It isn't the blare of the cab alarm that wakes Hope, or even the garish neon-colored lights blinking frenetically outside the window. The clone is on the bed beside her, fingers trailing feather-lightly along her face, rousing her to wake. Hope's never been a deep sleeper and these days she has more reason than ever to be cautious and on the alert.
The clone has not kissed her again, nor has Hope thought to press their lips together. The clone, however, has moved back into the bedroom, often complaining of uncomfortable couches and the importance of being well-rested. Hope calls bullshit but not to the clone's face. The clone has been relatively well-behaved despite the mounting hunger in her eyes when she looks at Hope.
Hope can see the advantages of having the clone in her thrall. What she sees more clearly, however, are how the clone's affections could impede their progress and make them both soft. Hope can further admit, when she's alone and aching for more adult company, how convenient it would be to have a woman who was all in one: the savior of humanity, protégé, lover, equal. These thoughts are brief and discarded as whimsies. It doesn't work like that, nor can it for a very long time, if ever.
This is the first time the clone has dared lay hand on her since the kiss. The action confused and shook Hope. It was a sign of aggression, of dominance. That was the arm. Her mouth was something else. It was what marks the clone as soft and weak, no matter how Hope may have taken any other and maneuvered them to the wall, to claim their mouth again.
The clone's eyes are half-closed, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the thoughtful expression on her face. Hope straightens her back, shifting slightly to face her. The clone responds by easing Hope's hair back behind her ear. She scoots closer, fingers tickling along Hope's hand, lips hovering over Hope's own.
"Today's the big day," Hope says, her voice foggy with sleep.
It has the intended effect, to dislodge them both from the charged moment, and replace it with the slow dawn of their good news. Today is the big day. They will take a shuttle to the Elite training academy, operated by CAT6. Former Alliance special forces, including some N6s and N7s, work there as instructors. Like the N-School, it is an honor and a privilege to be accepted. Unlike the N-School, the missions are real from the get-go and students are sent out to the front lines. Instructors are harsh and unsympathetic. Most students leave and are ridiculed for it. Some die. Hope has made it clear that the clone is to complete her training and do so in exemplary fashion.
"I'll have a name. I'll make my name." The clone smiles though Hope frowns. The clone had taken an inordinate amount of time choosing her name. As much as Hope would like for her 'alias' surname to be 'Shepard,' she knows it can't be risked. The two women are identical.
"It's not your real name," Hope reminds her gently. The clone, unfortunately, is more receptive to softly cloaked words than hard edges of anger.
"Say it. Say my name." It isn't a demand. It's a request. Hope smiles wryly, thinking of her naiveté. She pushes the chocolate colored strands from the clone's face and breathes her name. It isn't a sign of intimacy. Hope doesn't want to declare it too surely. The clone smiles, her touch whispering along Hope's skin again, leaving a trail of fire.
Hope's brow furrows further at her body's betrayal. She puts a hand to the clone's chest. "Let's get ready." The clone stares at her before happily leaving the bed and starting to gather her things.
The shuttle circles the black sky, stars bright and pulsing. The air is howling, making the shuttle rock back and forth. A storm's moving in. There's nowhere to land. The clone slips into the parachute, anticipating the sudden movements and adjusting, maintaining her balance.
When she's finished making adjustments to the belts and harness, she grabs onto an overhead handle and looks at Hope, seemingly lost. Hope smiles inwardly. It wasn't so long ago that she was excited. Now she can see nerves are starting to take over.
Hope takes a breath and begins to double-check the parachute, testing the buckles, seeing if everything is cinched tightly enough. She almost spills out the open door but the clone quickly wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. Hope swears inwardly but allows it, quickly finishing her inspection before dropping her hands from the harness.
The clone doesn't release her. "What will you do?" She averts her eyes. "I won't see you for months."
"I'll keep myself occupied, as you will. It won't seem as if any time has passed at all."
"I don't see why I have to do this."
"You've been looking forward to this for weeks," Hope points out. The clone frowns, still refusing to face her. Hope notices the looks the agitated pilot keeps giving them. They're wasting fuel circling like this while the clone decides to suddenly have doubts. Hope touches the clone's face delicately but still she doesn't look at her. "Grace." That's the trick. The clone turns to her, eyes baring her emotions. So many of them. So many Achilles' Heels. "It doesn't matter what you have to do down there. All that matters is that you come out on top and you come back to me safe. All right?"
Grace nods. Hope presses her lips to the clone's and kisses her hot and carnal. Incentive. The clone is taken aback. She learns quickly and gingerly brings her hands to Hope's face. The action releases Hope from her hold and the kiss continues feverishly until Hope feels the fire forming in her belly.
