X3 showers with the rest of Cerberus. They are a unit. They are a family. The water cascades over them like ice, each drop puncturing like a needle. The soldiers shake and yelp, laugh and make noise, stare at one another, sometimes openly, other times discreetly. X3 stares at the stainless steel walls and the way drops of water magnify the grooves of the metal.
They look at her, curious. She trounces them all in hand-to-hand combat. She's injured some critically. Not out of malice. They should be better. Thus far she is the only Phantom. She is the prototype, though she is not the one they would have preferred. They're still waiting for her. If Kai Leng looks at her differently than any other soldier, it's only to shame her with contempt. Other times he behaves as if she isn't there. X3 asks questions and gets no responses. Her cheeks don't burn in the beginning.
There are others like her but she is the only one like herself. Ironic. She suits up in a white, gold and black uniform. She ties her hair up and eats meals alone. She understands she never went to school but has read about it. Remembers fragments of it. In another location her taunters may be bullies. In a different uniform they'd be expendable.
They stare at her face and she wonders what they see. She prefers them in helmets, their faces uniform, almost like her. What will happen to her, she wonders, when X8 is apprehended? She has thought about meeting her and has forced herself to reimagine it in a manner that Cerberus would find acceptable.
The organization grows by the day, as do their projects. She is the only phantom, but there are dragoons now. There was a blond one with a chiseled frame and stubble. He was selected for a special mission, but never returned. There are rumors that it was X8 that got him. She is rumored to be willful. X3 doesn't want to fight alongside a woman who is responsible for killing Cerberus agents. Leng would tell her she is weak and small-minded. She distances herself from any emotional response.
A meal tray drops in front of her. X3 doesn't look up until she feels the other's gaze burning into her. X3 lifts her eyes: one green, the other brown. They've begun a new program: The Nemesis Project. Only a handful of slighter women have been inducted, catty and irrelevant.
This one is Annalise. She has brown eyes and blonde hair. Symmetrical features. The other tables watch them. No one ever sits with X3. This is the first time Annalise has. The Nemesis implants by all accounts are incredibly painful, making simple actions such as picking up an eating utensil an agonizing affair. The pain will fade. She is new. Her arms are covered where the implants would be. Her black bodysuit is halfway open, and a white undershirt clings to her. "I've been told to pick a partner. You don't have one. Neither do I." She glances at the tables around them. "We'll make a good team." She winces as she stabs into the steak in front of her.
X3 thinks of the blade she wields with greater proficiency each day. She will be expected to take lives for the good of humanity. "Okay," she says. She has questions but she isn't used to answers. Cerberus is family. You don't question family.
Shepard rips her old N7 armor from the deactivated geth. Where did the thing find it? Why take it? She's used to killing geth, not carrying them around. It's incredibly heavy and when it falls back onto the slab in the AI core it creates a loud clank that resonates throughout the room like a hum.
Shepard holds onto the armor. It's nothing she'll ever use. Hell, she doesn't want to look at it but she doesn't want that thing wearing it. It belongs to her. No one will use any part or piece of her as spare parts. She leaves the room and digs into Chakwas' medicine cabinet, pulling out a handful of pills. Her head has been throbbing since the derelict Reaper ship.
Now they have a flashy IFF and can attempt to get through the Omega-4 Relay. She reminds herself to get it out of her room and turn it over to EDI and the rest of the team for investigation. She throws four pills into her mouth and makes her way over to the communications room.
Jacob took off after his little speech earlier. Miranda still lingers. Her eyes go to the N7 chest piece in Shepard's hand. Shepard throws it at her. "Get rid of this, will you?" Miranda catches it at the last instant. "I may not want it but I sure as hell don't want that thing wearing it."
"Have you made a decision?"
"There is no way in hell I'm going to activate a sentient geth on my ship. We need every edge possible in this war. Tear it apart if you have to. Get us something out of it. Something to help stop the Reapers."
Miranda looks down at the armor and back at Shepard. "Of course. The Illusive Man will be pleased." There's a pause. "As am I. This is for the best, Shepard."
Shepard nods and exits the room. A significant bounty has been placed on recovering an intact geth but that's hardly her concern, though she can admit that the credits will be nice to buy some weapon mods. Cerberus has done unethical things. So has she. She realizes now that they're willing to do anything to get the job done, to win. That's the kind of focus and attitude she needs at her side. If she has to play nice with Cerberus to beat the Reapers, so be it.
The Rayya is a clunker of a ship. Now Shepard knows what Tali meant about her noisy ships. With every step it groans beneath them, the propulsion sounds of what keeps it going is never absent for very long. It's cleaner than an operating room. She never thought she'd get to visit the migrant fleet—but she never thought she'd have a crewmember accused of treason.
Tali introduces them to Admiral Shala'Raan who explains the situation—Tali has been accused of smuggling active geth into the fleet for her father. Garrus stands up straighter and tries to get in an introduction, but is ignored. The accusations are ridiculous. Shepard has never met anyone so stubbornly loyal to their people.
Shepard gets cornered into representing Tali. As they move forward to the beginning stages of the trial the situation only grows more desperate. Every word uttered by the Admiralty Board is insult added to injury. Garrus fidgets behind them. Tali is so tense a simple touch would be enough to shatter her.
