They're behind schedule. Some would argue there isn't a timeline set in stone. Miranda would beg to differ. She understands parameters and guidelines. She understands that some things are time sensitive. Currently, Collectors are abducting hundreds of thousands of humans. Their purpose has yet to be determined but Miranda doesn't need to know the why. Not yet. What she does need is for Commander Shepard to get off her ass and do what she was brought back for.
Miranda can't help but think of the time and expense poured into her, poured into bringing back a legend that is failing to meet expectations by a considerable margin.
The commander doesn't attend meetings, refuses to look over data that she and EDI have gathered. The only talents she appears to have are fighting, drinking and whoring. The situation is grim. Thus far she's only managed to secure Thane from the new batch of dossiers. Jacob is constantly at his throat and any attempts at getting Shepard to mediate the situation are met with indifference. Long as they're out in the field killing Collectors I don't care what they do on their off time.
Jacob has always played it on the straight and narrow. Miranda knows what kind of man he is. She understands his reservations and if she had the time, she'd be happy to discuss the issue with him. Ultimately, their squad is not negotiable. They may not be the best humanity has to offer—but they are the most qualified to accomplish their seemingly impossible mission. She thinks idly of the dossiers, and wonders how these individuals came to be selected for the mission. Miranda wasn't involved; the Illusive Man entrusted that task to someone else. They are tempered and cool, vicious and unforgiving. It doesn't matter as long as they are suitable.
Miranda's task was to recreate Shepard, to bring her back from oblivion, reconstruct her, make her whole again. She did that. So why does she doubt her work? Is it her fault that Shepard is meandering? She knows how the media and the Alliance will build someone up to surpass who they really are. Garrus appears satisfied. Maybe that's telling enough a sign. Yet, she can't let it go. It's why she goes to him.
The Illusive Man exhales cigarette smoke slowly. They're only interacting via holographic interface but Miranda remembers the sweet smell of his cigarettes, the bitter underlying scent. He rubs his temple gently with his index and middle finger. Miranda worries that she's the cause for his headache.
Miranda knows herself capable of quickly grasping the nature of a person moments within meeting them. That is always the case except for one: the Illusive Man. She knows little about him save for the vapid profile pieces several magazines have done, waxing poetic about his conquests at parties, how deep his pockets run, how stylishly he presents himself. But none of that matters and none of that is who he really is.
His eyes are machine-like. Miranda wishes she could look into his files, see in what ways he has been augmented. She knows no matter how high up on the chain she is, that is something she will never have access to.
He taps some ash into the ashtray, straightening his back, setting his eyes on her. "I understand you have concerns. But Shepard is performing as we expected." Miranda bites her tongue. "We didn't bring her back for her winsome personality. We brought her back because of what she could do. So far she's managed to find out the cause of the human abductions. The Collectors are a force to be reckoned with, but they haven't slowed her down."
"What about her excessive partying?" Miranda asks, barely able to keep her voice even. "The crew is at each other's necks. She's not providing any kind of leadership and she constantly works to undermine Cerberus. We should have implanted her with that control chip. We still can."
The Illusive Man takes another long drag of his cigarette, the bright red tip making his face appear warmer than it is. "It is your job to keep things under control, Miranda. That includes Commander Shepard." Smoke blows steadily from his nostrils before he crushes the cigarette. "If you can't do that, I'll find someone who can."
His hologram fidgets before fading away entirely, leaving Miranda in the dark.
Miranda doesn't lift her head when she hears the door open. It's 5:46 am and she's been up for an hour, trying to craft her latest report for the Illusive Man. He wants results and constant updates but things have slowed to a crawl since Horizon. Commander Shepard is more obstinate than ever, no matter how she swears that she's 'taking care of it.' Sometimes Shepard sits in the mess hall, wearing a Cerberus hoodie with the hood pulled over her head. She won't move for hours.
Miranda massages her forehead, finally turning to her visitor. Ah, Kelly Chambers. The redhead with the plastic smile and soft, encouraging voice. She was a member of the Lazarus Cell but the two rarely had any interaction during Shepard's reconstruction. Miranda isn't even sure she considers psychology a real science. Measurements and quantifiable results are fuzzy at best.