She shoves Grace out of the shuttle before it can spread. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, trying to take the chill of the night into her. When she looks out the shuttle door, she can only see black and the tops of trees. Hopefully the clone won't be speared on one of them. Hopefully she'll return stronger and colder than ever.
She grips the shuttle door handle and slams the door shut.
The first ninety-six hours are spent in a four-by-four cell with concrete floors and walls. There's a toilet but there's no bed. Bright fluorescent lights glare down at her. She isn't allowed to sleep. Soldiers, or wardens, the clone can't decide, enter the cell in blue and grey camouflaged fatigues, prodding her with the end of their rifles every time she starts to drift off. She wonders why Hope put her here. Why she has to be here. Everything moves in slow motion, frame-by-frame, in an array of bright colors.
She rests against the wall, eyes raw and stinging.
She loses track of time. All she has are the walls and the mud and dirt that caked to her arms and legs when she landed. One moment she closes her eyes. The next there's a glass of water, reminding her that her throat is dry as the desert. Two uniformed guards stand at the door.
"Drink up, Morgan," they say, their voices thin behind their helmets. "Your throat must be hurting by now."
She reaches for the glass.
"All of this can be over. One sip and you're out of the program."
She hesitates.
"Most of the guys who came in with you are gone." He whistles. It sounds strange and eerie. "No shame in throwing in the towel." One of the soldiers picks up the glass and moves it closer to her. She pulls back, wrapping her arms around her knees.
"Ah, she's tough," the other says with a laugh. "Looks kinda like Shepard Jr., doesn't she?"
The other soldier laughs derisively. "Fuck Shepard. Bitch slugged me once for putting a hand on a recruit's ass."
The clone perks to attention but they exit, slamming the door behind them. They leave the glass of water.
Time begins to lose meaning. Her mouth continues to dry, her saliva becoming thick and mucous-like. She swallows desperately and stares at the glass of water. A headache that feels like the crack of a rifle hilt on her skull emerges. She starts to hear things. She makes herself focus.
She toys with the memory of Hope's lips, full and soft against her own. But even that isn't enough to distract her, to keep her awake, to fight the pain that has seized her stomach. She's so hungry she retches but there's nothing to throw up, leaving her throat coated with acid.
The guards always come the instant she turns. Now, beside the glass of water, a plate of food. Looks like dog food, smells like heaven. She thinks, idly, that if they asked her to kill for a plate of food she would do it.
They open the small window to her door. "Eat up if you want out of the program, Morgan. Hardly any of you recruits left now." His expressionless helmet bores into her. She crawls closer and hears Hope, hears the anger and disappointment in her voice if she takes a drink, if she eats. What does she want her to do? Does she want her to die in here? She feels like she's dying. She knows that she's dying. Her face feels jagged. She picks up the plate and throws it against the door. She does the same with the glass, to fight temptation. Glass litters the floor. Brown meat slides in chunks against the wall and onto the floor.
She paces. She watches the door whir open an unidentifiable amount of time later. Another plate of food. Another glass of water. She shakes. How long will they keep her in here? Is it a joke? Is this a trick? Did Hope send her here to kill her? Why not do it herself? Why do it at all?
Another prodding guard. "Keep those eyes open, Morgan." They shake her shoulders, keeping her awake. She wonders if she's supposed to kill them. Is she supposed to kill them? She could kill them, take one of their uniforms, sneak out. Eat. She could eat.
You can't go anywhere. You're not finished. She isn't sure when Hope walks in. She does. Straddles her. Kisses her. Puts her hands beneath her shirt, ripping it off. She wants her. More than that fucking glass of water. More than food. More than air.
She blinks at the sound of water. Lifts her face. Warmth. A soldier is relieving himself at her feet. He notices her noticing, faces her. Looks at her. The clone doesn't know how but she knows he's watching. He shifts, standing straighter, flaccid penis in hand, pissing on her chest and arms. "Thought you needed a shower, Shepard Jr.," he says.
The door shuts with a clank. The clone hears laughter and turns. There's no one else. She walks on hands and knees, over the piss to the water and food. She stays on hands and knees, as if in prayer.
Go ahead, Grace. It's all right.
It sounds just like her. It feels just like her. Nibbling on her ear. But Hope would never tell her to alleviate the pain. Hope would never just let it stop. Hope likes to hurt her.
No, that isn't true.
Hope wants her to be strong. She doesn't feel strong. She buckles to the floor, her lips cracking and bleeding. Her mouth is like sandpaper. And her cell smells like piss. She smells like piss. She thinks, idly, about killing all of them. She could do it. She could do it.
