The white light has a soft quality. It isn't hard like the light of a lab. She hates labs. The light is comforting, warm. It embraces her. It lets her sleep. Shepard's thoughts float. She's been tired. Miranda brought her back but not all of her.

'Shh.'

Her arm is gently pushed down. She tastes blood in her mouth. Her teeth are loose. Her nose is twisted. The crippling pain is fading and Shepard doesn't know whether to be grateful. She's been numb since being pieced back together. It hurts to breathe.

Chakwas is clucking in her soft reassuring way. Chakwas. Where would she be without Chakwas? Chakwas keeps her grounded. Chakwas scanned her and assured her everything was all right. Shepard trusts her as much as she trusts anyone.

Another voice. Miranda. She is collected and firm. She and Chakwas exchange words. 'Keep her still,' Miranda says. A shot is injected into her neck. Will they have to strip her? Will they see that the scars extend everywhere? Will they see her naked and broken…?

No. This will fix her. This will make her suitable for Liara.

Shepard, you need this now. No arguing.

Miranda. Not now. When? Time is relative.

She hadn't argued. Not that she could argue with a broken jaw. She drowns in memories. She thinks of Liara and when she looked at her with purity and admiration. Liara was the first to make her think about settling down. Having kids. Little blue babies. Her lips, split and bleeding, pull into a smile thinking of it. There's no pain.

Going under is slow. It takes time. It is subtle. It's like going to sleep. She remembers gliding with the stars. The memory, sparked, makes her panic. Is she dying? She hears the electronic beeping of monitoring equipment. Miranda is swearing. Is she waking up for the first time? Is she in the Lazarus Cell? Shepard tries to open her eyes.

She doesn't feel the next injection. Everything is still. There are fingertips along her forehead. Was this the right thing to do? A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start.

She goes under.

Hope worries about the alien influence. Shepard first began to betray humanity's interests when her mission against Saren forced her to work with aliens. Hope has found herself in the uncomfortable situation of having to utilize their services to prepare 'Grace' for the role she must fill.

Krogan and asari have trained her to fight. Asari gave her biotic implants. An asari gave her the Cipher, but also something more. 'Grace' has been quieter, thoughtful. Hope is wary that she may have been burdened with memories of Commander Shepard. The path is unclear. With Cerberus and the Illusive Man after them, they can't utilize the brightest humanity has to offer.

Now they have to see Sha'ira. Hope massages her forehead thinking about it. Is it worth it? Will 'Grace' become too sympathetic towards them? Will she start to think like Shepard? Everything she sets into motion is a delicate game. It is beginning to wear.

They're still in Illium. 'Grace' has been tired. If the previous records Hope read were accurate, Shepard too suffered from exhaustion after receiving the Cipher. It's prudent, Hope thinks, if 'Grace' rests. Outside, the sky is black, save for colorful streaks of cab lights that break through the darkness. 'Grace' lies on the bed, propped up on` pillows. A Paladin sits beside her on the nightstand. She's using Hope's laptop, ingesting more files on Shepard. The obsession that had waned has returned in full force.

Hope hadn't anticipated the visit with Shiala would take so long. She debated intervening, to assess the situation, but 'Grace's' vitals were relatively strong despite the disruption. Hope left her and tracked her movements. She wasn't fast enough to catch her before she was taken to speak with Liara T'Soni. Instead, she waited some distance away for 'Grace' to exit. She did not snatch her arm as she intended to. Illium is constantly monitored and 'Grace' in that particular moment was vulnerable. They both were. So Hope remained cloaked until they could speak privately without being eavesdropped on. "What happened?" she demanded. For hours, 'Grace' refused to tell her.

When 'Grace' finally revealed the nature of the meeting, she flinched. "I did what I thought Shepard would do. I think they're in love." She said it with that same stupid wide-eyed wonder with which she says anything related to 'love,' and Hope felt her aggravation mount. "She told me I looked better," and 'Grace' beamed then. Hope tried to recall a time she'd seen her smile in that way. "Think she fancied me?"

