the salarians and turians scattered around, smiling palely to herself at the elcor who refuses many of the zealous partyers eager to get into the club. The bass pounds through the metal floors, reverberating through her. The lights flash brightly, massive screens showcasing scantily clad asari maidens that writhe and dip along metal poles, skin glistening tantalizingly. A few of them set their sights on her but she's here for Shepard and no one else.
Miranda makes her way through the throngs of alien and human clubbers. A human male makes the mistake of grabbing her ass. Without a glance backward she snaps his wrist, his howls of pain easily swallowed by the deafening music. Miranda spots Shepard sitting in a plush chair, an asari gyrating her hips slowly in front of her. With a frown, she goes to them and stands there, looming. Shepard ignores her.
The asari has some resemblance to Liara T'Soni, her skin a pale blue hue, a splash of freckles dotting her cheeks. Her eyes, however, are innocent, unlike those of the woman Liara has become. "Shepard, we need to talk."
"Not right now, Miranda. Can't you see I'm busy?" Shepard picks up the tumbler beside her. It contains a swirl of several colors. Miranda's frown deepens as Shepard takes a sip. What the hell is she drinking? A bit of everything? And if she burns a bloody hole through her stomach by ingesting something meant for turians and krogans, they'll have to get one of the clones out of storage for a replacement.
"Leave us," Miranda tells the asari.
"No," Shepard says, grabbing hold of the asari's arm when she starts to go. Anger washes over Miranda, but she keeps her face composed. "I want you here all night." The asari hesitates but Shepard transfers credits over (the obscene sum comes up on Miranda's omni-tool) and the asari stays. "Take a hike, Miranda."
"You've wasted enough time on your hedonistic pursuits. I need to talk to you."
"Save your fancy words." She repositions herself on the seat, daring to bring her hands to the asari's hips. Shepard exhales slowly and even the asari dancer looks mesmerized by her. From the corner of her eye, Miranda can see a krogan bouncer to the left, and three human ones to the right, watching keenly. "If this is about your sister, don't bother." Miranda's throat clenches. "I'll be honest with you, Miranda. I don't like you. I don't trust you. I don't trust Cerberus. You may have brought me back but this is my operation and what I say goes. So fucking drop it," her fingers tease the shimmering, mauve undergarment the dancer wears.
"Shepard—" Miranda bites her tongue before she says something that will rub her the wrong way, that will turn Shepard entirely against her. She suspects that's already the case, but if it isn't, now is the time to be cautious. "I know you don't like me and you don't trust me. I hope that in time we'll give you reason to change your mind but this isn't about me. This is about an innocent girl—"
"She's your twin, right? Which means she's older than me. If she's as perfect as you think you are, she'll be able to handle an overbearing father."
The krogan and human bouncers are approaching. Miranda lowers herself, trying to keep her lip from twitching, fighting desperately to keep her voice even. "Damn it, Shepard, do you think I'd come to you for help if I thought she could handle it? Do you know how it kills me to ask?"
"Yeah," she grins, "I do."
"You owe me," she says heatedly.
"I don't owe you shit." Her fingers glide down along the asari's thigh. "I don't give a fuck what the Illusive Man thinks about you. You were here to bring me back. And you have. Thanks. I figure I stop the Collectors and save the world, we're more than even. So if that's all for now…? You should go."
Miranda steps back. The krogan and human bouncers have arrived, pulling the asari back from Shepard. Shepard stands. "Do we have a problem?" she asks, her smile casual, the skin around her eyebrow breaking open to reveal a burning beneath.
"We were just leaving," Miranda tells them. As satisfying as it would be to watch the krogan and humans beat Shepard down, she does know where her loyalties lie. Her grudge may not be a petty one, but Shepard's safety and health supersedes everything—including her own sister, no matter how it pains her.
"We weren't," Shepard says.
"No touching the merchandise," the krogan tells her loudly, his voice booming over the music. "Aria doesn't care who you are." Miranda glances over in her direction, wondering if Aria is taking an active interest in the events, but sees no sign of it.
"Are we going to have problem?" Shepard asks. Miranda wonders how much she's had to drink. The smell of it comes off of her skin and breath in waves. Omega isn't like Citadel clubs. These bouncers have weapons. The krogan isn't intimidated by Shepard, but the humans anxiously finger the guns at their side.
"Yeah, I think we're going to have a problem," the krogan steps forward, his head butting viciously against Shepard's. Shepard falls back but is back up in an instant, gun cocked, trigger finger squeezing—
"Shepard, no!" Miranda does not want to start a war with Aria T'Loak. Shepard may be insignificant to her but her word is law here. Some human pushing and breaking the rules, no matter if they happen to be Commander Shepard, would be enough to contract a hit on her. They're not even halfway through their mission. Aria is vicious and tenacious. Her meddling could interfere with the entire operation. Miranda shoves Shepard's hand. The bullet discharges into the wall and not the krogan as Shepard intended.
The men attack all at once but Shepard is quick, dodging the butt of the rifle coming to the back of her head and lifting an arm, sending a violent shockwave through the club. Scattering not only the men, it sweeps up some of the other patrons, sending them flying in all directions. She snaps forward like a rubber band, staggering the krogan with a biotic charge. He nearly falls over onto a stunned bachelor party, an asari hurriedly getting out of the way. The human bouncers rush her but Shepard takes her glass, smashing it into the face of one, blocking the swinging fist of another, giving him a hard kick to the balls and dropping him before snatching the assault rifle of the third and smashing it four consecutive times into his face. The noises he makes aren't even human anymore and he falls to the ground.
Miranda's eyes glow a startling blue in the darkness, already fearing the repercussions that could come from this. The clubbers are running in all directions and she sees those who aren't scared becoming hostile, reaching tentatively for the weapons tucked at their backs and sides. Miranda takes hold of Shepard's arm and pulls her. "We're leaving," she yanks her before shoving her ahead.
"Didn't want to stick around anyway," Shepard says, agreeing at last to go.
They make their way to the exit. Miranda's reservations grow. She feared Shepard wouldn't be up to the task, and that fear solidifies with every waking moment.