"Keep those eyes open, Morgan!" She hears a guard shout and bang repeatedly against the door until her ears ring. It's only when the turian and batarian rush in, pinning her to the wall that she screams, swinging her fists wildly, slamming them into the walls, punching, punching until her arms are sore, until her knuckles are bleeding, until they're juice at her feet, smears on the wall.
Every visual is a snapshot. She gasps and heaves, throat tasting of blood. They're not there. They're not there. She goes to the door, bangs against it, starts to shout that they let her out. Bites the words back somehow. They leave another plate of food and water.
She's rocking back and forth, head in her hands when she hears the grinding of gears. The door to the cell rolls smoothly open and clanks to a final position. "Morgan, Grace!" The soldier bellows. Grace looks up at him. He wears a helmet, the blue lights making his eyes luminescent blue orbs. He flings a duffle bag at her. "Congratulations, maggot. Time to run laps." She stares at him. Her legs feel numb. "Are you deaf?" His voice is hollow and far away. "On your feet!"
She stands, feeling like air, legs rubbery. The duffle bag weighs over one hundred pounds. She's lightheaded but straps it on over her shoulders. "Move it!" he shouts, crowding behind her, pushing her and though his face is covered, she can nearly feel his spittle along her face and neck. She wonders if she's hallucinating.
The following weeks are grueling. They train in the scalding heat, in rain that falls so hard it feels like needles piercing the skin. They go twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three hours a day, sleeping only an hour or two before doing it all over again.
Day by day their numbers fall. Those who remain have shadows under their eyes and any shine or spark that was once to be had fades to something cold and metallic. People collapse in the middle of runs, their legs giving out from beneath them, faces buried in the mud, their packs holding them down. Sometimes they suffocate that way. Sometimes their hearts just give out.
They aren't allowed to linger. "Move it, Morgan! Move, move, move!" shouted into her ears until they ring. She moves because Hope would want her to move. Hope would want her to forget the person in the muck. She doesn't always agree with her. Grace doesn't think a person should be reduced to the sum of their parts; to just a body.
The instructors are unforgiving. They hang candidates upside down by their legs, blindfold and spin, push, punch, kick and give them a gun, give them their mark. Disoriented and hurting, they have one second to take the shot. If they miss, they're out. If they don't shoot, they're out. If they kill someone, they're out. They lose a few that way, errant bullets striking into skulls and spines. Some leave on stretchers, others in body bags. Goodbyes are forbidden.
Grace gets through. By the skin of your teeth, Volkova hisses at her. Grace ignores her. Volkova doesn't like anyone.
They have ten minutes for chow time, each of the candidates ripping eagerly into the MREs that are provided. Grace uses the plastic fork to touch the crumbling, too-dry rice. A bite verifies that it has no taste. She tears open a few salt and pepper packets but they do little to help.
Floyd takes a seat beside her, uninvited. He's a senior candidate, tall with wide shoulders and bigger arms than she's ever seen. He's got a dark head of hair and a trim beard. His eyes are grey. His smiles are easygoing. She sees candidates watch him during chow time. Other candidates avoid his gaze. They say he keeps trophies from missions.
Grace ignores him, finding battle a far more familiar language than casual conversation. Fortunately there's been little time for talk. Chow time is ten minutes. It always feels like an eternity. It's easier when Hope talks at her. How is Hope? Where is Hope?
"I've been watching you," Floyd says. Grace doesn't remember his first name. It might be Jack or Jeff. Jason? "You're not bad for a woman." He pauses. Is it supposed to be a compliment? "They weren't kidding about the resemblance." Grace buries the fork in the rice and has another bite to discourage conversation. He touches her hair and she slaps his hand away. He lifts his arms in surrender. "Settle down," he smiles.
She means to tell him not to touch her. Instead, she stands, taking her tray with her, dumping it and exiting the mess. She regrets it later, when her stomach clenches in hunger.
They sleep in what look like cells but are really just concrete holes in the wall with rolling mats on the floor. Grace wakes one night to squashed groans and follows the sound. It turns out to be nothing. Volkova has a gagged, shirtless candidate cuffed to a pipe in the wall, his arms crudely tied with plastic zip ties. The naked light bulb swings overhead, flickering like a firefly.
There's a collection of knives on the floor, some of the blades red and wet. Grace has heard Volkova has a thing for them. Volkova's eyes burn, entranced as she draws the blade slowly along his stomach. His skin flushes red with blood. He strains against his restraints, pulling at the pipe, another groan ripping through him before he convulses.
