The mines were always dark and cold. Hope doesn't believe in ghosts, but the more foolish men scraping alongside of her would whisper of such things. Scrawny and small, a forced child laborer, she lived each moment in fear, knowing one slip was all it would take for a pissed off foreman to beat her to death. She'd seen it before and they never hesitated simply because a 'boy child' was there to witness it. No, at times it was meant to be a lesson.

Who was that woman that saved her and would have left her to rot? Who was that 'Miss Brooks?'

The clone climaxes. She's like a virgin in so many ways. No doubt whatever her entangled feelings are for Hope, they aid the process. The clone is curious and somewhat clumsy, but she is attentive and eager. A fuck is a fuck, no matter what the instrument. Hope has been tense.

The clone sits up, looking thoughtful, hand grazing along Hope's face carefully, despite the quickly disappearing bruises. We'll be careful. Very careful. The process is a dangerous one. The clone must be kept close enough to not run away, but at enough distance that she doesn't become weak.

The clone's gentle touches always feel like trickery, more violent than violence. Hope reminds herself that the clone is a shadow that will someday surpass Shepard, but that is all. No one must be trusted. She cannot let down her guard for even a moment. "What are you thinking about?" The clone asks. Hope takes her arm and pulls it away from her. Hurt fills her eyes and is quickly shrouded.

Hope nearly tells her to never ask her what she's thinking. "I'm thinking about all that we have left to do. We'll be going to Illium soon."

"Again? Why?"

Hope doesn't answer. That woman back in the mines never answered her questions. She remembers the slimy feeling that filled her as she was toyed with, led around to do the bidding of a woman she knew nothing about. She taught her how to become a little actress. That woman didn't care about her. No one did. Not as a child. Not now. Funny how she surfaces in her mind every now and then, despite how Hope thinks she's forgotten.

"Hope?"

She has learned to respond to that name. She looks at the clone. This time when Grace's soft, curious touch explores along her skin, Hope allows it.

Samara's mouth is hot like the scorching sun. Shepard remembers how it clung to her skin on her rare visits to Earth, making her olive tone deeper. She never burns but her flesh captures heat. Her mouth traps Samara's fire. Shepard thinks it's strange how they can smolder. They're both icy bitches.

Shepard yanks the material from Samara's torso. For a long time she looks at her. Not with lust but with a critical eye. She is not Liara. Liara is younger. Beautiful. Softer. Shepard closes her eyes and tries to shake her off. She kneels before her, gingerly grabbing Samara's waist and pulling her near. Her flesh is unbelievably smooth. How curious it looks on closer inspection, almost scaly but not quite. Shepard presses her lips to Samara's belly and the woman looks down at her in judgment.

Samara has become proactive but her disdain never wavers. It's appropriate. Samara doesn't quite hate her. She can't muster the feeling. Shepard isn't worth the sentiment. It reassures Shepard, who wonders what ways Samara plans on killing her when they fuck. The sex is good. Off the charts. She doesn't throw up anymore.

"You like asari," Samara tells her, head cocked contemplatively. She's still as Shepard pulls the clothing down over her hips. Shepard hates it when she talks. She doesn't sound anything like Liara or Sha'ira. Shepard's fingers remain wedged between Samara's skin and the fabric. She looks up at her and thinking there's nothing to be ashamed of, all things considered, she nods. Another cold ripple passes over her gaze.

Samara's hand lashes out so suddenly it takes Shepard by surprise. Shepard's head is twisted awkwardly to the side as Samara's fingers clench around a handful of hair. Shepard gasps in pained surprise. "I have a request to ask of you," she leans down, her face close, "but I know what you want. I will wait until we have finished." Shepard's eyes burn on her. Samara releases her only long enough to kick her back forcefully. She stalks closer, a heel pressed into Shepard's shoulder. "I cannot kill you at this time," she tells her and for the first time, regret enters her voice. Her heel digs deeper. Shepard bites back a yowl. "I've seen her in your mind, Shepard. Liara T'Soni." Her eyes half-closed in thought. "It must be painful to be removed from your love. To have someone so consume you that you can think of nothing else." Shepard tries to remove the boot from her shoulder but Samara flushes blue and keeps her pinned like a slug on some medical tray. "I am puzzled that you think you know how to love. A woman of your actions couldn't possibly know. You are broken, Shepard. Perhaps Liara T'Soni knows that as well. Perhaps that is why she has not been in contact."