Miranda recalls nearly retching when the yeoman introduced herself to Shepard, laying it on so thick she nearly needed to be hosed down. "Shouldn't you be at your post?"
"I'm on my way," Kelly says. Unlike the other members of the crew, she isn't cowed by Miranda's persona and reprimands. It is unusual to meet someone who isn't intimidated by her. It leads Miranda to believe that there is more to the woman than meets the eye. She has looked at her records extensively. She was an exceptional student but Cerberus doesn't take an interest in anyone who isn't. For Cerberus and the role she has been granted on the Normandy, she is unexceptional. "Commander Shepard has 352 unread messages." Miranda waits. "I've reminded her. She isn't listening."
"What else?" she snaps.
"Morale is low. You above everyone know how the Lazarus Cell worked at resurrecting Commander Shepard. The crew expected… someone different." Kelly lifts her datapad, scrolling through it. "Jack has been asking to see Commander Shepard for weeks. As has Jacob. Grunt. Mordin. And now Thane." Miranda abandons the report, feeling a headache begin to throb at the base and corners of her skull. "I've analyzed their records and histories. I believe they are carrying past trauma with them that need to be resolved."
"Kelly, I have a great deal to do. Have you tried impressing the point on the Commander?"
"I have. Many times, in fact. The Commander is… forceful and at times… distracting."
So she's useless. Miranda bites back the comment. Kelly meets her gaze directly, no matter how Miranda scowls at her. Her eyes are stark like a porcelain doll's. "Kelly, I'm going to need you to maintain a professional relationship with the Commander from this point forward, is that clear? If you are unable to do so you will be relieved of your post." Kelly stares back at her. A moment later, she nods. Miranda narrows her eyes. "What is your assessment of her?"
"You've put me in a bit of a spot. I don't have all her notes." She straightens, folding her arms behind her and takes a breath. "Commander Shepard appears to be exhibiting a degree of troubling behaviors. She is reckless with her squad's feelings and has taken to drinking heavily. She engages in promiscuous sex, with many of the crew, in fact." Miranda is impressed that Kelly doesn't blanch at the words. "She's angry and resentful of our organization. She despises you and Jacob in particular, and has withdrawn from healthy social activity and any community supports. Overall she presents as depressed."
Miranda grits her jaw tightly, teeth grinding. This is everything she knew. Everything she feared. She may be exceptional with the hard lines and laws of science but human behavior is a murkier area than she is accustomed to dealing with. She cannot doubt Kelly's words. "This is going to present a problem."
"It already is, Ms. Lawson. I have received word from Kasumi Goto and Zaeed Massani, wondering if we are looking to breach the contracts we've made with them. Even breaking those contracts would cost Cerberus a sizable sum. Not to mention—"
"I know what the stakes are. Forward all those communications to me. I'll handle them. While you're at it, forward me everything you have on the current squad." If Shepard isn't ready to lead then she'll have to get used to Miranda taking the reins. It isn't what she wanted but taking authority fits her like a glove. At least this way she'll be sure it's done right.
You think I'd discuss anything with you? No fucking way. Miranda can't say she's surprised by Jack's reaction. The woman is a loose cannon and she doesn't trust Cerberus. The experiments Cerberus did on her were a tad extreme but they yielded results. Not that they will mean anything if she can't sort out whatever issues she's hung up on.
Mordin is more affable, taking a deep breath that signals that he is no doubt ready to talk at a rapid pace for a good chunk of time. Mordin is cold and calculating but Miranda has often been called the same. What matters is that he's brilliant. He's already saved them from the Collectors' seeker swarms. Prior to his involvement with this mission, he was instrumental in creating the genophage, saving the galaxy from krogan expansionism. He is necessary, not only to the mission, but to the world at large. "Former assistant. Maelon. On Tuchanka. Worried what Blood Pack will do. Cannot discover his work on the genophage project. Could result in Maelon's death. Worse, torture before death. Unacceptable. Must go to Tuchanka. Tried to tell Shepard. Shepard says 'not now, Mordin, busy.'" He takes another deep breath. Miranda sees herself reflected in his large, black eyes. "Would be favor to me."