"Strike that word from your vocabulary," Hope told her irritably. She doubts "fancy" is a word Shepard uses, at least in the context 'Grace' meant. She told herself to be mindful of her vocabulary around 'Grace.' "Did she think it was Shepard?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "She kissed me."

Hope frowned. It occurred to her that Liara T'Soni had thrown a wrench into the plans and could have easily undone all her hard work. 'Grace' could have undone all her hard work. She kept her face neutral. "And then what?" 'Grace' waited. "What was it like?" she enunciated every word carefully and wasn't immediately sure if the clarification was the question she initially asked.

"Does it matter?" 'Grace' set her gaze on her intently and Hope loathed her for hinting that the interrogation was the cause of some jealousy. Sensing she was on thin ice, 'Grace' pushed forward. "I didn't want to. But I did. She's pretty. For an asari."

So what if she's pretty? "Did you feel anything?"

"Her lips were soft." 'Grace' quickly gathered this wasn't the response Hope was looking for. "It was repulsive." Hope straightened at the words, restraining herself from nodding. "She felt…familiar. That's all," but for the first time, 'Grace' turned her eyes evasively.

And now, Hope has to thrust her into the arms of another asari. Hope sits on the other side of the bed and once again begins the tedious process of combing through information on her omni-tool. It is tiring and it requires a good deal of sifting through data that has little relevance to their mission. It's easier on the laptop but she'll allow 'Grace' her little fixation. Her eyes are growing heavy when 'Grace' speaks.

"Liara said I looked better," 'Grace' says. Hope doesn't like the familiarity with which she says the name, as if they're friends, allies, or more. "Do you think something has happened to Commander Shepard?" The distress in her tone would be laughable if it weren't so concerning. Hope wonders if 'Grace' thinks replacing Shepard will simply happen by asking her to step aside.

"For our sake we'd best hope not." Hope has impressed on 'Grace' that she isn't to get a scratch or scar on her that Shepard doesn't have. Medi-gel has mercifully taken care of some of the damage that she's incurred but 'Grace's' words worry her. What has happened to Commander Shepard that 'Grace' looks better? Perhaps the asari only meant that 'Grace' looks better rested. And she is. Without the baggage, without Shepard's sad history and failures she will be more confident, more prepared to take on the battle against the Reapers.

Hope studies 'Grace's' face. A lock of brown hair has fallen over her eyes and 'Grace' blows air distractedly at it trying to get it away, too engrossed in whatever article she's reading about Shepard to physically move. Hope reaches out to push it back but stops when 'Grace' turns her attention towards her. She snatches the computer away instead. "I think that's about enough of that for you."

Shepard stares at her reflection in the cabin mirror. The scars of her former life are gone. She tells herself she was never going to get those back. She got back her life. She can't nitpick the scars. Not like Miranda would have gotten them right anyway.

It's strange to see her face unmarred. It rejuvenates her and fills her with dizzying, hopeful energy. She doesn't have to be ashamed to be seen by Liara. It can be the way it was before. Her face throbs painfully but Chakwas assures her it is only temporary. It could be memory playing tricks on her, recalling the battering blows to her face. It's all taken care of now.

It is remarkable what modern science can do. It brought her back from the grave. It restored her attractive features. Garrus practically chortled when he saw she'd undergone the operation. Not everyone has the good looks to pull off scars, Shepard. Don't worry, it's not like anyone thinks you're vain. She'd smiled, shoving him playfully. Looks like someone's worried they're going to have some competition during shore leave.

Invigorated, she leaves the cabin and takes the elevator down to the crew deck. Most do a double-take before nodding approvingly towards her. She doesn't need the validation of any Cerberus operatives but their positive response is reassuring. They avoided her eyes prior, nearly wincing at seeing her face. Her pupils were red for fuck's sake.