They tell Tali her father is dead in a matter of fact way, as if the entire matter were inconsequential. Shepard sees the exact moment Tali stops breathing. She touches Tali's arm. Garrus brings a hand gently to the quarian's shoulder. Their time is limited. The Alarei is lost or will be shortly. Shepard hadn't planned on fighting hordes of geth, but she's always down for a scrap.
Tali goes to speak to Admiral Shala'Raan, who she calls "Auntie." Shepard and Garrus make their way to each of the other admirals to see if they can find any soft spots. "I've seen trials like this," Garrus mutters as they walk. "They've all but made up their minds to hang this on her."
"It's bullshit, Garrus," Shepard snaps. "And you should know better than to bet against me. I don't lose." Internally, she isn't so sure. She's used to holding court on the battlefield, where the rules are simpler and she always has the better argument.
"Of course," he nods. "You're right. You'll win this."
Admiral Han'Gerrel vas Neema is a soldier and a straight-shooter. Shepard finds she doesn't mind him. He tells an old war story about how he and Tali's father once saved a freighter from batarian raiders. He all but says he thinks Tali is innocent. Good. At least one of them is on Tali's side.
Admiral Zaal'Koris vas Qwib-Qwib, on the other hand, is an insufferable ponce and a geth apologist. Talking to him is a lost cause, though Shepard can't resist asking him about the stupid ship name. She moves on before she loses the ability to resist punching him.
Admiral Daro'Xen vas Moreh is the swing vote. She has an air of arrogance to her that Shepard has never encountered. Most quarians are meek or actively hostile, given their reputation among the galaxy. Admiral Xen doesn't shy away from her. Even with the helmet she seems to regard Shepard as if she were a bug on a plate to be studied. She tsk-tsks when Shepard asks her if she's on the fence, but it's obvious she's the most morally flexible of the three. She scoffs at the suggestion that the geth are sentient, and expresses great interest in whatever research Tali's father was doing on the Alarei. Shepard feels reassured. Xen wants something. She can work with that.
Maybe she can win this. They round up Tali and make their way to the shuttle. The Alarei awaits.
I should have known not to trust you. Did you think I wouldn't notice? All Cerberus records have been stricken from the network. I hope you got what you needed. You won't have the opportunity again.
Liara
The email is dramatic but Miranda imagines she might be apoplectic if someone scoured her network and removed any damaging information. The Shadow Broker will have backups, of course, but the data files will take time to reconstruct and might not be fully recoverable given all the havoc they wreaked on the ship. Perhaps Liara will now know better than to throw someone the keys to the Shadow Broker network. Still, she's glad they'd built up enough of a relationship for Liara to entrust her with the information (briefly). Without it she'd never know that Shepard's clone was on the lam.
There have been no known sightings since Horizon. Unfortunately, she wasn't quite as persuasive as she might have been with that Samantha Traynor. She's accustomed to demanding answers and getting them. The other alternative would have been holding a gun to the woman's head, but that may have been slightly overzealous. No doubt it would have drawn Shepard's attention.
She doesn't have time to visit Horizon, and Liara is in no mood to be charitable with information. She can only remain vigilant. Miranda exits and heads to Port Observation. Kasumi's effects remain: a painting, a collection of books, a long-wilted rose. A shame what happened. Shepard was careless but has been less so since the incident. Perhaps the loss of life was a lesson well-learned.
Shepard exercised good judgment at Tali's trial. They returned yesterday. Tali was exonerated after Shepard apparently yelled the admirals into submission. Tali's been cooped up ever since, crying. What is it to mourn a father? Tali's father's actions stemmed out of some misguided love. Henry Lawson only ever acted in his own best interests, everyone else be damned.
She frowns and peruses the room. The only thing that mattered to Kasumi Goto was that graybox. It was the only reason she joined the suicide mission. It cost her her life and in the end she didn't get it. Losses are to be expected. She looks at the bottles of alcohol and considers them before moving on. There's a small wooden decorative box on the nightstand beside the bed. Miranda sits, sighs, contemplates everything before them. Her fingers tease along the grooves of the lid before opening it. She pulls it onto her lap.
There are letters. Romantic in nature. She smiles ruefully. She's never received a letter of this sort and imagines she'd roll her eyes were she to get one. Courtship has only ever been businesslike and efficient. Romance requires whimsy and flightiness, none which she has ever been afforded. She considers searching through the box. There are photographs of Kasumi and Keiji, cards of various art galleries. Beneath them all is a picture of Kasumi, years ago, hood free, with an older, striking woman with dark eyes and an unreadable smile. Miranda turns the picture over. With Sasha: post-heist!
Miranda narrows her eyes on the woman. She's... familiar.
She takes the photograph and tells herself she isn't being sentimental. She shuts the box and moves back to her office. She sets it beside her computer. Who is she...? It doesn't matter, she supposes. It could be she has one of those faces—but that's unlikely.
The suicide mission is quickly approaching. The Reaper IFF is in hand. It won't be too much longer until they move through the Omega-4 Relay and still she has the matter of the Shepard scraps on her hands. She thinks of the Indian woman at the Dark Star Lounge. Her easiest opportunity to gather information and she blew it. Fortunately, she has found her email address and she isn't one to give up easily.
To: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]
From: ML [ ML ]
Ms. Traynor,
I'm writing regarding the conversation we had about the incident at Horizon with your mother and father. Your cooperation would be appreciated.
—ML
All correspondence in this email is classified and only for the designated individuals. Breaching privacy and confidentiality is punishable to the maximum extent of the law or as seen fit by the originating organization, individuals or group.