And no matter how controlled the salarian scientist is, Miranda can see he's troubled, as well as the considerable effort it took to ask. Much like she asked for Shepard's assistance and was turned away time and time again. "No promises, Mordin but I'll see what I can do."
He appears somewhat satisfied with that and she moves along to Engineering. The tank-bred krogan they recovered from Warlord Okeer resides there. Grunt is a petulant child. He's been making a mess of the port cargo hold for days. She and EDI advised Shepard against opening his tank—Shepard went ahead and did whatever the hell she wanted, as is her habit—and has since ignored him. Miranda braces herself and enters the hold. She quickly sidesteps the vestiges of the tank that he throws in her direction. It crashes into the wall behind her with a splintering clang. "Oh. It's you." His baritone voice is filled with more anger than usual. He quickly stomps his way over to her, practically charging. Miranda doesn't flinch. "Heh. Thought a puny thing like you would go running." He lifts a massive hand dismissively. "Go away, Human. I don't want you. I want Shepard."
"Shepard isn't available. You'll have to work with me." What she doesn't tell him is that he's getting the better deal. EDI informed her that when Shepard let Grunt out of the tank she pointed a gun at him. Krogan don't have much luck around Shepard. And neither will anyone else if she doesn't snap out of whatever funk she's in and begin acting like a commanding officer. "Is there any reason you're tearing the ship apart?"
He stares at her for a long time, his clawed hands curling into fists. He snorts derisively, pacing, pacing. Each step he takes thunders beneath her like an earthquake. Grunt was bred in a tank. It's possible that Okeer made mistakes, that he isn't mentally fit or healthy. Krogan have a reputation for being violent and aggressive but not like this, not without reason. She is not like Okeer. Shepard is not like Grunt.
"Shepard promised me purpose. I am Krogan. I am strong. Stronger than the rest of the puny things on this ship. I was promised action. Enemies that threaten galaxies. But here I am. Still captive. No better than the Tank. I long to get my hands on our enemies. Tear those insects apart piece by piece. Crush their heads in my hands until their blood and bone—"
"If you have a point, get to it."
He looks offended. Lips thinning, hiding his jagged teeth. He snorts again derisively. It's almost comical. He lifts his head to look at her, then, pointedly, curls a fist and slams it into the window overlooking the hanger bay. Miranda mentally calculates the cost of the repair while spiderweb cracks form along the glass. "I am restless. Angry." She crosses her arms. "I will not be looked at by your human or salarian doctor. Only true krogan on Tuchanka can help me."
Great. Two of the crew wants to head to the wasteland that is Tuchanka. At the very least it will be only one stop and won't throw them entirely off course.
"I'll speak to Shepard," she tells him absently.
Through the spider-cracked glass she can see the crew gathered around two people tangled in combat. The krogan steps beside her to chuckle at the display. It's Shepard and Jacob. Some of the crew bring their hands to their faces and look away. Miranda swears inwardly, quickly making her way to the shuttle bay.
Crates are scattered in every direction, some ripped open, spilling over with spare Normandy parts: scraps, cogs, pipes. Shepard's hand is wrapped around the fabric of Jacob's uniform, before she brutally slams a fist into his face. Jacob falls to the floor, sliding back several feet. It's hard to make Jacob angry but even as the blood runs down his temple and nose, the area around his eyes already beginning to swell, Miranda can see that he's livid.
Their eyes meet and though Miranda stiffens, Jacob shakes his head. Shepard has her back to her, spine straight as a rod, bloody fists glowing blue. "Come on, Jacob. Is that all you got?" She advances. "I can't believe the Alliance would ever take an embarrassment like you. You're not even man enough to fight back."
"You're my commanding officer," he growls, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "We didn't spend two years bringing you back so I could put you right back into the ground."
"Oh, so you think you have what it takes." Shepard laughs bitterly. A metal pipe scrapes along the floor, grating until it flies into her hand. She wraps her fingers tightly around it. "I'm really hoping there's some fight in you somewhere. I hate putting down someone who won't even put up a fight."
Jacob is a proud man. Miranda knows why he won't let her intervene. But this is madness. What is he trying to prove? No doubt Miranda has convinced him about the success of the project. No doubt he thinks Shepard capable of what is demanded. He can't give her a kick of biotics—if she's the real thing and he snaps her neck he'll be taking out the galaxy's greatest hope against the Collectors.