With a growl Shepard removes herself from beneath Samara. She springs to her feet, her hand clamping tightly around Samara's throat before slamming her against the wall. But there's no fear in Samara's eyes. She looks at her as if she's nothing.

X3's face and body are a pattern of zig-zag scars cutting over her otherwise unblemished skin. She stands naked before Kai Leng, not hobbled by modesty or shame. Her eyes, one brown, the other green, are hard and bitingly cold. It may surprise others but not him. He isn't so stupid to believe that a person's nature is determined by the color of their eyes.

He hadn't anticipated this job. The Illusive Man is never forthcoming, no matter if Kai Leng is his right hand. He has no idea what kind of psychological conditioning X3 has gone through, but he hopes she is upgraded. The Illusive Man knows how to get the best out of people, and he is in no mood to be assigned babysitting duty. Surely there is a better use of his time than watching over this woman. But he knows the Illusive Man, trusts the Illusive Man. He wouldn't send him if it wasn't necessary, if he wasn't the best equipped for the job.

"The Illusive Man has plans for you," Kai Leng says. "If you survive our test run we may even keep you around." X3 gives no physical or verbal response. He moves around her. Her body is sculpted like an athlete's. He wonders if it bothers her that she's cannibalized from scraps of failed creations. She was the second most viable of the clones, but a distant second. She had to be spliced together using parts from the other clones. Recovering X8 will be crucial. "Do you talk?"

"If there's something worth saying." Her tone is unfeeling and condescending. "Are you through looking?" Kai Leng stands in front of her but she doesn't flinch, doesn't move back.

"Do you have her memories?" Kai Leng waits. She looks through him but her gaze is as sharp as knives. He turns his head to the side to study her. She is remarkable. Will he have to break her, or is she already primed? Kai Leng hates wasting time.

"No. I know how to fight. I know how to kill."

Good. Memories are a hindrance. Emotional baggage. X3 needs Shepard's talent for killing, nothing more. Kai Leng takes a swipe at her; she pulls her shoulder back, dodging it, leaping to the side acrobatically when he tries a roundhouse. They both land lightly on their feet, emotionless and agile. It'll do for now. He throws a Cerberus uniform at her, white and black, streaks of gold running along the arm. "Get dressed. We have work to do."

There's a bootleg copy of a Shepard VI on Illium. Hope's presence is tentative and near. Grace's body constricts with tension. The Shepard VI glows orange. It bears her face and form, an arrogant smirk on its lips. What are you looking at? You've got five seconds to explain yourself or I'll let my shotgun do the talking. Grace frowns. Join the Alliance today! If you've got the guts. Hope stands beside her, smiling wryly at the VI. "I prefer you," Hope tells Grace.

Grace glances at her. The sentiment is unexpected, but before Grace can say anything Hope has already rolled her eyes and moved on her way. Was it a slip on Hope's behalf? Hope never says those things lightly. Hope can make her feel as if she's made of air, floating away as pleasure cascades over her. Grace tells herself that one has nothing to do with another. It's certainly true that Hope's words never match her actions in the bedroom. Grace acknowledges that she's naïve. Hope thinks she's naïve.

She looks back at the VI; it sets its hands on its hips and fixes Grace in its stare. You're a mighty fine-looking specimen, Soldier! Almost as good as the real thing. But there's only one Commander Shepard.

Grace glowers at it and moves on her way, following after Hope who is reclining against a railing, watching cabs glide through the sky. There's a krogan serenading an asari.