Grace's shadow swings from side to side on the wall. It's only then that Volkova notices her. "Training," she says to Grace in her thick, Russian accent. Volkova is a senior candidate. It does seem like a quirk of the program.
Shrugging, she leaves them. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the man's groans. She grasps at the small time left for her to sleep and catches it for a few minutes. She wakes with weight on her chest, a hand to her forehead, a knife to her neck. Volkova's eyes are pale and blue, like a husk's. "If you think to spy on me again," she says quietly, "I will rip your fucking throat open."
Grace doesn't move. She wonders if she misinterpreted the situation earlier. Her heart batters against her chest. "All right," she finally says. It's what Hope has liked for her to say. It has a disarming finality to it, the white flag of conversations. Volkova narrows her eyes to slits, her eyes every bit as sharp as her knives. She's pulled her weight off the clone when Grace springs, grabbing fierce hold of the knife arm and slamming Volkova face first into the wall. She hears a crunch. Volkova makes a pained sound, more beautiful than any sonata. Her knife clatters to the floor. Grace brings her lips to Volkova's ear. "And if you come near me with your little toys again? I'll turn you into a fucking knife holder. All right?"
Volkova scampers out like a dog with its tail between its legs. Grace shakes but she doesn't sleep. She'd expected this sort of behavior from aliens, not humans. It's disconcerting.
They're placed into squads of four. Grace is the junior candidate. Floyd and Volkova are the team leads. Volkova's face, usually the color of lilies, is bruised and colorful, nose twisted where it wasn't before. She glares at her but doesn't talk to her unless she has to. Grace doesn't acknowledge that anything happened.
The other candidate is one that Grace hasn't met before: Santos. Tall, blond and with a dash of stubble, he has the look of an actor in vids. He sits next to her on the bucket seat of the shuttle and she braces herself for what is sure to be another arduous exercise in socializing. "You don't talk much," he says. Grace plants her back firmly against the seat and draws a slow breath. "What's your story, Shepard Jr.?" Her jaw tenses and he smiles good-naturedly. "Hey, it's not an insult."
Floyd stands some feet away, hanging onto an overhead handle. He's a tower of menacing muscle. The other candidates whisper that he's on the juice, that most of the candidates are. Shreds of jealousy and worry creep through their voices. His scores are intimidating. Floyd wears a helmet with black lights where his eyes should be. Lumps of coal. Grace feels his eyes on her and shifts. "I have a name." It's temporary and she'll have to give it up. The thought rips at her, making her feel hollow.
Santos laughs. "You can bet your ass I'd take 'Shepard' if I could. Heard she's back. Alliance gave her up for dead." Grace shrugs in response, her stomach churning. "They give up on everyone before their time," bitterness colors his words but the shuttle rocks to a stop and they're all on their feet.
Volkova and Santos rush out. Grace can feel the icy air settle against her hardsuit. Floyd crushes Grace's arm before she can step out. "You're on me," he says. Grace tries to yank her arm away but he holds on tight.
They storm freighters, appearing from nowhere and commandeering air ships. They raid slaver bases—kill a lot of batarians that way. They lose themselves in sweltering jungles, finding pockets of smuggled arms and ammunition, worth a fortune to some. Turians are hard to kill but Floyd doesn't ever stop. He plants his knee on their necks, taking a knife from his back and hacking away at their mandibles while they scream. Grace is torn. Floyd whistles cheerily.
It's mission after mission, planet after planet. Some are icy, others so dry their noses start bleeding once they step out of the shuttle. They dive through oceans, parachute onto military bases. They rearrange power balances. Blow up a lot of shit.
Sometimes they board discarded freighters in zero gravity. One time they find geth. The squad looks to Grace as if she's supposed to have answers. She takes lead, more out of instinct than any know how. They get out alive and Grace is happy to share something in common with Shepard, despite her shadow hanging over her like the Grim Reaper.
They can't stop long.
They have orders. Some follow better than others. Volkova still prefers her knives. She's small and quick and can sneak up on a man, bleeding him dry before he realizes he's been cut.
Santos prefers to choke them out, his captive's legs kicking at the air, Santos' face going as red as his prey's before they go still and he lays them carefully to the ground. Grace thinks that's nicer. Polite and clean.
They move through corridors, hallways, deserts, fortresses, in teams of two. All Floyd needs is a hit to the throat to crush a windpipe. He likes that. He's surprisingly quiet for a large man, taking a person's head in his hands and twisting until there's a snap and they crumple like a doll.