Shepard doesn't mind if people are afraid of her. They'd be stupid not to be. But not because of what she looks like, not because of some scientific screw-up. Chakwas told her a negative attitude would cause her body to reject the implants. Shepard respects the doctor but if that wasn't some Cerberus spoon-fed advice to get her to fall in line she doesn't know what is. Maybe they knew the implants would fail. Maybe they wanted to scare her. Break them and mold them. She understands the tactic. She admires it. But it won't work on her.

She marches into Miranda's office. The desk that Shepard previously crumpled has been replaced. When Shepard remembers the incident, two feelings conflict. That of pleasure, of savoring the brief glimpse of fear in Miranda's eyes and another, more sour, bitter note of shame. Shepard tries to cut herself some slack. She was dead for two years and everyone moved on. Those she cares for most won't help her, won't try to understand her. Her escalated behavior is normal, reactive. She considers talking to Kelly about it. It'll make her feel useful and valued, like she's something more than a glorified messenger girl.

Miranda turns away from the stack of datapads she's browsing and looks at her. "Shepard." She's taken aback and Shepard is happy to see her eyebrows arch, her lips part in surprise. For the first time, she realizes that the executive officer is beautiful—maybe she'd have noticed sooner if Miranda weren't always such a bitch. "You're looking well."

"Yeah," she picks up a glass tumbler from the desk, studying it before looking back at her. Shepard wonders if she's pushed Miranda to drinking. The glass is clean but that means nothing. "Guess Chakwas knows her way around reconstructive surgery better than you do." She gets only a pale, indulging smile in response. Shepard's stomach drops and she restrains herself from saying something she'll regret. This is a new beginning. They told her any future actions wouldn't affect her physical appearance, but Shepard isn't sure she can trust that. It's implant after implant now. What part of her is real? "You got a minute?"

The quizzical expression on her face might have been imagined. "Sure. You rarely seek me out so I might as well take the opportunity." She sits, folds her arms to watch her. Shepard sits cautiously as if the chair has been rigged with explosives. This is a different interaction than they're used to and though Shepard is the one setting the tone she can't help but feel uneasy. A long silence passes while Shepard tries to work at what she wants to say. "I'll try to be a good hostess and let you settle in. I'm pleased. The operation went better than I expected. You were in really rough shape, Shepard. Not worse than when I got your body but damned bad."

"I know," she says curtly. She bites her tongue and hunches forward, hands twined as she regards the woman. "I don't want to talk about that, if you don't mind." Miranda gives a small shake of her head that tells her she's in agreement. "We got off to the wrong foot. I'll give it to you straight—I still don't trust you or Cerberus. I've seen too much." Miranda's emotions are evasive, her face unreadable. Shepard hates her inability to get a read on her the way she can any other individual. "But… maybe there's room for my opinion to evolve." Miranda sits up straighter. "The last time I came in here I waved you around like you were a rag doll," she can't help smiling at it. Again, Miranda's face doesn't change. Shepard forces herself to bury the smile. "I never apologized. It was wrong. I'm sorry. I can't tell you what I was thinking." She takes a breath. "Things have been…damned different since I returned. I've acted out. I may not like you but that's no reason to not treat you with respect. You brought me back. It's the least I can do."

The color of Miranda's icy eyes seems to shift in the darkness. She ducks her chin thoughtfully before lancing Shepard with her gaze. "I understand that this is not an easy situation, Shepard. I'd be lying if I said you're the first to dislike me. It could be that you'll never see Cerberus as something other than a terrorist organization. However, I am happy that you're giving us the opportunity. That's all I've ever asked."

Shepard nods. She stands, and when she does, so does Miranda. Shepard goes to the door, hesitates and turns back to look at her. "The situation with your sister—Oriana. Has it been taken care of?" Miranda's stare is frigid again. Shepard sees that she has misunderstood her intent. "We could go. To Illium. Try to get her."