"Oh, Blue Rose of Illium, let your roots dig deep into the hot soil of Tuchanka. Let our scorching sun and sheeting rain turn your supple beauty into strength. For if love is to survive, it must grow thorns to pierce the hand of any that would uproot it."

The asari looks humiliated. Hope can hardly keep herself from chortling. Grace is surprised that a krogan can know and recite poetry. The extranet portrays them as ruthless warmongers. "Asari. They'll mate with anything," she twines her hands as if bored, "they've got some talents, don't get me wrong, but that krogan is a mistake."

"Blue Rose of Illium," the krogan continues. The asari looks around as if to see if anyone is watching, listening. "Leave eternity unembraced and grapple in the glorious struggle that is us, here and now! I am speechless, not with blood rage, but with love, and I stand here, humble and mute, to offer you a home. Come to me, Blue Rose of Illium. Let our three hearts beat as two."

Hope scoffs again. "I think it's sweet," Grace tells Hope. The asari looks over at the two of them in desperation. Hope shakes her head. Grace smiles and gives her a thumb's up. Hope whacks her arm and drags her away. "Where are we going?"

"Do you think Commander Shepard wastes her time playing matchmaker?" Hope snaps. Grace keeps her mouth shut. It's taken her months to figure out what rhetorical questions are. Hope never asks when she's happy. "There's an asari, Shiala, who's trying to negotiate a contract with Erinya, another asari. Zhu's Hope is experiencing a bit of trouble. Erinya is trying to cheat them. She's racist," Hope says bitterly. "Shiala knew Shepard," she mutters under her breath, "and I have reason to believe you two can help one another."

Grace meets with a green asari intent on renegotiating the stipulations of medical contracts. The woman is surprised to see her but grateful, asking for her help once more with Zhu's Hope. Grace doesn't remember her, no matter how familiar she is. Hope stands to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with a critical eye. "I didn't know they made green asari," Grace whispers to her after her initial conversation with Shiala.

"They don't. Something's wrong with her." A beat. "Now go convince Erinya to renegotiate the contracts."

"I'm surprised you want to help an asari."

Hope smiles sardonically. "We're helping the humans on Zhu's Hope," she says, "from asari tyranny." Another smile and she stands closer, voice lowering. "I want to watch you with Erinya. This isn't like what you've done before. You can't just beat her into giving you answers—not here."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Charm her. Or scare her. Your choice."

Grace intends to intimidate Erinya but as soon as the woman begins spilling her sob story, Grace hesitates. She hadn't expected Hope to give her a choice on how to handle the matter. The CAT6 academy taught her how to extract information the easy way (or the painful way, if you were on the other end of it). It's what she's accustomed to but it isn't what she likes. Without even considering better judgment she asks about Erinya's "bondmate" and daughters. Soon the woman is in tears and it isn't long before the contracts have been modified. Grace heads to Hope who smiles with approval.

"Shiala's eyeing you up like a slice of cake. Use it to your advantage," Hope jabs a finger into Grace's chest. "Tell her it's all taken care of—but it can easily be undone. Tell her to meet you somewhere in private and then ask for the Cipher."

Grace doesn't want to go anywhere with the asari. "The what?"

Maelon's brains splatter along the massive monitor. Shepard thinks of Urdnot Wrex. Any time someone's itching to cure the genophage, there are problems. Miranda's lips thin but she thinks better than to say anything. Mordin's face, previously rancorous and white with rage has become blank. Shepard detects a hint of sadness in it as he stoops beside Maelon's body, the gun still smoking in his hand.

"Don't question yourself," Shepard tells Mordin. "You begin to do that and you'll lose it." Mordin takes a deep breath, an impressive achievement in the too-dry planet of Tuchanka. The entire lab smells of blood and various other bodily fluids, combined with the bitter tanginess of chemicals. She pats his shoulder, a poor attempt at comfort. "Son of a bitch deserved to die." Not like Ash, not like Wrex. No one told her she'd done the right thing then. Liara had touched her face after the fact, back when it had been unlined with burning scars. Oh, Shepard.