Miranda looks around the shuttle bay. The crew is mortified, disgusted. This is their fearless leader? Not that she thinks Shepard fears anything. Maybe some fear is reasonable, necessary. Maybe it makes you moral. But who can stare death in the face, come back and be afraid of anything? Miranda takes a step forward. If only the Illusive Man hadn't ruled out the control chip. "Shepard. You're out of control."
"Stay out of this, Miranda," Shepard barks. "So help me God…" Shepard marches up to her, thrusting her face close; she hits Miranda with her spittle. "You bring me back to run this shit show," she hisses, "I expect the crew to follow orders. I want to get some energy out. I want to spar with your boy, I expect him to spar. Not this 'no, Ma'am, can't do that Ma'am' bullshit. Don't try to tell me you Cerberus assholes have some code of honor."
"We're here to support you on this mission, Shepard. No more. We're not punching bags," she lowers her voice, "for your tantrums. You're jeopardizing the mission." Shepard glowers, hot breath spilling over Miranda. Miranda's gaze is unwavering.
Shepard stomps off. Jacob's gotten to his feet. "Did I say you could get up?" she asks. She buries the end of the pipe into his stomach and he doubles over. She's raising the pipe over his head when Garrus' talons wrap around her arm. Shepard looks at him, furious and then mollified. Miranda thinks she must make up the shame and sadness that fills her features.
"That's enough for now," Garrus says. "You know he couldn't stand up to you if he tried." He keeps his hand wrapped around her arm until the fury of her eyes dies away. When he releases her, the pipe falls to the ground.
"Everyone, clear out," Miranda says. The Cerberus crew begins to gather and filter out of the shuttle bay area. Miranda watches over them. The amount of damage control she'll have to do is staggering. Jacob is limping but when she tries to get his attention he dismisses her before moving on, no doubt trying to salvage some bit of pride. Miranda gets to the elevator, stepping inside. Garrus is putting a hand to Shepard's shoulder when the elevator doors close; she looks tired and small.
I am sorry that we won't get to meet in person, though I believe I can tell you what needed to be said just as easily over email. Jane is gruff. That has always been her way. She is an exceptional woman but she has never been soft. At times, she could be cruel. I know what you're up against. You do need her. As far as I am able to tell, the project was a success. You have my thanks. Please take care of her.
Liara
Miranda reads the email again despite having memorized it the first time. One of her many talents that is currently proving useless. She begins to compose an email, intent on pressing for more details, but discards it. She knows that Liara and Shepard had a relationship. Liara's opinion is biased. The woman she loves is alive again. Of course she'd want to believe the best.
Maybe this is the best. Miranda tries to escape her doubts. She has researched all of Shepard's vids meticulously, combed through all the Alliance records. Such behavior was never documented. She had a reputation for being merciless on the battlefield but respected among the soldiers who served under her. There were no charges of dishonorable conduct anywhere.
She goes through Kelly's notes. Mental health trauma, PTSD, antisocial personality disorder, depression. All are speculations based on Shepard's experiences, on witnessed behavior. Once again, Miranda silently curses the open-endedness of psychology, how some diagnoses are given simply because others find the charge's behavior tedious and annoying. Miranda does not believe Shepard is a sociopath but the evidence is stacked against the both of them.
Her cabin door opens and Garrus enters, shadows filling his face, making every sharp angle stand out where the light touches. His eyes settle on her and Miranda detects his wariness. She nods to the chair opposite of her but Garrus remains where he stands. He clears his throat. "Whatever you have to say to me you can say it in front of Shepard."
"If you really thought that, why come alone?" Miranda asks. His mandibles flex. He sits. Miranda doesn't have a speech prepared. She doesn't need to get Garrus Vakarian on her side. She couldn't if she wanted to. She needs to get him on Shepard's side. She needs him to help her. "I don't need to tell you how Shepard's actions have been affecting the crew and this mission. You have eyes." He makes a sound. "What do you think?" He reaches out to pick up a mug on her desk, turning it, she thinks, in an attempt to bide time. His movements are careful. He sets it back on the desk but keeps his silence. "Can you tell me? Or do you need to get Shepard's permission?"