Miranda straightens, her fingertips on the desk as if to steady herself. "That's…" she takes a breath. "That won't be necessary. My father has already taken her."

Shepard goes cold. "When?"

"When you were undergoing your operation, as a matter of fact," she says cleanly, the blow hard and precise like the edge of a razor. "He has the means to stay hidden for a very long time. It's likely I'll never see her again." There is an unsteadiness buried in her voice. "Neither one of us can afford to dwell on it. For now, we continue to focus on the mission. That's all we can do."

Shepard nods. "I'm sorry," she says, surprised she means it.

Sha'ira sees their shadows like cutouts as she descends into the lounge area of the Consort Chambers. It's late. She reasons the attendant must be Nyla but the other woman is unidentifiable. What's clear is that there is a gun pressed to Nyla's stomach. Sha'ira hears the woman say "I'm sorry, but I can't leave without seeing her."

Sha'ira doesn't shy away from the scene. Violence rarely enters her domain. Saren and the geth caused irreparable damage. Many lovely souls were lost in the chaos that followed. This is different; it's manageable. Sha'ira knows the moment that she's been spotted and decides there's no longer any point in remaining silent. "I am sure Nyla has caused you no harm. There is no need for violence or intimidation." The gun is lowered and Nyla is instantly forgotten. The woman steps into the light but Sha'ira doesn't react. "Shepard." Sha'ira sent the commander word but received no response. So she does live. She had not anticipated a visit and certainly not one like this. Shepard is gruff but has never brandished a weapon in this place. "Nyla, are you all right?"

"Yes," the asari says shakily, stepping away from Shepard.

"Are you sure?" Shepard asks. Sha'ira smiles, perplexed. "I'm sorry about—I had to see her," she repeats more quietly.

"The attendants are under strict instruction to be diligent about who enters," Sha'ira reminds Shepard. "The waiting list is years now. Thank you, Nyla. That will be all."

"But I'm the only other one here…" Nyla says uncertainly, looking cautiously between the two women. She comes closer to Sha'ira, touching her arm gently. "I understand that she is Commander Shepard but I do not feel it is safe leaving you alone with her."

If Shepard hears the words, she doesn't respond to them. Her gun is already holstered as if knowing that she is on her way to getting what she wants. She crosses her arms and keeps her back to them. Sha'ira smiles at Nyla. "I am touched by your concern but the Commander and I know one another." If Shepard has come to see her and held one of her attendants at gunpoint, she can only assume the matter is dire. However she may lament Nyla's experience, she knows how easily Shepard could have killed her had she desired to. "It is all right. You may leave us."

Nyla reluctantly leaves and Sha'ira begins to lead Shepard to the private rooms in the back, removed from the lounge area. It is fitting they meet there as they have in the past. Shepard looks around as they walk, taking in the surroundings. They arrive. Sha'ira takes a seat on the couch but Shepard remains standing. "This is the third time we've met. Last time you were experiencing a great sorrow at the loss of your crew member, Ashley Williams." Shepard comes closer slowly, cautiously, her steps more graceful than Sha'ira remembers. She frowns gently. "And then there were reports that you died. I have seen darkness in your path and difficult decisions. They have been even more grievous than I foresaw." She nods at the seat beside her and Shepard sits. "You must know that I never make exceptions for appointments."

"You've made one now."

"I think that's the least I owe Commander Shepard. You saved the Destiny Ascension. You saved us all." Sha'ira watches the crinkle that furrows along Shepard's brow. "I sense that you are in need. But of what?"

Shepard draws a breath before fixing Sha'ira in her intense gaze. "I died. They brought me back but I don't remember anything." Sha'ira's frown deepens. "Someone mentioned I'd visited before. Alliance soldiers," she says though her eyes flicker then. "I need your help. I need for you to show me…what I've lost. How I was. I need all of it."