"Thank you, Shepard," Mordin says getting to his feet. "Apologize. Too emotional. Not like me." He takes another deep breath and then he's back to normal. "Only question left is what to do with data. Could be useful in the future but the result of irresponsible work, unethical experiments."

"Get rid of it," Miranda says. Mordin hums. Shepard steps over Maelon's corpse to get a better look at her. "These experiments were despicable. You said so yourself."

"Cut the bullshit, Miranda," Shepard watches Miranda wrinkle her nose at the air. "You didn't give two shits about putting a control chip in my head. If it wasn't for the Illusive Man, I'd be nothing more than a robot. Have you forgotten that you work for Cerberus? No one gets as high up in the organization as you have without knowing what they really do. And we both know, Miranda. I saw Cerberus' twisted labs, I know what Cerberus did to Jack. Haven't seen you losing any sleep over that one, either."

Miranda's eyes are momentarily unreadable and the next moment they're dancing. Shepard doesn't know why but it makes her paranoid. What is she thinking? Why is she looking at her like that? "Cerberus is a human survivalist group. Without the experiments you're currently bemoaning, you wouldn't be here." She looks to the computer monitor. Mordin's fingers are gliding along the keys, pretending as if they aren't there. "We can't risk curing the genophage."

"Look, I like krogan as much as the salarians do, but this," she points at the computer, "is information. We could use this."

"How?"

"I don't know," she sputters. The corners of Miranda's mouth lift gently. Shepard wants to strangle her. "But why throw it away? Maelon's experiments may be despicable but he made progress. Who knows how we could use this in the future?" She shakes her head. "Frankly, Miranda, I'm getting tired of all your xenophobic bullshit. Save the data, Mordin."

"Shepard—"

"Stand down, Miranda," Shepard threatens. Miranda's expression goes stony but she keeps quiet. They wait for the data to upload to the Normandy. It takes longer than anticipated. Shepard turns sharply when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. Her shotgun is bared but nothing is there. She lowers the shotgun and rubs her eyes, ignoring Miranda's quizzically cocked eyebrow. She needs some goddamn R&R. Fat fucking chance of getting it.

Grace tries to ignore the pain in her back. Hours ago she'd awoken on a floor. Shiala sat by a window, standing quickly upon seeing her rouse. By the Goddess, Shepard. I thought I'd killed you. I knew my powers were unstable. I never meant to endanger you. Now Grace wanders Illium restlessly, attempting to fend off the crippling exhaustion that has seized her, the pounding in her skull.

She tries to make sense of the images in her head, like some choppy vid, the screeching that tears through her mind, giant mechanical insects, a turian with an arm like a geth, Saren, men and women, people she knew? She still isn't sure what the Cipher is. She can only assume they are memories, photographs of memories that stab into her head. There's a quarian, a turian, soldiers, a krogan and an asari that makes her feel lightheaded.

Where's Hope? She isn't sure how much time has passed since they separated. She's at a shop, mindlessly staring at model ships when there's a tap on her shoulder. Grace turns, expecting to find Hope, but it's an asari. One she doesn't recognize. "Commander Shepard," she says. Grace grimaces. She's getting really damn tired of being referred to that way. She tries to correct her but the pounding in her head and the fatigue keeps her from speaking. "Your presence has been requested. Please follow me."

Grace follows after her. Is it Shiala wanting to see her again? Or Hope? She'd like to get off this planet. She feels shaky and weak, perspiration coating her like a second skin. She's led up a set of stairs and into an office. Grace looks around uncertainly. The space overlooks Illium and Grace can see the path she walked to get here. Displays hang seamlessly in the air, streaming constantly with chunks of text and graphs.