She's studying the photo when a new email pops up on her screen.
To: ML [ ML ]
From: Samantha Traynor [ straynor ]
Who is this?
There's a signature:
You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.
Miranda narrows her eyes. This will be difficult.
More than half a year has passed since she lost those people who were her parents. They were arrested, branded as war criminals working for the terrorist organization: Cerberus. Oriana would not have believed it had she not seen abundant documentation throughout the years. She had long been sought by her real father: Henry Lawson, was sold and kidnapped as a child by an older sister, Miranda Lawson, a Cerberus agent and used as a bargaining chip to keep her father away.
Henry has allowed her to send letters to the people she thought were her parents but she has received no response. Maybe they're ashamed. It should be easy to stop loving them. They've been involved in countless war crimes. She never thought anything of their trips when she was younger. They always returned with stories and gifts, smiles and bear hugs. They loved her. Maybe they still do, as she loves them.
Now she has Henry Lawson. He has been polite. He has allowed her to study on Thessia. He has had her undergo rigorous physical examinations to make sure she was not harmed in some way. When she protests, she is told, gently, that Cerberus agents are cunning and do untold harm without the victim ever knowing.
She doesn't consider herself a victim.
She goes to school. She had a good upbringing. Niket comes around sometimes. He sports nicer clothing than he did when she first met him. He doesn't like it when she asks about Miranda. She thinks they may have been friends. He only ever confirms that the woman known as Miranda Lawson is in fact her sister and did in fact kidnap her when she was a baby.
Oriana has searched the extranet extensively. There's almost no information on her. All that is known is that she is a Cerberus agent, just as Henry has said she is. Great. Her sister is the poster girl of a terrorist organization. They have the same face but Miranda never seems to smile. Henry has told her Miranda is cold, calculating, dangerous. There are some shots of her with Commander Shepard: a tall, olive-skinned woman with eyes that are brown in some pictures, blue in others, her expression always challenging, threatening. What's it like knowing Commander Shepard? Isn't Shepard a hero? Why does Shepard spend time with a known criminal? Henry told her Shepard works for Cerberus. All extranet reports say the same. They will come after you. Do not trust them.
Oriana reclines against the cafe chair and stares at the cerulean skies. Her fellow students wander past, chatting and gossiping about the professors, marks in classes and potential partners to meet at upcoming parties. Most of the asari are at least three times her age. Enyala sits beside her, surveying the campus with clear disinterest. The asari has been with her a little over half a year, her own personal bodyguard. She and Niket were the ones who came to Illium to get her after her parents were dragged away. Her adoptive parents. After all this time she can't make the correction in her mind. Henry would like for her to think of him as a father. It's taking some getting used to.
"Don't you get bored?" Oriana asks Enyala. "If she was really after me wouldn't she have gotten to me by now?" She keeps her voice casual but the thought of the Miranda woman and her Cerberus pals coming after her is terrifying. Especially if it's Commander Shepard. How could anyone stand up to them?
"Listen, zygote, you worry about acing your exams and being all you can be and let me handle the security details, all right?" She folds her arms on the table and takes a drink of tea. A turian and a human male think of approaching the table but a severe look from Enyala gets them moving on their way.
Oriana wonders who her real mother is. "Do you know anything about my sister? Uh, Miranda Lawson?"
"Prissy bitch working for an organization that wants human supremacy. Not the kind that's really welcome around here."
Oriana considers that. To her knowledge, Miranda studied on Thessia as well. She's had to find all of this out on her own; Niket, her father, and Enyala haven't been forthcoming on details. If Miranda hates aliens then why study on Thessia? She thinks of her parents. She thinks of Henry Lawson. How horrible to have one daughter turn against her father and hold the younger one hostage. She imagines the icy woman with her face from the photographs leveling a gun at an infant's head and pulling the trigger. What kind of monster is she?
She recalls the time Enyala suggested her parents may not be alive at all, that Miranda and Shepard may have taken them out while in captivity to keep their mouths shut. When Oriana asks about it, no one responds. They avert their eyes and treat her like some porcelain doll. Is that why her parents don't respond to her? Are they dead? Did Miranda and Shepard kill them? A chill spreads over her, despite the gentle warmth of the day.
She gingerly touches the back of her neck and finds the recently installed biotic implant. The skin around it is still tender. Henry told her she has always had the ability, no matter how others have attempted to prevent her from living up to her full potential. There's so much more to learn now. Those physics classes are on another level entirely. She should be excited. She fights to keep her eyes from watering and clears her throat gently. "I don't understand how any one person could be so terrible."
Enyala smiles in that way of hers. "You'd be surprised at the nasty things people do to hold on to their secrets."
Hope massages her forehead as she looks over the visitors menu. On Thessia, nearly everything is naturally infused with eezo. It's part of the biosphere, the reason all asari are biotics. For months she's been stuck eating the same bland, expensive, imported foods, because she can't eat like the natives. Grace hasn't smiled at her in just as long. As she helps herself to generous servings (lucky to be a biotic), Hope swears the woman is silently gloating.
Hope hates Thessia. Everything is clean and smooth; everyone pats themselves on the back. There are aliens everywhere. There is a bloody sea of asari. Grace has been using the old hologram: the redhead with near shoulder length hair, a sprinkle of freckles along her nose and cheeks, pale with lipstick that's a little too red. The disguise is attractive but it isn't Hope's preference.