Sha'ira weighs the request. Shepard was a great help in the past. The matter with Xeltan and Septimus could have cost her everything. Sha'ira was grateful with words, with her body. Shepard appreciated one and not the other. Yet something troubles Sha'ira about the hint of frailty in those hazel eyes. Shepard seems lost. Sha'ira has heard stories about the Collectors, about vanishing human colonies. Is it something that will spread out like a cancer over the universe? Like the geth almost did? Perhaps death made Shepard afraid, made her forget. Is she Shepard anymore? "And if I don't help you?"

Shepard doesn't reach for her gun, but her eyes go hard and cold, shifting from hazel to an emerald green. Sha'ira is impressed by the sly manifestation of Shepard's biotics. Her control is remarkable; there are no tendrils of power emanating from her body. "I can't force you," Shepard says. A war rages in her mind, Sha'ira can feel it coming off her. "But it would be best for both of us if you did."

"Ah." Her words are less subtle than her biotics, but the threat reassures Sha'ira. This is the Shepard she remembers. "I've been told that meeting with me is an unforgettable experience. You're the first evidence to the contrary. You have done great deeds for the galaxy, Shepard. So I will help you." The relief that washes over Shepard's features is enough to get a smile out of Sha'ira. "Without memories it is easy to become lost. It is easy to become someone else," she glides her fingers along Shepard's cheek. Shepard flinches. Sha'ira narrows her eyes thoughtfully and withdraws her hand. "You said you wanted everything back. All that I have of you."

"I do," Shepard replies. "But can't you just give it to me? Without… you know?"

"The act of physical intimacy?" Sha'ira laughs gently. Strange. Shepard had been so eager before. "You gave your mind to me during a moment of passion. To facilitate the transfer, it would be best to replicate those circumstances."

"Oh." Shepard looks uncertain.

"Do you still want it?"

She gets a grudging nod in response. Sha'ira slides closer, watching her body tense. "Relax your mind, Shepard," Sha'ira's lips graze Shepard's, "and embrace eternity."

They travel for days before arriving. Noveria is more a giant chunk of ice than a habitable planet. The corporatized world has an icy, shining veneer, slippery and cold to the touch. It's desolate compared to the Citadel and the other planets Grace has traveled to. Individuals scurry to and fro at a hasty pace, talking to themselves. 'They're on calls,' Hope tells her. It's business.

Grace doesn't like it. She doesn't like Noveria. It's cold and everyone glares. Her head feels as if it's been spiked by a rail gun. Shards of memories have been tearing through her mind for the past few days, meanings within grasp but eluding her. She sees the funeral of a man she doesn't recognize, a woman dressed in a decorated Alliance uniform meeting her eyes, her jaw clenched tightly. There's Shepard walking across the stage, getting a sheet of paper. Graduation? Paperwork is signed, a man with a baritone voice claps her arm, shakes her hand. An asari, a turian and a salarian stare down at Shepard, hitting something on a pedestal. Sha'ira. The way Shepard took her, rough and aggressive. That memory is particularly vivid, heightened, Grace imagines, by Sha'ira's own.

Everything's out of order. Memories enmeshed. A bomb. Virmire. A bomb on Virmire. Ashley Williams…? An older matriarch. Liara T'Soni. The meld has filled her with pride, lust, sadness, and insurmountable, crippling regret. For days Grace has battled depression and anger. Sha'ira's touch, her mind is still fresh and Grace can recall too vividly how her flesh felt against her own, the heat of her tongue, the gentleness of her knowledgeable fingers.

Grace flushes from the memory, from guilt, from anger. She is torn between the disgust she felt at herself, at Hope, at Sha'ira for their coupling and the pleasure that cascaded over her throughout the exchange. Sha'ira appeared first confused and then mildly unsettled after she shared Shepard's past memories—if they could be called that. Fragments. Slivers of a past life. Her past life…? After all this time nothing makes sense.

