Inquisitor Joria pulls an oily black glove over her hand. It wraps around her fingers like a second skin. Her skills are rare, and they have brought her wealth and status within the Order. She enjoys her work. Why shouldn't she? Her talents are used in service of the Goddess. That which serves the Goddess serves the Republics.
Lieutenant Kurin looks worriedly at her as they walk through slim but delicately curved halls. Other suspects are being interrogated in cramped rooms, their eyes lingering over her midnight blue skin and white face markings as she passes. She wasn't called for them. They are insignificant.
They come to a door. Kurin's face is muddled with unspoken thoughts. The Inquisitor senses her reservations and stares until Kurin is compelled to speak. "Her weapons and bio-amp have been confiscated."
"Are you asking me to be gentle?"
"I don't know whose tits Henry Lawson twisted to get an Inquisitor involved, but whatever he's paying, whoever he's bribed, I don't care. There's due process on Thessia. You damn well better leave her in one piece," she says through gritted teeth.
Kurin leaves. Joria peers through the one-way window to the cell. Shepard's face is mussed, dried blood patched around her nose and mouth. She's bound to a chair with omni-cuffs. The lieutenant needn't worry. This won't take long. Ten minutes can be an eternity to those she works on.
Joria enters the room and paces toward her. The great Commander Shepard, at her mercy. "You're the human who saved the Destiny Ascension, are you not?"
The human ignores the question. "Who are you?" She is suspicious but unassuming. She isn't afraid, but she will be.
Joria rolls her neck softly to one side and then the other. Grateful for the glove, she takes Shepard's face tightly in her hand. Humans are a pox on the galaxy, no better than vorcha, even if this one did stop Saren and save the Council. She doesn't like how they smell. "I'm Inquisitor Joria. Thank you for the Destiny Ascension. I regret what I must do to you now." She doesn't.
Her eyes go black as they lock onto Shepard's. It's so easy to be in. "Let's begin," she tells her. Shepard's mind is dense, like a forest canopy. Joria pulls a thin blade from a sheath and slides it into the woman's shoulder. Joria feels an electric jolt where Shepard feels sharp, intense pain. The canopy parts, just a little.
Her memories are like a disorganized minefield. /You're going to tell me everything./
But Shepard resists. The Inquisitor turns the blade viciously. /Scream. You know you want to./
The only response is a soft, tight exhalation of breath. The Inquisitor smiles. She's always enjoyed a challenge.
Columns of lightning illuminate the hills, their muted reflections cutting across the lake that abuts the campus. Moments later, a low rumble of thunder issues a belated warning. Miranda has always been drawn to the tempest, but this is not the best time. She looks up. The patch of sky directly overhead remains clear for the moment, a pristine black canvas speckled with pinpoints of starlight. At a glance, she would hardly know she wasn't on Earth.
Miranda remembers Thessia's night sky quite well. During her four years here as a student, she had ample opportunity to commit it to memory. She got used to the food and the culture, but she never quite got used to the violet and magenta hues of daytime. Combined with the asari's abiding fascination with pastels, she always had the vague sense that she was living in a painting, the realization of some impressionistic dreamscape.
The Illusive Man sent her to Thessia almost immediately after recruiting her, paying the extravagant cost of her tuition. He had plans for her, he promised, for which she would need the best education possible. The University of Serrice is the galaxy's premier institution of learning. If humanity was to catch up to the rest of galactic civilization, they would first need to learn all that the other species had to offer. Miranda took an accelerated curriculum, specializing in exo-medicine, cramming what most ambitious students would consider eight years of studies into five. It was challenging work that left little time for socialization, but she excelled.
After she graduated, she returned to Cerberus, brimming with an eagerness to serve humanity. Miranda regarded the Illusive Man as a figure of unshakable purpose, the only one strong enough to defy her father. He gave her something to believe in, something to fight for. He gave her the peace of mind that came with knowing Oriana would be raised by a loving family and allowed to make her own future.
Henry Lawson had always played the part of the doting father, never refusing Miranda any material want or need, yet never giving her anything real. She lived in a gilded cage, surrounded by servants and sycophants, her petty destiny all plotted out for her. When the first human children with biotics were discovered, her father lamented that he had created her too soon. When she was nine, he decided to rectify his lack of foresight by putting her under the knife. In the first procedure of its kind in human history, a team of surgeons implanted nodules of element zero along her spinal cord. The operation nearly killed her.
It took months to fully recover, even with her accelerated healing. She was forced to eat eezo-laced food that made her violently ill until her body acclimated. There was one silver lining. Niket. As a concession to the extreme discomfort of her recovery, her father allowed her to spend time with the boy who would become her first and only childhood friend.