"Jane," the voice is unidentifiable and yet familiar. An uncomfortable chord strikes Grace as she flinches at the name. The chair behind the desk turns and an asari in a long formfitting white coat stands. Grace's mouth goes dry. Where's Hope? Once again, she looks around and turns her back to her, trying to find her balance, a hand pressing to the wall. She takes a shaky breath and tries to exit. "I'm sorry. Please." A long silence passes. Grace's heart beats uncontrollably, a wave of dizziness passing over her. "I do not mean to keep sending strange women to greet you. I have a lot of work and well… I have my enemies. I hope you understand."

Grace stares at the wall, paralyzed.

"I am sorry I have not responded to your messages. The truth is…" Whatever she's going to say she isn't sure how to continue and the words fall flat. With a sense of dread, Grace turns to face her. Surprise touches on the asari's delicate features. Strange how she can look innocent and ominous in one, dark lipstick painted on the soft lines on her lips. She's beautiful. She feels guilty for thinking it. "You look better." Her smile is somewhat bashful and Grace feels hot tension sink into her as the woman approaches. "I know you said it'd be fixed. In your email," she clarifies. "I've read it more times than I can count. Some part of me thought…" she bites her lip. "It is so very good to see you." Grace looks at her anxiously. The asari brings a hand to her own forehead. "I understand if you're angry. After I saw you… I told myself I'd keep focused on my work. You've always had a talent for…distracting me," she smiles bittersweetly. "But I saw you wandering… you looked a little lost and well… I suppose I couldn't help myself."

The woman's face becomes clearer somehow. Grace can see a time when her face was fuller, she was younger, when she looked radically different somehow. "Liara…?" It's a guess. She doesn't know.

"So you can talk," Liara breathes. She comes closer but Grace pulls away. Liara stops in her tracks. "Since you're here, I might as well tell you that I can't go with you. Not now. I told you what I must do. At least you have Miranda to work in my stead. I know she seems a hard woman, Jane, but you should trust her. She brought you back, after all." Grace stares at her. Liara may as well be speaking another language for all that Grace understands of what she's talking about. Liara sighs. "I never figured you one for the silent treatment. Are you well…? You look a little pale." Her hand is pressed to Grace's forehead before she can stop her, the back of her hand gliding gently down her face. Grace's cheeks heat unexpectedly. What is it with these tactile asari? Don't they understand anything about personal space? Grace is a bundle of nerves. Hope would be furious and the asari's light eyes make her feel conflicted, warm and cold, disgusted and aroused.

"I'm a little tired," Grace manages, unable to meet her eyes.

"Yes, I imagine so. Hunting Collectors must take a toll."

"Collectors?" Grace asks. The asari, Liara, has face markings for eyebrows. They rise as if in question. "Oh, right." She says but she doesn't know what it is she's talking about. The bug things, maybe? They collected people. Collectors? She's not sure. "It's been a long…everything," she finishes weakly. "I have a lot on my mind."

"I'm sure," her hands drop to Grace's, taking them. Grace looks down at their linked hands. The blue is strange against her skin. Grace's lip curls but she forces her face to become neutral. She's still unsteady. "I know how hard this must be for you. I know your feelings about Cerberus and… I know that it's hard to be apart. It is for me, too," she says softly. Grace tries to swallow but can't. Her mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with dry leaves. "I can't give you what you want. Not now, but..." Liara leans forward, connecting their lips gently. Grace's eyes widen, her heart rate spiking. Liara's mouth is soft and wet. Grace's eyes nearly close, lips nearly parting before Liara pulls away. "I apologize. I suppose that was unfair."

"It's okay," Grace says weakly, fighting the bewildering fire that fills her.

Liara smiles. "I'm lucky that you've always had a soft spot for me." She cups Grace's face, thumb easing along her cheek.

Grace takes Liara's wrist, grappling with the urge to press her lips to her fingers. This is weird. Really weird. Uncomfortable. Confusing. She forces herself to release her hand. Maybe Jane Shepard would smile at Liara. She smiles uncertainly. "I should go."

"Yes," Liara says sadly. "I imagine you should."