Grace has been sleeping on the couch of their hotel. Some nights she doesn't bother coming home. Other times she flirts brazenly with the asari at the restaurants and shops. She is wasting their time and she knows it. She dragged her here after initially ditching her on Horizon. Hope frowns as Grace exchanges smiles with the asari waitress who is young, she thinks, but wears too much makeup. The asari asks Grace what she's doing later. Hope clears her throat and Grace has a drink of water, deflecting the question.
"What's your problem?" Grace asks when the waitress moves on her way.
Hope doesn't know. "This isn't going to work if you keep doing this." There's a pause. The green eyes flick to hers. They're not too different from Grace's, really. But Grace's eyes tend to go green when she's angry. This disguise she's chosen for herself has jade eyes that always seem to burn. Maybe she's furious. She's too emotional. "You can't continue being angry. I told you that I'm sorry. Get over it."
Grace narrows her eyes. She looks into the crowd of university students. She has been intent on spending her time at the library of this particular university, renowned for both its architecture and collection of books, music, art and vids. "You could just go."
Hope bites her tongue and stares at her warped reflection on the fork. She forces herself to breathe in slowly. She finds a cloth napkin and folds it over her lap as the pretty, young waitress of before returns with bread. She apologizes to Hope, telling her it's infused with eezo too. Hope ignores her. "That isn't how this works and you know it." She leans forward slightly. "For fuck's sake, you didn't know him. You know me."
"That the problem. I do know you. Or I don't." Her fingers clench on the table. She flattens them and they turn into a fist again. Hope considers covering her hand but looks away instead. She wraps her fingers around the glass of water but doesn't drink. "Have you ever told me anything true?"
"Yes."
"Like what?"
Hope could lie. But lies that have always served her so well are what are destroying this... arrangement. She desperately searches her mind for something true and falls short. She is disappointed in herself. Grace stands and wads the napkin in her hand, throwing it on top of the table.
"I need some air," Grace tells her, the bitter disappointment giving her expressionless face away. Hope scoots her chair back but stops when Grace looks at her. "Alone."
Hope listens to the birds chirp and watches her walk away. She has to tell her the truth. She has to tell her the truth the best way she can. She'll lose everything if she doesn't. She has another drink of water to soothe her aching throat and stands. She's dizzy and nervous. It's time.
They've been exchanging emails for weeks now. It wouldn't be so pressing if there had been any information of any other Shepard sighting. Unfortunately there hasn't been and she's been forced into a game of tag with the all too coy Samantha Traynor. She looks over their email history, unnaturally vexed.
Ms. Traynor,
It's unlikely you've been peddling the story of your parents around to various parties. I hope you understand the sensitivity of this situation. Your discretion is appreciated.
—ML
I've managed to trace your email signature to various systems. Fascinating! Are you in the Alliance? You're not a pirate, are you? Though if you are I have to admire your succinct and polite messages. Some space diva, perhaps?
—Ms. Traynor (if you're nasty)
You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.
Ms. Traynor,
My time is a valuable commodity and I have little to spend on games. We spoke at the Dark Star Lounge about the incident on Horizon. You must have been heavily under the influence if you don't remember me.
—ML
Ms. Traynor,
I'm unsure if you received my last reply as I've received no response. I'll paste again:
My time is a valuable commodity and I have little to spend on games. We spoke at the Dark Star Lounge about the incident at Horizon. You must have been heavily under the influence if you don't remember me.
—ML
As I said, time is of the essence. I understand the duties of a first-lieutenant, but surely you have some time to respond.
Warmly,
ML
Ms. Traynor,
It has been weeks since your last correspondence. I have your schedule in front of me. I understand you have a passion for chess and other strategy games. Your time might be better served on a physical regime. You're under the suggested minimum for pull-ups, which can only lead me to believe you have weak arms. I have been polite about this. We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. My preference and talent is for the hard way.
—M
"M",
Firstly, I'll have you know I've never received complaints about my arms or their strength, thank you very much. Secondly, have you any idea how hard it is to do a bloody pull up? It leaves your arms feeling like a limp noodle for days. Normally I'd be indignant about your clearly creepy and stalker-like overtures, but a few heart pumping experiences in the past from very attached ex-girlfriends have prepared me for circumstances such as these. Fortunately for me, I'm not all good looks, and while you have been spamming me with a constant stream of emails, I've been pinging your location. The past few weeks you have been at Pragia, Tuchanka and Haestrom, amongst others. Are you some sort of criminal on the run? I remember you from the DSL. You were a bit of a bitch then, too. Look, I'm not telling you anything, so back off. My parents' lives are off limits. They've been through enough without you adding to it. And for that matter, don't think to threaten me. I know straight, off-kilter women can be terrifying but you have no idea what I've been through.
—Ms. Traynor
You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.
P.S. You don't know even a little bit about buttering a girl up, do you?
P.P.S. Mock me for my love of strategy games if you must but have you any idea how satisfying it is to decrypt and trace encrypted communications? I believe you're currently in the vicinity of Omega. Tell me I'm right?
Miranda smiles wryly at the most recent exchange and picks up the photograph of before. Kasumi and 'Sasha.' She's certain she knows the woman, 'Sasha,' though the name doesn't click. Miranda met her years ago. How old was she? Miranda was seventeen when she joined Cerberus. Eighteen years ago. It was some Cerberus function, some gala. Miranda can only recall a woman slightly older than her, talking to some scientists. She wore a blue dress and dazzled the group she was with.