Grace learns not to rely on her biotics. They aren't always an option. Too loud and flashy. For stealth missions, she brings an M-11 Suppressor pistol, stolen from an Alliance armory. With it, she removes the heads of enemy targets with whisper-quiet precision shots. An homage to Hope, maybe. Grace feels remorse that there isn't a higher power she believes in, to send them on their way with prayers. Maybe she only feels guilty. She was told to do whatever it takes. She will do whatever it takes.
They're mercenaries. They're pirates. No matter their alignment, it requires the spilling of blood. Sometimes they're heroes. Sometimes they're terrorists. It makes Grace feel a little bit like Commander Shepard. Maybe that was the whole point anyway.
Sleep is impossible to find. Unauthorized outgoing communications are blocked. Grace has been away from Hope almost as long as she was with her. Every base they hit becomes a tomb, bodies stinking up the air until they wait for their next objective.
Grace walks the blood-splattered hallways, listening to the hollow echoes of her steps. A sound puts her instantly on alert and she narrows her eyes, thinking that it's impossible they missed someone. Thorough. They must be thorough. She withdraws the sidearm and presses to the wall, rounding the corner. A tangle of bodies. No, two.
Volkova. Santos. She's on top. His arms are wrapped around her back as she pivots her hips with purpose. She notices that Volkova's normally tied-up hair is long, loose, flaxen in the light, before she realizes what it is that she's walked in on. Her mouth is arid. There's something primitive about the act. Suddenly she's assaulted by facts, triggered, as they usually are, by visual or auditory cues.
She's entranced, against her better nature, incapable of looking away from the two, carved as if from marble, infinitely softer. When Santos sees her, Grace flushes with hot shame, her body electric as a live wire. He doesn't turn his eyes, nor does he cease his activity. Grace wonders if this is what friends do, what they share, why neither of them can look away, why Santos becomes more passionate still. It confuses her and she turns sharply, running into a wall. No, not a wall.
Floyd, who takes her and pins her to the actual wall. There's a rod in the front of his pants, large, menacing, pressing to the inside of her thigh through their pants. He slams her wrists above her head, gripping her painfully. Panic shoots into her like a knife but she buries it and meets his eyes. They're like glass. "Touch it," he says.
Grace almost asks what 'it' is and is somewhat relieved she doesn't, having had enough embarrassing social faux pas. Cold settles over her like frost, burrowing into her like worms. Her heart batters against her chest, her pulse so loud she can barely hear herself. "No." He squeezes her wrists harder. They'll be black in the morning, she realizes. Another attempt to pull them away fails. She breathes in slowly through her mouth, making herself calm. "Take it out," she says calmly.
He smiles. Handsome. He keeps her arms pinned with one hand and undoes his belt, zipper with the other. He takes it out. Santos has vid-star looks, Floyd has porn-vid appendages. Some part of her registers that he's amply sized, nothing to be ashamed about. He holds it out to her, like a diploma. Some rite of passage. She smiles a little at that and he smiles further, pleased, a measure of relief playing on his features.
"My hands," she reminds him. He lets her go, his legs shoulder width apart. She brings her hand to it experimentally. She's seen videos but it isn't as if she's ever done this. No, she must have, she corrects herself, she just doesn't remember. That's what Hope would say. His penis throbs in her hand and she gives it a few strokes. He groans before taking her hand, roughly spitting on it and bringing it back down. Somehow that's more offensive than anything.
A few more strokes, a few soft swear words and then he calls her Shepard. Not Morgan, not Grace, not Shepard Jr. It has its advantages. She can pretend she's someone else. She reminds herself to apologize to Hope for crushing her to a wall. It had felt natural and good but it was out of line. She hadn't known that then but she knows it now. Things must be consensual. She understands that Floyd hasn't given her a choice.
She strokes one more time and then twists her hand savagely. He screams. "You crazy—!" Another twist and he's on his knees, useless, moaning painfully. "Jesus, fuck—," incomprehensible language. Tears spring to his eyes.
She brings her lips to his ear. "If you come near me again outside of a mission I'm going to take your dick as a trophy and feed it to the varren on the next shit-hole planet we land on."
She's still gripping him when Volkova and Santos rush out in a panic, guns at the ready.
The Mako is impossible to drive. It's a shitty, heavy clunker that manages to be flimsy at the same time. Santos sits beside her in the front, gripping the handlebar above him for dear life. He'd tried apologizing for the incident with Volkova but Grace stopped him, not knowing what there was to apologize about.
They grind over an icy mountain. The vehicle flips on its side. "Goddamn it, Shepard!" Volkova shouts at her from the back seat as Floyd slams into her.