Miranda worries for Niket. The intel she received from Liara months ago indicated he departed Illium on the same ship as Enyala and a "young human woman." Her father's people took him, along with Oriana. Has he been harmed? Is he dead? Is that why she hasn't heard from him? As lightning flashes, more brightly this time, she thinks of the time she and Niket sat on the balcony, watching a spectacular thunderstorm roll across the plains of Queensland.
The ensuing clap of thunder follows more closely than before. Clouds quickly move overhead, obscuring the stars. A rising wind whips her hair around her face as she stands in a familiar plaza, on the very campus she once roamed with regularity. Sunrise is two hours away. The few students and faculty that are out at this hour scurry for cover. Soon, it won't be safe to be outside. She looks around for her contact.
It's been several years since Miranda last stood in this place. What odd synchronicity that her father would send Oriana to the same school she attended. She wonders what lies and half-truths he has been feeding her. Does she know that she was fashioned from her father's doubled X chromosomes and extensive genetic tailoring? Is she aware that Miranda is more than just her sister? Certainly, he won't have told her about the dozens of discarded daughters that came before Miranda, daughters he aborted like failed experiments.
Henry Lawson will have learned from his past mistakes. Miranda escaped, and Oriana is no child that can be so easily caged. He will be more subtle in his manipulations, giving her just long enough a leash to maintain the illusion of freedom. He can be charming and persuasive. He will have convinced her that Miranda is a xenophobic terrorist. When she finds her, their reunion will have to be handled very delicately.
Why did Rasa and the clone abduct her? What is their agenda?
Miranda and Samara split up at the spaceport, after Miranda received another extranet alert on her omni-tool. Two asari at a food stand heard gunfire, then saw a human woman being taken into custody. The clone. It has to be. Samara went to find out whatever she could. The justicar can gain access where Miranda cannot. If the clone is here in Serrice, then Rasa can't be far away. Miranda has a plan to locate her, if she can just get a few minutes access to the university's interferometer array.
Rasa thinks her QEC device can't be tracked. She's mostly right. The communications sent by the device are untraceable. There is no signal to intercept or digital path to follow. The paired devices house quantum-linked particles stabilized by electromagnetic containment fields. When one particle is 'charged,' the other one instantly and automatically mirrors it, because they are essentially the same particle. The physical distance between them is irrelevant, whether measured in meters or light years.
The EM fields within the devices are the weak link that will lead Miranda to Rasa. If she destroys the device she recovered from Gardner, the containment field will collapse, instantly destabilizing the quantum link. In theory, this should set off a chain reaction, causing the EM field in the paired device to collapse as well, giving off a distinct burst of radiation that can be detected and triangulated. It's an untested idea, gleaned from reading through Samantha Traynor's papers, but it's her best hope. When this is all over, perhaps she'll have another reason to thank Ms. Traynor.
Miranda sees an asari with indigo skin approaching briskly. Her contact. A teaching assistant during Miranda's time here, she is now a full professor with just the kind of access that Miranda needs. One that happens to owe her a favor. Miranda walks to her, smiling as warmly as she can manage. As she extends her hand, the rain begins to pour.
A sheen of sweat glistens on Inquisitor Joria's brow. The air in the interrogation room is warm and Shepard has frustrated her for over two hours. The human is desperate to hide something from her, and Joria suspects it is more than the whereabouts of Oriana Lawson. Shepard's tolerance for pain is notable. Moreover, she has quickly learned to channel her pain back through Joria's link, making her task as uncomfortable as possible. Remarkable that a human would have such aptitude. Few asari are so skillful.
Still, Joria will not be deterred from her duty. She is a priestess of the Order of Divine Inquiry and a loyal servant of the Republics. She learned to embrace pain long ago. She has abilities, well-guarded secrets of her sect, considered myth and legend by most asari. Abilities paid for with blood and centuries of discipline. The Goddess rewards her most devoted servants.
Shepard can't hide everything. Joria has managed to glean a few things from the surface of her mind. Random, scattered images. A hazy remembrance of a drunken father, a fleeting glimpse of an asari lover in the throes of passion, a flash of a turian hovering on a geth flying device, and so on. Many of the memories have a strange quality to them. At first, Joria can't put her finger on it, but then she realizes what it is.
Memories have a certain, sloppy sequence to them, a haphazard, organic way of connecting. Shepard's memories lack the usual connectors, the usual context. They feel artificial. No, not artificial exactly; more like copies. It would fool most, perhaps, but Joria has been inside enough minds, tinkered with enough people's memories to recognize the signs.