"You want something. It's all over your face. What a pity that all that gene tailoring has so little effect on turians," he sounds pleased with himself. Miranda won't engage him in debate. She knows to be grateful for what she has. She doesn't have to tell him how it's crushed her in the past, how it has molded others' expectations of her. "I guess you never thought you'd need it." Garrus looks down at the chair and re-situates himself, planting a taloned foot on the desk.
Miranda looks at it and back at his face. "You're avoiding the question."
"I don't trust you. So yes. I am."
Miranda leans forward on the desk, knocking his foot off. It lands with a slam to the floor. She doesn't withdraw. Garrus stretches his torso forward, eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't need you to trust me. You can but that's not what I'm asking for. You look me in the eye and tell me this is the Shepard you worked with to stop Saren. Tell me that her constant screwing around, literally, figuratively, is what it's going to take to stop the Collectors. If that's the case, get out of my office and we can all continue as we have. If you can live with that, then I'll have no choice but to do the same. But we can do better. She can do better."
"What do you want from me, Miranda?" he asks impatiently.
"We both know we can't continue as we have. If you don't know that, that rocket hit you harder than I thought." Miranda pulls back at the same time that he does. His mandibles twitch. He is getting antsier by the second and Miranda knows that any misstep will turn him against her entirely and could sabotage the rest of the mission. Once again, she's forced to swallow her pride. "Shepard respects you." He gazes at her, eyes predatory. "I am working around the clock to clean up her messes. Whenever we land, she starts a brawl. She isn't tending to the squad, she isn't even bothering to build our team," frustration squeezes her voice. Garrus blinks. "You stopped her in the shuttle bay. She needs your help. She isn't willing to listen to me."
"You're an outspoken advocate for a terrorist organization that dogged us years ago. We saw the reprehensible experiments you were running. On your own kind. Makes the whole 'humanity first' schtick you put out there seem full of shit. She'd be crazy to trust you."
Miranda's mood darkens. No matter what she does, no matter what she says, Cerberus' reputation will continue to cause setbacks. "I can provide unlimited resources and support but none of that matters. You're right. I am the face of Cerberus. You're not. You're Archangel. Cleaning up the scourge of Omega."
"Cut the sales pitch, Miranda, I know who I am."
Miranda's never been one to stroke egos. She's happy to move on. "Fine. The Collectors are abducting human colonies. Maybe you don't care about that but you must care about the Reapers. They're not gone. They're biding their time. And at the rate we're going we'll never be ready. Shepard listens to you. If we are to stand any chance against them we'll need her. Help her. Help us all."
Garrus stands. Miranda thinks he's smiling. "Coming to a turian for help because you think you screwed it all up and you can't control your pet project." Garrus laughs. Miranda gets to her feet, fingers flat on the desk, eyes hard as flint. She refuses to believe that he's this stupid. "This must be killing you." He slaps his hands down beside hers, making the mug and the books rattle. Miranda notices how his talons scratch into the desk. "Things must be serious." He cocks his head to look at her. "I'll help. Not for you. If Shepard asked, I'd put a knife in your back. I owe her that much. I find you're jerking me around? She won't have to ask."
"Try it," she says through clenched teeth.
His eyes go cold, mandibles flicking two hard clicks, huffing. Then he's gone, disappearing back to the bowels of the ship.
Commander Shepard is behind schedule. It affords Hope and the clone more time to prepare. On the other hand, the Collectors are gathering people en masse. Humanity can't afford to waste time. If this continues there won't be any 'humanity' left. She reads through the data packets she's received from the Normandy, silently thanking the pioneer of quantum entanglement communications for enabling untraceable transmissions. Certainly nothing EDI would be able to pick up.
Hope smiles indulgently, wondering if The Illusive Man's pet has realized that she brought back the wrong person. Hope doesn't want Shepard to fail. She acknowledges that the clone isn't ready yet to tackle the Collectors. Commander Shepard is only a stand-in, the study, until the clone is ready to make her debut. Knowing that doesn't make her any less giddy about Miranda's failure.