Cerberus has many cells, most unknown to each other. Her position in the organization doesn't matter. The way the Illusive Man claims to value her doesn't matter. The information is confidential and were she to talk to the Illusive Man, he'd likely pat her on the head and tell her to focus on the mission. She doesn't have a list of Cerberus agents handy. That information is classified. Just like whatever they did with that geth they turned over.
She searches Kasumi's room and finds nothing else on 'Sasha.' The trail is long cold. Going to Liara for help is out of the question. Miranda sits at her desk. She has the Cerberus data from the Shadow Broker network. All this time later and it's the first time she's thought to look at it.
She searches the archives. There are photos to go with names she's only ever read or heard before. There are more cells than she even imagined, wildly experimental projects that don't just walk the line of ethics but take a running leap and jump over it.
There's the Phantom Project. The Nemesis Project. There are new implants with untold potential. There's a picture of a scarred creature titled X3. Another one labeled X8 shows only a grainy photograph of the same woman Miranda saw on the feed from New Canton—the one with clear, almost innocent eyes. X8 PRIORITY ONE: Capture Alive At All Costs.
Miranda keeps the window open on the laptop and opens another one. She searches through staff dossiers for hours until her eyes burn. She rubs at them and foregoes reading the details, dully clicking through the pictures until she stops at one. A dark woman with eyes that are both inviting and cold, the same suggestion of a smile on her full lips.
Miranda picks up the photograph. That's her. Sasha. Rasa. Hope Lilium. Ms. Brooks. She's been with Cerberus as long as Miranda has. The details are sparse. The aliases are countless. She was charged with creating the dossiers for the suicide mission. Their entire crew, their last hope for stopping the Collectors is her doing. Miranda vaguely recalls a woman talking to her at some point – perhaps the same woman – but Miranda was too preoccupied with other matters, including bringing Shepard back.
Wide awake now, she digests what little information there is to nibble on. This… Rasa knew Kasumi. She wrote the dossier, got her on the mission. And... not too long later, she broke into the Cerberus cloning facility, murdered Jones and escaped with X8. She's also priority one: kill on sight. Did Kasumi work with her? Did Kasumi spy for her? Miranda can't imagine any good reason to escape with a Shepard clone—except to use Shepard's identity to subvert... what?
She stands but doesn't pace. Her mind races. Kasumi's gone. She can no longer ask her. Was Kasumi her only mole? Could there be others? How would they communicate? EDI monitors all transmissions. There have been no anomalies. She sits but finds it difficult to remain still. She types.
Dear Ms. Traynor,
Though I regret that the matter with your parents is off limits, except to those fortunate girl friends in dark clubs, I'm hoping you'll be so kind as to lend your assistance in another way. You fancy games so I have a query for you. If you were a spy aboard a military frigate, how would you manage communications with a handler so they went undetected? I eagerly await to see if your reputation as a talented communications specialist is well-earned.
—ML
Minutes later she receives a response.
ML,
A game! Now you've got my attention! You said you don't like games but here you've gone and called me "dear" and everything so I imagine this is very, very serious.
Spies and a military frigate! It sounds like a scenario out of one of my strategy games. Normally I'd make you beg and squirm until I was good and ready but I'm feeling benevolent today. My opponents don't usually look like you—I suppose this is what going up against me must be like. Well—to answer your question, if I were a devious little spy sending messages to a handler—QEC would be the way to go. Fairly obvious, I'm sure, but not normally thought of for smaller operations—it would cost a fortune. A fortune that the right sort of spy would have access to. If you hid the unit away somewhere—a closet or under a bed—well, maybe not under a bed—I could tell you stories—just an area without a lot of traffic, cameras or prying eyes—I'd say you'd have yourself a winner and no one would be the wiser. I'm curious now but I'm sure you won't tell me. Good luck with that dastardly spy.
—Samantha
You cannot play chess if you are kindhearted.
Miranda's ire dwindles. She stands slowly, feeling numb. Samantha Traynor's records show she's an exceptional Quantum Entanglement Communications specialist. If she's as good as they say and this is possible it could mean... a breach... a double agent.
Her office chair slams into the wall as she exits the room.
Grace knows Hope is behind her but doesn't slow. Hope is a liar. Hope can't be trusted. Hope doesn't care about her.
Thessia was intended to be a pointless rebellion. She never expected to fall in love with the planet. She loves the people and the architecture. She likes how the arts are celebrated and diplomacy is revered. She likes the skies that look like oceans of color colliding in the evenings and the shy smiles of asari maidens, the way they press against her in nightclubs when they're dancing in the dark.
She likes the food, light and energizing, diverse and colorful. Hope hasn't enjoyed it, which was part of the plan to begin with. Grace misses her. They've been on Thessia months now and have made love less than a handful of times. The encounters were more like what happened on Therum, leaving her cold, bruised and invigorated.
Hope didn't call her Shepard then. She pulled at her lower lip and told her she hated her face—that of the hologram. Grace doesn't care for the visage. Strangers think it attractive enough but it isn't her face. Even her own face isn't her face. But when she and Hope are violent together it absolves her of responsibility. Not that any hologram can change her feelings. Those behaviors of Shepard that Grace abhors still fill her with electric pleasure.