Realizing she's gritting her teeth, Joria unclenches her jaw. She studies the face of her captive. Hazel eyes stare defiantly back at her. The human's mien is stony, but sweat runs over her in rivulets, turning dried blood into a runny stain. Damp, dark hair plasters her face and scalp. Her tolerance for pain has not yet been exceeded, but Joria's ministrations are taking their toll.
"You can't keep me out forever, human." Joria smiles, trailing a stiletto slowly along the woman's stomach.
Somehow, the woman smiles back at her. "Go fuck yourself. You'll get nothing."
Joria chuckles. "Oh, but I already have." Her eyes go dark again. She takes another stab, sliding the blade in. /You're not Commander Shepard. Who are you?/
For the first time, fear glimmers in the human's eyes. Something seeps through.
Ah. Joria's smile widens with satisfaction. /Hello, Grace./
Major Kyle flashed a toothy grin. His armor was grimy with blood and guts. Shepard breathed hard. Her gloves were slick with bodily fluids. The gun nearly slipped from her hand. Batarian corpses lined the battered ground like weeds. Alliance bodies were scattered amongst them. She turned on legs that felt like rubber. She took one shaky step and then another. We got them, sir. He continued to grin at her, eyes wide, teeth bloody. Sweat trickled on his brow. His breath spasmed. Major Kyle. Her CO. His mind snapped. At what point does a mind snap?
Struggle, if you wish. Your mind will be mine.
Fogginess traps. It holds her like a sedative. It straddles her. Fingers dip into her brain. She convulses on the table.
Liara touched her face. Shepard's heart plummeted. Fear filled her like a virus. Ilos was on the horizon. Shepard once readily gave herself to craving. It was a comfort. She kept her distance from Liara. Liara crawled into her head, into her heart, into her soul. Giving herself to Liara was a forfeiture of any independence. Liara cut through the armor, pierced her through. She was shy, warm, radiant, perfect. It hurt to know her undoing. They made love for the first time. They transcended the stars. Shepard panicked. Her eyes burned with love or anger or fear. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you. Liara smiled at the words. Her eyes went black.
Shepard opens her eyes. The lights are out. Her heartbeat is staggered. Light. Blinding. No. Shadows. Shadows everywhere. She makes a sound like a scream.
"Goddamn it! She's waking up! Give her more sedatives!"
Miranda? A sharp sting and everything is fuzzy again. A persistent, quiet soothing lulls her back to unconsciousness.
Karin Chakwas tapped a pen on the clipboard as she looked her over. You can't help but get into trouble, can you? Her hair was peppered with black. Her lipstick a touch too red. Go on. Get on the scale. Shepard stepped onto it. Chakwas made notes. I have a file filled with incident and medical reports for you, girl. She lifted an omni-tool to run a diagnostic. She tut-tutted and made more notes. You're half medi-gel by now. I know how you like to live on the edge Jane but one of these days you're going to kill me. Shepard laughed.
She takes a deep breath and it's as if she's taken it underwater. She gasps and chokes. There's a pounding somewhere. A pounding in her mind.
A bright day. A day like any other. She walked into the apartment. Mom was never home. Looks like it's you and me again, Kiddo. Dad always said that kind of thing. A bum knee and an itchy trigger finger and he was put behind a desk. He spent the rest of his days drinking. The way her mother looked at him made Jane's skin crawl. She found him slumped on the floor, face purple, tongue sticking out. Hung from a doorknob. She cut him loose and he fell like a log. She stood whimpering. Blank. When Hannah got home Jane screamed at her. You did this to him! She shoved her. Hannah slammed into a wall, a family frame falling off the wall like some cliché.
She wakes up. Kenson. Kenson. She's got to get to Kenson. She's on a metal slab. Blinding lights nearly paralyze her. She's in a steel cubicle. Some sterile labyrinth. Aratoht. The Reapers are coming. The Reapers are coming in two days. Maybe less. Shepard moves her legs too slowly, swinging them to the side. When she stands she makes no sound. There's a lab assistant playing with a computer console. Shepard sneaks over to her and with a crack snaps her neck.
Samara lies at her feet, eyes wide open, the bones unnatural in her neck.
Is this what you are, Shepard? The voice nearly makes her cry with joy, with relief.
"Tali?" Shepard looks around. The room is empty. There is no scientist. There is no Tali. There is only her figure lying prone in a medical bed. Shepard walks back. There is a collection of medical tools beside the bed. Butcher knives. Butcher. Ash. Butcher of Torfan is a little limiting, isn't it Skipper? Her voice whispers along her skin. Shepard turns sharply. I guess Cerberus is right for you. I remember when you swore to wipe them out. Guess you came back different. "Shut up!" she lifts the butcher knife and slams it into the other Shepard's stomach. Blood spurts out. The tank top soaks red. Shepard brings her hands to the other Shepard's face. "You are not me," she hisses. Snap.