"It's Morgan," Grace won't apologize when none of the bastards bother to use her name. "You try driving this piece of shit." She pushes a few buttons, sweating as she maneuvers it back onto its wheels. They continue the slow push up the mountain, the vehicle rolling onto its roof several times due to its flimsy mechanics. Floyd and Volkova become more vocal by the moment. Santos gives her strained, encouraging smiles.
"You're going to fucking kill us before we get to the distress beacon," Floyd shouts at her.
Grace squares her shoulders and ignores him, managing to get them down to the other side of the mountain. The land is vast and flat, an unending sea of hard ice that glitters blindingly in the pale sun. Santos pulls a pair of sunglasses from his suit and puts them on, grinning at her. Grace smiles without knowing it. "Maybe you should drive," she tells him.
"Enough chatter, let's get moving," Floyd complains. He's been a dick since Grace nearly snapped his off. The Mako whines its way forward, kicking up chunks of ice as it forges forward. They drive for what seems like forever before Floyd signals to stop.
They slip into their helmets and clamber out. Grace's skin numbs immediately from the cold. "Stay frosty," Santos jokes. Floyd looks at him for a long time before the group advances. There's a crashed ship encased in ice. A distress beacon, as tall as they are, spins, emitting a sonic beep. Grace frowns at it and the skeletal remains of the ship, sadness tugging at her.
"This was a waste of time," Volkova touches a hand to the distress signal and sighs. "Why would they send us here?" she demands to Floyd. They get into an argument.
Grace takes in the barren, arctic land, her breath fogging against her helmet. They only have so much oxygen and the chill is sinking into her bones. There's a tremor beneath her feet. It isn't imagined and it's growing stronger by the moment. She looks around but sees nothing. Volkova and Floyd are still sniping at each other. The ice is coming apart ahead of her, in waves, moving faster by the moment.
"Watch your six!" Grace warns them, but no sooner are the words out of her mouth than the ground erupts in a shower of dirt and ice, flinging them back. They're on their feet just as quickly, not immediately aware of what it is that has happened. The sunlight has been taken, their unit drenched in shadows.
Floyd's air supply has been cut, it must have happened in the fall or due to some chunk of rock—the back of his helmet blinks red. He has no reservation about stealing Santos' helmet, leaving the candidate panicked and fighting for air. The helmet is the least of their worries. Grace looks up she sees what she feared—a thresher maw.
Grace is ready to shout when a shriek pierces the frigid skies, further disorienting them. She rips the helmet from her head and throws it to Santos. "Run!" she yells at the paralyzed, gaping group. They're sitting ducks in the open space. The thresher maw dives into the ground, nearly knocking them on their asses again. They keep their balance, somehow, and go.
They sprint, fumbling for the Mako. Grace's limbs and lungs burn. The air is thin. She has never been so terrified. It isn't the thresher maw, though that doesn't help. It's the cold wrapping around her like a blanket, the numbness seizing her, the crippling sensation of the air being ripped from her lungs. It feels like a memory.
"Ready weapons!" she orders. They lift their assault rifles and grenades. Volkova has her sniper rifle. It's hard to breathe and Grace verges dangerously close to hyperventilating. The thresher maw springs from the ground again, mouth large enough to bite into the Mako. It rears its head back and Grace knows it's getting ready to spew venom. Santos is letting loose a stream of obscenities as his trigger finger keeps squeezing, bullets tearing through the air at the creature. When the thresher maw projectile vomits the toxin, there's nowhere to hide. Grace doesn't need to see their faces to know the squad is terrified; they'd have to be out of their minds not to be.
She waits for the horrendous burn of the acid, but it doesn't hit.
Grace's nose bursts a fountain of blood, freezing almost instantly on her face. A searing headache like a cleaver in her skull nearly blinds her. It's only then that she realizes she's biotically lifted the Mako to block the attack. She feels the exertion of it all over her body, squeezing, making her muscles burn and strain. Her knees and shoulders buckle as if she had physically lifted the vehicle.
Someone says that they're going to die. Grace isn't sure who it was but she drops the Mako to the icy terrain at the words. "Keep it together! This isn't over yet!" Head pounding, she withdraws the M-77 Paladin clamped to her back, pointing it at the thresher maw, three images moving into one before separating again. She centers her aim, ducking behind the crashed Mako and hurling a warp field in the maw's direction before detonating it a moment later in a loud boom.
The dry blood on her face has the consistency of toothpaste. She spits a glob of blood to the side, taking careful shots. The reassuring sound of bullets rip through the skies, drawing screeches from the monster. She is grateful to her squad. She is grateful for Hope's tutelage. She understands why now. It makes moving through the dizzying pain bearable. It hurt Grace before. But maybe it's Hope's way of caring about her.