She should walk away. It's simple enough. Hope isn't forcing her to do anything. Grace understands that they're on even footing. She would wager that Hope needs her a good deal more than she needs her, if for no other reason than the great charade. But Grace loves Hope. It obliterates the leverage.
Grace. We need to talk.
It's Hope. Grace doesn't hear the words. There's a young woman, a brunette with eyes the color of pale diamonds. Her lips are full, her gaze piercing and intelligent. She is stunning. Grace recognizes her. The hair is different, but she's seen that woman's face on the extranet. Cerberus pet, Miranda Lawson. Grace hones in on her and moves closer. The brunette looks at her curiously, but the asari beside her jumps to her feet. She does something with her omni-tool. There's a snap of electricity, and Grace's holo-mask burns against her neck. Her disguise is gone.
Troublesome but not daunting. Grace heads straight for the brunette. No matter who Hope may be, Grace won't allow a Cerberus agent to go free. She won't risk it. The Miranda woman looks at her just as Grace touches the Paladin at her side. She seems too young. Is it really her...? Her eyes fill with terror at Grace's true face. Some part of Grace is gratified, while some other piece burns with shame.
The asari hurls a warp field at her, staggering her, eating into her shields. The girl—woman—screams and runs past her. The asari surges forward, catching Grace in a biotic slam and sending her sprawling backwards. She slides and rolls several feet before stopping. Numbing pain shoots through her as her limbs begin to throb. Grace thinks Thessia is too beautiful and peaceful a planet for fighting. The thought is naive, perhaps.
"Not today, Shepard!" the asari says, straddling her. Grace's barrier is weak from the warp. The food she's been eating helps with biotic powers, but the same goes for everyone else here. "You and Cerberus can go straight to hell!" Her fist connects viciously with her face.
She cocks her fist back and throws it toward her again, but Grace catches it and twists, throwing the asari onto her side and getting to her feet hastily. University students are running in all directions as the asari unhooks a Venom shotgun from her back. One blast of that at this range would be enough to reduce her to a bloody mist. Grace wipes the blood from her mouth. "I don't know who you are, but back off. I'm not who you think I am."
Hope isn't behind her. Has she cloaked? Has she decided it isn't worth it? No time to mourn any possible loss. The asari brings the Venom to the ready position. Grace biotically yanks the cluster of now empty tables and chairs near them, they groan and creak as they wrap and stack around the asari like a prison. For an instant she's trapped. Grace scrambles for cover behind the statue of a matriarch and unholsters the Paladin. A moment later Grace hears tables and chairs crashing and the screaming of a very pissed off asari. This shit again. No matter where she goes, trouble follows her. She may not have started this but she'll be damned sure to finish it.
Hope gives chase. The girl's fast but she won't get very far in the asari-style dress she wears. That's the problem with asari. They're not practical. They live so damned long they're never in a hurry to get anywhere. Whoever the asari is, she's given away "Shepard's" position. No doubt this girl heard the asari. They can't afford leaks.
Hope catches up to her and snatches her arm viciously. Though she struggles to get free she stills as Hope unhooks the Phalanx at her side and brings the barrel her head. She inhales sharply.
"Are you with my sister?" she asks, voice trembling. Hope narrows her eyes and looks at her—really looks at her. She bites back a smile. You have got to be kidding me. "Please, let me go," she takes a desperate look back at the asari and Grace who are trading shots and battering one another in combat.
"I'm going to lower my gun. If you make a sound I will shoot you. Understood?" She hits the side of the girl's head gently with the gun to send the message before tucking it back into its holster. They watch one another apprehensively. "You must be Oriana." She cocks her head to look at the girl. Miranda looked much the same when she was her age—her hair was never cut so short and her expressions tend towards arrogance, but otherwise… "Why did you run?" Oriana frowns in response. Hope steps closer. "You didn't know I had a gun. And even if that were Shepard—she's a hero."
"I know Miranda's after me. I know that she and Commander Shepard murdered my parents," she spits out. Fiery thing. Unlike her icy bitch of a sister. "So what now? Are you planning on taking me back to her and Cerberus?" Hope smiles again. "Why did you wait so long to come after me?" she looks back again.
Hope imagines the overly aggressive asari was meant to guard her. She hears the bang of the Paladin before the campus falls quiet again. Oriana is motionless, even as her eyes glisten. Hope can't tell if they're angry tears or fearful tears, maybe even sad tears. She refuses to let them spill. Grace walks up to them, her face and clothing stained dark blue. Crimson dots her mouth and nose, bruises are forming along her face and neck. Her eyes cycle between green and blue. Grace looks from her to Oriana. "Problem?" Hope asks.
"Not anymore." Grace keeps her eyes on the girl.
"It's not her," Hope says. Oriana stares at a bloody Grace. Hope can't say the color looks terrible on her. She looks back to the asari's crumpled body. "But I think it's best if we go ahead and take her with us." She touches the barrel of the gun to the small of Oriana's back. "Don't worry," she says softly, "do as we say and no harm will come to you." Another gentle nudge and Oriana moves forward.
"You killed her," Oriana says vehemently to Grace.
Grace walks alongside of her. "Was that a friend?" Oriana doesn't respond but Grace apologizes anyway. Hope bites the inside of her lip. She can't exactly tell Grace about who she is with the brat around but it'd be foolish to leave her. This girl is the only thing Miranda Lawson has ever cared about. That makes her valuable.