She and Hope share a room with large ceiling-to-floor windows. Normally Hope avoids them but they're high up. The outside is inky darkness. Snow piles and sticks to the windows, covering them in a layer of frost. Grace is freezing. Worse yet she's stuck wearing an oversized pink sweater, some old relic left behind by a previous guest. It was the only thing she was able to get a hold of during their late arrival. The wind howls outside. Hope taps away at the computer keys. If Grace has been sullen, Hope has taken on some of her temperament. Hope finally abandoned the task of asking questions after getting only silence in return.

"Why are we here?" Grace asks sharply. Hope keeps typing on the computer. Grace glares, watching the snow whip around in the wind. She feels cool air entering the room somehow. No matter what, she can't get warm. Hope thinks she's sick but if anything has made her feel that way, it's the steady stream of mind melds, of being forced to ingest memories and images that resonate yet don't seem her own. Is she supposed to remember? Are they twins? Did they spend time together? Why do they look alike? Why can't she remember? Is she the real Shepard? Is the other Shepard an imposter? She has an endless supply of questions and no answers.

Hope, who is sprawled out on the bed, the computer in her lap, doesn't look at her. "Noveria is where Commander Shepard tracked down Matriarch Benezia. She was indoctrinated and had to be killed. Liara T'Soni bore witness to it. It caused ripples throughout the intergalactic community. Matriarch Benezia was one of the most influential diplomatic figures in the galaxy, and she aided the greatest criminal known to man and alien-kind. It was all terribly tragic."

"You sound broken up about it."

"Your cocoa is getting cold." She tells her. Grace glances at the steaming mug that sits on the nightstand. She's never had cocoa. It has a sweet aroma to it. Normally she'd be pleased that Hope got her something, seemingly for the sake of simply giving it to her. Tonight, it isn't enough. Hope takes a breath and sets the computer aside. "You're obviously angry about something. Let's hear it."

"I had to sleep with that woman."

Oh. Is that all? "Many men and women would give their right arm for the opportunity. Was it not to your satisfaction?" There's a beat as Hope reads her face. "I'm hearing complaints when I ought to be hearing gratitude."

"I didn't want to do that."

"But you liked it."

"I would never ask you to do that." A gust of violent wind kicks up, capable of drowning out anything they might have said at that moment. "I don't know what you have planned for me but I don't want to do it." She stalks closer, eyes narrowed. "Commander Shepard has…endured…so much pain and anguish. She has earned her accomplishments. I'm not her. I never will be. If you gave a damn about me you wouldn't make me do these things. Do you know how tiring it is? Do you know how confusing? Each time you make me do something new everything that I have sorted goes into a tailspin. Why do you make me do things I should hate? Why do I like them?" She takes a handful of Hope's shirt and yanks her to a sitting position. Why did she sneak into a porn theater to watch asari vids near a year ago? Why do her feelings contradict her thoughts? Hope looks at her with an emotion Grace doesn't recognize. Grace's voice is clenched with feeling and she nearly confesses her love again. She swallows the words. She can't bear the thought of Hope's ridicule. Not now. It might push her to tears. "Why would you let me do something like that? It would kill me to watch you go to someone else."

"You'll have to do more difficult things," Hope's fingers glide along Grace's hand. "You'll have to know what Shepard likes. You'll have to know her preferences. You'll have to know how she fights, how she talks, how she fucks. Every shred is part of what makes her who she is. You'll have to know all of that and more and maybe it won't be enough."

Grace glares, her eyes glistening, the grip on Hope's shirt as firm as ever. Business. It's always logical, sorted business with her. "Why can't I remember anything?" Hope stares at her. Her eyes shift away from Grace's face. It's the first time she's looked away from her. Grace notes that it's significant in some way but is too tangled with emotion to make sense of it. "I won't be her." She lets Hope go. "Forget it. Forget all of this. I can't. I won't." Hope slumps back onto the bed. She straightens her shirt moments later. "Why am I not enough?"