It doesn't matter. Maybe Hope doesn't care about her. Maybe Hope doesn't have to care about her. If she's strong, if she can survive, she can become unstoppable, untouchable, unkillable. Her feelings won't matter then.
Bekenstein: where the rich go to piss their money away. It is a playground for millionaires and billionaires, glittering and beautiful on the surface with an underside as seedy as Omega. It's humanity's version of Illium without all the fine print.
There's something contemptuous and artificial about the planet. Its shine is similar to all the quality products it exports to the Citadel: glinting from the distance, duller up close. It has all the dazzle of a particularly effective ad campaign, some vid of a fantasy life where you can buy anything you desire as long as you have the creds to back it up. Now drawn, like moths to a flame, the damn asari have invaded the planet.
Parties and galas are the norm. Hope moves like a butterfly through them, meeting new contacts, determining who has worth and who doesn't. Unlike the citizens of Bekenstein, she does not make her determination by their wealth—though Bekenstein has few of those who don't have any.
Donovan Hock is an obvious asset but Hope avoids him and his parties. She tells herself it isn't out of some allegiance to Kasumi or Keiji. They were friends but business is business after all. She isn't in the market for weapons or art. That's all there is to it.
It's been nearly six months since the clone went to the academy. In that time Hope has monitored Commander Shepard's progress. The quarian has been secured, as have the asari justicar, Zaeed Massani and at long last, Kasumi.
Shepard is beginning to settle—or at least, she isn't beating the hell out of her own squad. Has Miranda gotten control of her pet at last? Hope tries not to worry. It is a weight off her shoulders to think that Shepard won't simply let the Collectors come in and take all humans. But that isn't what the reports have been. Yes, Shepard has completed the team but she still isn't moving as quickly as she could be.
It isn't Hope's only focus. There are more pressing matters on her mind. Cerberus is on the move and they're gunning for her. The tracker imbedded in the clone's arm not only tracks her location but her vital signs as well. The first ninety-six hours at the academy were worrisome. Hope isn't exactly sure what she was made to endure though she suspects some sort of psychological test was put into place. After that she proceeded as expected.
It has been strange being apart from her. She wonders if the clone is excelling as she ought to. Training at the academy differs by individual. Some leave, some die, others graduate and are offered a place in the CAT6 squad.
Hope won't believe that she failed. She won't believe that the clone wouldn't return. The clone's sentimental attachment is useful in that way. Has the academy given her some sense of independence? Does she believe she doesn't need her anymore? Or has Cerberus discovered her and she's on the run? Hope frowns at the thought. They can't have discovered her. If they had they would be no match for her. Hope tells herself that.
Her own mortality is a different matter altogether. In between trying to assess Shepard's situation and whatever the clone's may be, she has been moving from planet to planet, safe house to safe house, eluding Cerberus. They aren't sending the Blue Suns anymore, those she's dealt with. Now she's beginning to see a side of Cerberus she never spent much time with before: their heavily fortified militia.
She hacks into the surveillance feeds of whatever planet she lands on when it's an option. Bekenstein is almost as heavily monitored as Illium and provides a mine of data. Hope has seen only glimpses. The Illusive Man isn't a fool; his soldiers undergo massive psychological conditioning to make them more than just brute force. They are fearless and tactically superior to Alliance soldiers. The last thing she needs is to engage a handful of troopers only to end up flanked by engineers and guardians.
She cannot risk herself. Yes, self-preservation moves her as it does anyone else. But she knows that without her, the clone would lose her way, might think to live some mediocre life and not give what she ought to for humanity, for the galaxy.
Hope is careful. She moves in the night, slipping around dark corners and alleys, keeping her breathing even, her pistol in hand. But luck doesn't last forever and the hiss of a smoke grenade puts her instantly on alert. She turns on her heel and runs down the dark alley, bricks to either side of her, some homage to the old earthen cities of the past. There are more troopers ahead and they turn to her, quickly shouting out their sighted target. Hope's heart jumps to her throat and she lifts the pistol, discharging two quick rounds. It hits them square in the forehead, blowing their brains out before she turns. Centurions to the front, coming out of the smoke like tanks.
She reaches to her side, knowing her pistol is useless against those shields, and flicks a grenade at them. They shout, beginning to back away and Hope spots a fire escape several feet above her. She leaps, taking hold of the slippery rungs on the ladder, still wet and cold with rain and pulling herself up.
The blast of the grenade makes her ears ring. She doesn't hear the metal clanking of her steps going up the escape. She's a fish in a goddamned barrel out here and she knows it. She makes her legs go faster, muscles burning as she takes the flights of stairs up, two at a time, yanking herself to the top, into the cold and windy night.