She turns on the television, punching in the appropriate set of numbers for the vidcall. Three rings in and she sees a haze of white noise and a woman wrapped in inky shadows, hood masking the majority of her features except for an impish smile. "Whoever this is, I'm impressed. Now tell me who you are and how you managed to get through my firewalls to actually connect with me."
Hope reclines on the couch, smiling. "On top of the rose you've added a hood to your repertoire? How very cloak and dagger of you."
"Sasha?" Kasumi clears up the white noise and pushes the hood back from her face. Hope hasn't seen Kasumi in years but the woman hasn't aged a day, looking as young as she did the last time the two saw one another. "I'll be damned. It's really you." She ties her hair up and leans into the desk she has her computer mounted on. "It's been a while. Still up to your old tricks?"
"I don't know any other way."
The two spent some of their teenage years together, breaking and entering into the homes of the affluent. Kasumi preferred to take artworks: paintings, sculptures, renowned handwritten novels. She'd always had an appreciation for beauty, for the way a piece of art could evoke emotion, could trigger feelings and memories long forgotten and buried. Hope had been more practical, enjoying, instead, finding quick buyers, putting potential clients in a bidding war, extracting the largest possible amount of money she could from them before moving on and doing it again. The thrill was breaking in and getting away, the excitement was rendering security systems obsolete.
Kasumi could always dismantle them. Breaking through firewalls became so commonplace it became boring. When Kasumi began teaching Hope some of her tech savvy, they really had to step up their game to get their thrills. Eventually Kasumi began daring them to break into places, security systems intact. It was reckless but it was fun. Sometimes alarms would be triggered. Getting in would be the easy part. Getting out would be fun. They had close calls with the authorities but they never got caught. They would return to one of their apartments (or just break into somebody else's) and laugh, drink, party and begin to plot their next excursion.
They eventually parted ways; Kasumi choosing to build a collection of priceless artworks and focus on Keiji, who they met towards the end of their time together. No longer able to sell off the works they acquired together, they had some small argument and stopped working together. When the Illusive Man told Hope that he needed strong, creative, exceptional individuals to stop whatever force it was that was taking human colonies, Kasumi naturally came to mind.
"You were always a bit of a troublemaker. That's probably why we got along so well," Kasumi admits.
"I heard about Keiji," Hope says. Kasumi's eyes flick to the side, no doubt thinking of him, full lips thinning slightly. "I'm sorry." Kasumi nods and Hope knows that Kasumi doesn't want to get into it. Kasumi was always endlessly energetic and cheerful but more reserved about personal matters. "You've built up quite the reputation. What are you doing with yourself these days?"
"Sitting on my ass waiting for the great Commander Shepard, apparently," she says, some irritation touching her voice. So her informant is right, then. Kasumi Goto isn't on the Normandy yet.
"I thought Commander Shepard was dead," Hope says dutifully.
"You'd think that. A few months ago I was made an offer I couldn't refuse. The credits on this thing alone is more than anything we ever managed to collect in all the years we worked together," Kasumi teases a finger along her lips thoughtfully. Hope makes a sound to convey that she's impressed by the sum though she knows what it is. "I honor my contracts. But do you know how much work I've had to pass up waiting for this?"
"You've never been a patient girl."
"Yeah, I get carried away," she grins, "but… it isn't about the credits. This Commander Shepard is going to help me get back Keiji's graybox. I'd do it for that alone," she puts a hand to her mouth as if to whisper, "but don't tell them that."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
She lifts her head, staring curiously. "Hey. Who's that standing behind you?"
Hope kills the vidcall and looks back. The clone is there, a bowl of cereal in hand. Hope frowns. The clone moves more and more quietly by the day. Hope imagines that she should be impressed but it can be disconcerting when she isn't expecting her. The clone crashes on the couch next to her, chewing thoughtfully on star-shaped cereal with moon marshmallows. "Who was that?" the clone asks.
"A future squad member, if all goes according to plan." She rests against the armrest of the couch, appraising her. The clone has a fondness for tank tops and hoodies, particularly the old Cerberus one Hope threw at her long ago. "Don't come out if you hear me on a vidcall." The clone shrugs. "We can't have you discovered just yet."
"If She's the fake why do I have to hide?"