Kasumi's room is clear. Thane's room is clear. Samara's room is clear. All of the squad members' rooms are clear. They may be working with an unsavory lot but none appear to be the mole. Not even the psychotic convict. Miranda walks through the Normandy with brisk determination. She has had EDI search extensively through logged footage. Nothing has been found.
Miranda asks instead to pinpoint any blind areas on the ship. There are precious few. The shower and bathrooms are cleared. The crew quarters are cleared as is the medical bay and the AI core. Kelly Chambers, sensing she's on a warpath, has kept out of her way. Garrus and Tali'Zorah may be useful but Miranda can't trust them now.
She foregoes the elevator and takes the stairs down to Engineering. Donnelly and Daniels straighten when they see her. Tali narrows her eyes before turning away. Miranda ignores them and moves to the lower levels. Jack lies on a cot, spindly arms folded behind her head. They look at one another before Jack turns on her side to face the wall, her bony back looking as if bird wings have been chopped away. She's been quieter since Shepard sided with her against Miranda after the Pragia incident. Miranda tries not to dwell on all the ways Shepard has been against her. Shepard has been better lately. Miranda must be satisfied with that. It's what the Illusive Man would want. They don't work with who they do because of any goodness.
Miranda continues along Engineering, past the dark hallways where the freezers and pantry are behind closed doors. She opens the freezer door. It's the size of her office. She enters and watches fog pass her lips when she breathes. Refrigerators and freezers line the floor like coffins. She opens them. Their supplies are dwindling. They'll have to stop and pick up some reserves soon. It appears Gardner was right to constantly complain.
The freezers and fridges are half-filled with frozen vegetables and what may or may not be meat. There aren't even any good snacks. Worst of all (best of all?) no QEC device. It's possible that Samantha Traynor is wrong. Perhaps she isn't a clever specialist after all—or perhaps the mole isn't so devious. She exits the freezer room and glances at the pantry. She's all the way out here so she might as well.
Any fire and heat of before has long dwindled with every moment of non-discovery. A calm has filled her. She opens the pantry doors. Soups. Beans. Some past the expiration date. She may have to apologize to Gardner after all. She continues to search, mentally noting what will have to be replaced.
Olives. Oh. She likes this brand and had thought they were out. She picks the jar up and sets it aside to keep before shifting a few more cans around. That's when she sees it. She doesn't breathe. She doesn't shake. She takes the device, barely bigger than a can of beans, just as heavy, and picks it up. Her mouth is dry. Shit. Shit.
Swallowing she replaces it and takes the jar of olives, closing the pantry doors. She stands there contemplating when Gardner walks into the room. He nearly jumps to see her. "How could you?" He tenses. Miranda waves the jar at him. "You've been hiding these from me all along."
He relaxes. "Sorry, Princess. I'll make sure to send the next shipment straight to your office." He stands awkwardly. "Think you could talk to Shepard about getting some spices in?"
"Doubtful. We're on the last leg of our run." She nods at the freezer room. "By the way, I noticed the cooling system has started to fail. Do you think, Gardner? How are we expected to fight with rotting food?"
"The cooling system is working just fine. It was," he says worriedly. "Good fucking God, it's always something around here." He steps into the freezer room. Miranda follows, shutting the door behind them.
There's been no word from Liara. Shepard tries not to worry. Liara peered into her mind. Shepard let her despite the fear. Liara isn't shy anymore. If she knew about Morinth she'd tell her. Liara is different now. Wiser. Colder. Maybe she knows and doesn't care. She has a Shadow Network to run. She's busy. Too busy to email? Yes. Too busy to email.
She stands in front of the fish tank, hands laced behind her back. The colorful fish bodies bob up and down. She cleaned the tank but forgot to feed them. It seems a stupid mistake. She finds herself angry at Kelly for making her get them. No doubt she'll make some note in her charts about her so-called mental state. Fucking psychologists.
The door to the cabin opens. Miranda strides in. Shepard straightens. Miranda has never visited her cabin. They've been getting along. They've become something like partners despite their disagreements. Miranda crosses the steps between them. She's a little paler than usual. There's a speck of red on her cheek. Shepard reaches up to wipe it away with her thumb. It smears, striking along her pale skin. Miranda narrows her eyes at the contact. "You all right?" Shepard asks. Eventually her hand falls away.
Miranda gives a stiff nod. "We had a mole. Gardner."
Shepard doesn't move. "Damn it, Miranda. How did you not know about this? How did EDI not know? I thought Cerberus was on top of this."
"He was using a QEC device to transmit data. It's undetectable," Miranda watches her march to the door. "It's been taken care of, Shepard." Shepard stops, trying to slow her racing heartbeat, the hot rage filling her. "I'll work on finding out who he was transmitting to. For now, we need you to focus on the mission. We're almost done." There's a beat. "I hope this incident with Gardner hasn't soured your opinion of Cerberus."
"He's one man. And you took care of it." She waits. Miranda is staring at the dead fish but makes no comment. "He won't be a problem?" Miranda allows a small smile, the same one she brandished during their introduction, when she handled Wilson. "Good." Miranda heads to the cabin door, only stopping when Shepard calls her name. "I was wrong about Cerberus. I was wrong about you. I'm glad you're here."
"Likewise, Commander," she says haltingly. She leaves.