Grace crashes to a sitting on the bed. She wipes at her eyes discreetly. Hope's hand touches on her back. Grace stares at the pathetic bright sleeves of her sweater. "You're meant for so much more. More than even you or I could conceive." Her hand rubs gently along her back. "We can't turn back. This surpasses us. Our wishes don't matter anymore."

Grace swallows the lump in her throat. She tries to speak, tries to tell Hope she can't continue but is unable to. Hope's lips brush along her neck, where some errant tear has escaped to. She rests her forehead on Grace's back. "I can't imagine how difficult it is to take so much into your mind. This was the last." Her fingers glide along her arm reassuringly. "I promise you won't have to do that ever again." Grace releases a long, shuddering breath.

The starboard observation deck is warmer than she remembers. Shepard stands at the window, gazing out at the sea of black. Stars throb with life. She's being observed. It's better to be here with a new face. It's easy to be here with a new start. Shame knots her stomach. She clenches her fists experimentally, happy she can ball them again, strike. Better. Everything will be better. She most of all.

"Your face is much improved since our last meeting, Shepard."

Shepard stiffens. The soft click of heels strike the floor. She hates Samara's voice. Hates Samara's face. Blue hands clasp Shepard's face tightly, forcing her to look. Her eyes are so pale and blue she looks blind. She's flawless. Spotless. Shepard averts her eyes and gets a chuckle in response.

"It wasn't so long ago you couldn't take your eyes off me. Wanted me."

"Stop it," Shepard growls. A touch slides down her face. The woman turns away, returning to the couch, sitting. Her posture is relaxed. One leg crossed over the other. Hands twined demurely in her lap. Shepard tightens her jaw to keep it from quivering. She reminds herself that no matter her actions, regret is something she cannot allow. Questioning herself will get her nowhere. What's done is done.

Morinth wanted Shepard. Despite the scars she saw something linking them. Maybe she saw a killer, same as her. She was stunned to see Samara, but Samara was a predator, prowling into the room, ready to end Morinth.

The fight was brutal. The apartment was ripped asunder, furniture battered and knocked over, blood everywhere. Samara found her adversary to be an exceptionally talented biotic, an unfeeling killer who has ended countless lives.

Shepard considered the woman who could murder a daughter for being born with a genetic disorder. There was an opportunity. Life is about taking opportunities. Samara promised to kill her when their suicide mission was complete. Shepard didn't want to take any chances. Yet there it was—the shock in Samara's eyes when Shepard betrayed her.

She nearly regretted it. For Samara to be surprised meant there was some part of her that believed she was noble and good. There was a part of the asari that thought there was something redeemable about her. But Shepard remembered her words. Samara didn't see the world in shades of grey. It was black and white. One must be ended or they must not. Personal feelings were irrelevant. Samara decided long ago that Shepard must die. Samara was a killer. Unfeeling and merciless. Like her. Like Morinth. All of them just reflections of each other.

Shepard strikes first, taking advantage of the standoff between Morinth and Samara. The first blow collides solidly. Samara wipes blood from her mouth, momentarily dazed. The next instant she understands. Shepard's thrown onto her back, the heel of Samara's boot nearly crushing her windpipe. Shepard rolls away, jumping to her feet. Her foot finds the asari's stomach; she follows the assault with a knee to the face.

Samara hardly makes a sound. Shepard admires that, even as Samara hurls her to the wall. Shepard hears things crack, tastes blood in her mouth as Samara glides through the air, punches a fist through the wall where Shepard had been only an instant before.

Samara's initial attack against Shepard was devastating. It's taken a lot out of her, made her slow and disoriented. She's never had an adversary like the justicar before and it shows. Samara's fist pounds into her face, once, twice, a crunch is followed by a geyser of blood that erupts from her nose, another punch and teeth come loose, her jaw unhinging.