"Because you aren't ready. And you have a face that will launch ships," Hope smiles wryly to herself, thinking how much easier things will be once they get the clone on the Normandy. That won't be for some time yet. Hope is careful in her plotting of time. It would not be good to rush ahead. That was another disagreement she and Kasumi often had. Hope liked to meticulously plan. Kasumi enjoyed leaving things to chance. There's a beat. "I've found a viable N7 alternative for you. It's more of a preparation for the program, just as arduous. More so, sometimes. It comes with a big price tag. I think you're worth the investment." The clone finishes the bowl of cereal, setting it down on the coffee table and watching her. "That's what I've been working on for the past few weeks. Getting your application in order, ironing out all the little details of your life."
"Little details…?" The clone takes the datapad that Hope passes to her. She scrolls through the data for several minutes, brow knit thoughtfully before her jaw clenches. "None of this is true." Panic begins to flare along her features and Hope, for the life of her, can't figure out why. She thrusts the datapad back at her and Hope takes it without thinking.
"We can't put down Commander Shepard's information. And you don't have nearly enough to fill out thirty-two years worth."
"Is that how old I am?"
Hope hesitates. "Yes."
"Why don't I remember anything? Why isn't it already written somewhere? Why do we have to make up everything about me as if I don't exist?"
The clone's anxiety grows with every question she asks, her eyes mercilessly boring into Hope's, demanding answers that Hope isn't ready to give, that the clone isn't ready to hear. Hope has always found comfort in the noncommittal nature of aliases. How bothersome that the clone seeks so strongly to hold on to an identity, reacts to it like some child with a safety blanket. "This is only temporary. You won't go without an identity for too much longer." It's true, in a sense. When she assumes the role of Jane Shepard, she won't go without an identity ever again.
The clone narrows her eyes. "You're talking about Her, aren't you?"
"Don't act like a child," Hope says. The clone's hazel eyes are near-green. She no longer bristles with biotic power but Hope feels the hair of her arms stand on end with the energy the clone gives off. Hope throws the datapad at her and stands. "Feel free to pick out a name for yourself. That's the last part of your application." The clone gets to her feet, datapad in hand, staring at it as if it were some holy relic. "You don't have to do it right away. Sometimes it takes hours to choose just the right name. Whatever you pick, don't get attached. It won't be who you are. Not really."
She walks away, hoping to read more of the data that is constantly streaming in. If only she had a network like the Shadow Broker's. Everything would be infinitely easier. It might, in some ways, be dull but she can't argue that it wouldn't be efficient. She's nearly to the bedroom door when she's spun around and pressed hard against the wall. Hope feels the particular texture of this wall press against her back, the small ridges of the paint, the tiny, pointed edges.
The clone holds her there and Hope doesn't try to get loose, knowing she won't go free unless the clone lets her. The clone presses her forearm to Hope's chest, pinning her down. Hope looks steadily into her eyes as the clone's chest rises and falls, as her eyes take on a hint of blue. "Well then." Hope says. "What are you going to do?"
The clone is remarkably strong. The pressure of the clone's arm against her chest is like some crushing vise. The clone presses her mouth to Hope's, a clumsy attempt at reproducing what she has no doubt seen on her many vids. Though the clone has forcefully held her down, her kiss is gentle.
Hope lets it happen without reciprocating until the clone pulls back, looking pitiful and sad. Hope cocks her head, chin tilted up and looks at her. The clone's expression changes from sadness to anger. "Kiss me back," the clone says. Her voice shifts from soft, to hard and authoritative, so fluidly it always takes Hope aback. Hope says nothing. The clone presses their faces together, her arm more tightly against her than ever. "Open your mouth and kiss me back." It's a demand.
When the clone kisses her again, Hope closes her eyes and parts her lips. The clone kisses her deep, her tongue hot and electric against her own. It tastes like sugar. The marshmallows, Hope thinks absently. Eventually the arm pinning Hope falls away. Hope is left with a near-paralyzing heat threading like a current through her. Their mouths separate and the clone looks at her intently. "I am not a child."
She leaves her there, returning to the datapad on the couch. Hope, trying to even her breathing, retires to the bedroom to catch up on her reading.