Shepard stares at the dead fish for some time longer before sitting at the desk chair, taking the Reaper IFF and tossing it into the air, catching it. She sets it down when her nose begins to bleed. She holds a towel to her nose and calls for Kelly to clean the fish tank. She composes another email to Liara. She gets comfortable. It seems silly now, how much time and energy she wasted on fighting with the Illusive Man and Cerberus. Miranda's on her side. Cerberus is on her side. She can't lose.
The Illusive Man swallows a bite of steak, following it with a sip of bourbon from an elegant crystal tumbler. The incredibly tender steak is genuine beef from a famed breed of cattle found only in Japan. The bourbon is served neat. Complementing the plate is a small pile of roasted Brussels sprouts, lightly coated in olive oil and seasoned with salt and freshly ground pepper. In a very fine restaurant on Earth, it would be an expensive dinner. Halfway across the galaxy on a secret space station, it's an exorbitant one. Fortunately, he hasn't needed to concern himself with the cost of things in a very long time.
As he dines, he reviews the latest report from Miranda Lawson. A mole was discovered. Miranda dealt with him. Evidently, Rasa selected Rupert Gardner for reasons beyond his handyman experience and cooking skills. How she turned him is unclear. His analysts will look into it, but the how no longer matters.
Kai Leng said he killed Rasa, but she has always been very resourceful. He underestimated her, which is a thing he rarely does. Rasa is still at large, but her motivations remain unclear. That is the most troubling thing of all. He initially assumed it was a simple kidnapping, but there has been no ransom demand. If anything, Rasa has spent quite a bit of a money (albeit money stolen from Cerberus) to upgrade and train the clone. But for what purpose?
As for Miranda, he suspects she's been poking around where she doesn't belong. He has only to look at her search history and use a little imagination. He's tempted to read through the recent slew of emails she has sent and received, but knows she has measures in place to detect any such breach of privacy. He knows her loyalty to Cerberus has been strained. The incident with Oriana was unfortunate, but he simply didn't have the wherewithal to intervene on Illium. He expected Shepard to help. Miranda's inability to convince Shepard was her own failure. She understands the reality as well as anyone.
Soon, Shepard will take the Normandy through the Omega-4 Relay. The Reaper IFF has been secured, and Miranda's report indicates the crew is sufficiently prepared. Despite their rocky start and Miranda's early misgivings, Shepard has proven to be cooperative and capable. The many sacrifices, the years of careful planning, the billions of credits poured into recruiting the best talent and developing new technologies—it's all finally about to come to fruition.
The last Brussels sprout disappears from the plate, leaving it bare. He places the knife and fork on the plate and nudges it away. A long-legged brunette wrapped in a tight black dress quickly steps forward, heels clacking sharply on the floor. She hands him a warm, wet towel before clearing the plate from the table.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" Her scent is alluring, but her demeanor is professional. "Some dessert, perhaps?"
He dabs at the corner of his mouth. "Just some more bourbon. And please let Marcel know the steak was superb." He wishes his field operatives were as reliable and consistent as his personal chef.
"Very good, sir," she replies, smoothly pouring more whiskey into his tumbler. "He will be pleased to hear it. Also, Operative Leng is waiting to speak with you on holo."
He takes a sip. "Thank you, Miss Piper. Put him through."
"At once, sir." She leaves the room.
The Illusive Man rises and moves to the chair at the center of the room, tumbler in hand. He takes his customary seat, crosses one leg over the other, and activates the holo-transmitter. Moments later, Leng's image flickers into focus over the holo-pad. The assassin stands with his arms crossed behind his back.
"Report, Operative Leng."
Leng stiffens slightly. "The Nemesis and Dragoon programs are up and running. Early results are promising. I recommend increasing recruitment efforts."
"I'll take it under advisement." Another sip. "What about X3?"
"She has taken well to the Phantom-class implants. Her barriers are good. Her martial skills are top of class."
"Is she ready for fieldwork?"
A nod. "Yes."
"Good. Put her in rotation. Watch her closely." He swallows the last of the bourbon and savors the burn as it goes down. Leng waits. "I have an eye on where we can obtain additional candidates for the Phantom program. In the meantime, continue your oversight of the Phoenix training facility, but be ready to move when I call. X8 and Rasa remain at large."
Leng scowls at the mention of Rasa. "Yes sir."
The Illusive Man dismisses Leng and deactivates the transmitter. He rubs at his temples. Another headache is coming on. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that last glass of bourbon. Perhaps it's the stress of having so many Priority One targets loose on the playing field just as the endgame is coming into sight. Perhaps it's the knowledge that Cerberus is all that stands between an army of indestructible, mass-murdering machines and galactic civilization.
He reaches into his inner breast pocket and produces a silver cigarette case and a black lighter. A few practiced motions later, there's a lit cigarette in his hand and a relaxing billow of warm smoke in his lungs. He rotates his chair and looks to the transparent outer wall of his sanctum as he exhales.
Outside, a red dwarf star burns, bathing the room in a soft, vermilion hue. He finds it comforting to be in such close proximity to a dying star, so near to death and beauty. Nothing quite so perfectly embodies the cycle of life and death as a star. Stars grant the spark of life, and without their nurturing presence, life withers. Venture too close and be consumed in wrathful fire. Stray too far and perish from icy neglect. The ancient humans who named the planets of the solar system after deities had it wrong. Only the stars may lay claim to godhood. It's a realization that gives way to a final comfort.
Even gods must die.