Shepard launches into the air, slamming biotic energy into the ground, blowing them all back. Morinth tries to enter the fray but a deadly look from Shepard keeps her in place. Samara flies back and Shepard charges, biotic energy and adrenaline forcing her to move through the pain.

Samara is remarkable. A goddess of death. She rips one of the swords from the wall with deadly elegance. Shepard thought they were ceremonial but as it slices into her arm, tears into her stomach, Shepard learns with excruciating agony how wrong she was.

Morinth makes commentary but Shepard doesn't hear any of it. She dodges a swipe, springs to her feet, grapples Samara's arm, breaks it. The asari finally cries out. The sword falls. Shepard presses her advantage, knocking her feet out from under her, straddling her, bleeding all over her. Samara judges her. Those icy eyes loathe her. Shepard doesn't have a snappy quip. She's dizzy and losing consciousness, losing strength. She grips Samara's head and with the last of her reserves, twists it savagely. Her neck snaps. Shepard's fear drains with Samara's life and with it, she worries, some part of her humanity.

She slumps away from Samara, her nose bent and throbbing. She can't speak. The sounds she makes are ugly. Morinth looks down at the both of them blankly before kneeling to pull the clothes from Samara's body.

Shepard stares wide-eyed at the dead asari, naked and broken, lifeless. Shepard's eyes are dry, unblinking, riveted on her carcass as Morinth dresses.

Morinth drags her away. Blood runs down Shepard's face, her arms, her stomach. She shouldn't have left her fucking armor behind. Morinth's mouth moves, smiles, her voice shifting: heavier, somber, urgent when they spot Miranda hovering near the Purgatory entrance, clearly alarmed at Shepard's condition.

Morinth presses her back to the cushion. "Having regrets? I thought you were bolder than that."

There is something contemptuous to her tone and Shepard hates her, hates herself for bringing the viper into their midst. What kind of a woman can kill another and take over her life? What kind of woman can live that kind of life? What kind of woman can forgive it? Can keep the secret? What must it be to live a lie? How exhausting. How exhilarating. The galaxy's greatest prank.

Shepard tells herself Samara deserved her death. The fight was fair. Shepard won. If Samara had taken her it would have meant something. It would have meant she was wrong. It would have meant she didn't deserve to live; she wasn't fit to lead. But Samara was taken. Samara died. It's okay. Survival of the fittest. The Reapers are still coming. She's the only one who can stop them. She needs to live. Even if she isn't sure she should, even if she isn't sure that she wants to.

"Don't talk like her in here," Shepard says. She sits next to her on the couch. Morinth smiles. Shepard drapes her arm over the back of the couch and slides closer, looking at her. Morinth's smiles are easy and inviting. Samara was aloof and judgmental. She taunted her about Liara. "It's remarkable." Shepard touches Morinth's face. She feels the same. The strong jaw. The cutting lines to her face. Shepard trails her thumb along the curves and Morinth shifts her face as necessary, as if putting on a demonstration for a new, top of the line product. "You're remarkable."

"As are you, Shepard. I never imagined a human could be so daring. Watching you kill my mother was…exhilarating. She was after me for a long time. I always knew it'd come down to just her or me. Life is like that, you know. There are some people that can't coexist."

Is that true…? "Is that what you really think?"

"You did the right thing. Deep down, you know it too. Someone who denies herself the pleasure of living shouldn't go on existing. Only the strong survive. In life, people like us are at the top of the food chain. We shouldn't feel guilty about that. We should be proud." There's a beat. "Don't worry. No one will ever find out about my mother. I'll be able to carry out the mission as well as she would have. Better."

Shepard leans into the couch and feels herself relax. For days she's been wound tight. Samara was a threat. She was eliminated. She has a new face. She's reborn. She's been given a new opportunity, just as Morinth has.

It's a fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Sometimes things need to be replaced. Sometimes that's the only way it gets better.