Several rooftops over she sees a helicopter sweeping its search light over alleys, over roofs, more Cerberus troopers rappelling down. Shit, shit, shit. Gathering a lungful of air she finds some cover behind several exhaust pipes and tries to steel herself, calm herself. The Cerberus troops dropping to ground level helps and eventually the helicopter moves on, shining its spotlight elsewhere.
It's time to move. Her ears are still ringing but sound is gradually returning. Cool sweat is slicked to her face and neck and she wipes at it, boots pounding along the roofs, heading in the opposite direction of the Cerberus assault team. She's nearly at the edge of another building when a shadow swoops down in front of her.
Hope quickly jumps back to create some distance. He's taller than she remembered. Oh, he's tricky. He smoked her out quite nicely. "The Illusive Man sent you?" She smiles, even as Kai Leng withdraws the sword from his back. Her hearing has come back enough to hear the metal of the blade slide against the sheath. "I'm flattered."
Kai Leng returns her smile. He is a handsome, cruel man with eyes as dark as the material he wears. The Cerberus logo is prominently and proudly centered on his chest. The Illusive Man's most trusted agent. So. Her presence was missed after all. "Don't be. I'm not here for you."
"Oh, good. I was almost worried." Hope is grateful her voice is steady. Kai Leng is the Illusive Man's top agent for good reason. He does good work. "You'll be moving out of my way then." She bravely takes a step forward and then another. He watches her, sword disarmingly at his side but Hope knows he can cut her in half in an instant if he chooses to. "I'm surprised Cerberus still suits your purposes. They love aliens as much as the Alliance these days."
"I'm not here to talk shop. Where's the clone?"
"Clone? I don't know what you mean."
He backhands her so viciously she stumbles several steps back. Any feeling in the right side of her face is gone. She tastes blood. She doesn't move closer again. This time Kai Leng advances calmly. "I'm not going to play this game with you, Hope. We know you took her. I'm going to kill you," he tells her matter-of-factly, "but how quickly and how painfully, is up to you. A gift for your service to our organization."
Hope surveys the area. The night is spread out like a blanket, the moon pale and fat, a breeze kicking in and a sea of buildings in every direction. Lots of escape routes, really but Cerberus is everywhere and this is Kai Leng. "Look, I may have left Cerberus but I have no idea—"
This time he strikes her with his open palm. Pain flares across her face, her recently returned hearing going off again, making it feel as if her ear is stuffed with cotton. "Tell me where she is," he menaces. His eyebrows have narrowed, and this time he brandishes his sword.
"No," she lifts the gun. "You can't have her." She fires off three quick shots but the bastard is fast, dodging and weaving, sprinting at her. None of the shots land. He swings the ninjato blade but fortunately she's fast too. She dodges the first two swings and has to dive to the right to escape the third.
She hears a small, unrecognizable sound and grimly realizes that her shields are gone, whittled down to nothing. He has new implants that she isn't familiar with. He rushes at her again, kicking viciously. She blocks it, but not without the brutal hit making her arms throb painfully. She's lucky they didn't break.
They exchange blows in a sadistic dance, but it's a fight she can't win. Her blows are glancing, while each kick and punch that Leng lands wreck her, robbing her of strength. Her legs weaken until she falls to her knees. He ruthlessly kicks her in the head and she's sent sprawling to the ground. He follows her and kicks her side repeatedly. Ribs snap. She really should just tell him where the clone is.
He wraps a savage hand around her throat and yanks her to her feet. "Don't be stupid, Hope. Tell me what I want to know." His teeth are red. She's proud of herself. She blinks at the blood that spills fast from her brow into her eye. She can't breathe. She can't speak. "Tell me!" he screams, spit flying into her face.
Hope smiles, despite the excruciating pain. "I'll be the first black mark on your record. Tell the Illusive Man better luck next time." Rage marks Kai Leng's features. She takes a grim satisfaction in it as he buries the ninjato blade in her side. She has time for a thought. It fills her like fire. What if she dies here? What if the clone doesn't see things through till the end? The questions, the agony are cut short as everything shuts down, heart, lungs, brain function. She goes limp.
Kai Leng lets her body slide away from the blade and to the ground. Blood blooms around her. He kneels at her side, putting an ear over her heart, his fingers on her pulse, covering her nose with his fingers. Nothing. No response. The bitch is dead.
He hears sirens. The local authorities are no doubt responding to reports of gunfire and explosions. He slams a fist beside her head and stands, returning to the shuttle to inform the Illusive Man of their setback.