Garrus swiveled his bony hips. Shepard clapped her hands and danced alongside him. It's nice having a best friend. The nightclub was dark and the music too loud. The constant pound of the bass made her head ache but she felt the vibration all over her body like a calling, a demand to obey, to follow the beat. She drank the shot on the dance floor. No amount of drinking is going to help those dance moves. Look at me. Garrus pumped his fist in the air. This. Is. Talent.
The fish tank was never going to last. She's bleeding. On him. Swinging, the gun at his head. You son of a bitch. I want you off my ship. She shoots. His brains explode. He bleeds out blue in her cabin, like a sad bird dinosaur. Shepard stares at him before bringing the gun to her own head and pulling the trigger.
She jumps awake. Groggy. The room is sharp. The room is a Picasso painting in grey. Kenson. She's got to get to Kenson. There's a scientist. She spots Shepard. She tries to scream. Shepard moves her legs without direction. Her fists connect with the scientist's face. She punches until the woman doesn't have a face anymore. Shepard sags, hands on her knees, breathing haphazardly. Her skin tingles. Kenson. Kenson is indoctrinated. The Reapers are arriving in two days.
She shuffles her way to the control unit. She's trapped in the room. She's disoriented. The room is too small. She's claustrophobic. What fucking sedatives are in her system? She feels weird. All right, Jane. Get it together. Breathe. Breathe. There must be some way out of here. Through the glass panel she spots mechs in the other room. Machines. Maybe she can control the machines. Maybe they can get her out of this mess.
The Inquisitor wipes her knife clean and returns it to its sheath. The human is unconscious. She will live, though Joria doesn't envy what will become of her. In seven hundred years, no other subject held out half so long as 'Grace Morgan' did. Nevertheless, in the end, Joria extracted the information she needed. The will of the Goddess has been done.
Joria straightens herself and moves to leave. She would like nothing more than to take a shower, to wash away the human's stink. First, however she must make her report. The door opens and a square-jawed asari enters, blocking the way. Her face is a study of serenity, but something else lurks behind her blue eyes. Something predatory. "Hello, Inquisitor. I am Samara," she states in a mild, unhurried voice.
Joria appraises her. This is no maiden. This is someone well-acquainted with death and killing. Someone dangerous. "You've been watching?"
"Yes," she admits. "When I learned Commander Shepard had been apprehended, I was compelled to come. I observed much of your interrogation. Your methods are harsh. However, your cause was just. The Code permits it."
The Code. Ah. "I'm glad to hear it, Justicar. I do as the Goddess wills."
Samara closes the door behind her, but does not move away from it. "This woman, however," she nods toward the human, "is not Commander Shepard."
Joria arches an eyebrow. Normally, she would not deign to discuss her business with an outsider, but a little collegial respect toward a justicar could go a long way. "That's correct. May I ask how you know that?"
"I recently left the service of Commander Shepard. This cannot be her, though the resemblance is striking."
"Service? That's a story I would like to hear. Another time, perhaps."
"Another time," she nods. "What did you learn of this…creature?"
"She doesn't know what she is."
"And what is she?"
Collegial respect is one thing, but this grows tiresome. "Isn't it obvious? She's a clone. Her memories are not her own. Nothing of her exists past the last year. It's like she stepped out of the Void."
"Interesting. Does she believe herself to be Shepard?"
"No. She has been made part of a plot to replace Commander Shepard, but she is conflicted on the matter. She calls herself Grace."
"I see," Samara nods. "And what of Oriana Lawson? Have you learned where she is?"
Enough. How does she even know about that? Joria unfolds her arms and straightens. "I have indulged your questions long enough. That information is not meant for you."
The justicar smiles slightly, and something shifts in her gaze. "You'll tell me anyway."
"I will not," Joria bristles with dark energy. "Step aside or I'll go through you. Do not think me incapable, Justicar."
Samara's smile becomes one of almost childlike delight, and her voice changes. "So it's true then, what they say about Inquisitors? Those fantastic powers? I always thought they were just stories."
Joria narrows her eyes, reappraising the woman before her. "You're no justicar."
Samara waves a hand and Joria finds herself propelled through the air. The collision with the far wall is jarring, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. Samara stalks toward her, wrapped in tendrils of biotic energy, a look of supreme confidence on her face.
Joria quickly regains her footing. Her opponent is strong, but she cannot be prepared to fight an Inquisitor at the height of her powers. None are. Samara jabs a glowing blue fist at her face. Joria slides at the last moment, vacating the space she was in to reappear directly behind Samara. She delivers a powerful kick to the small of her back, thrusting her into the wall forcefully. That slows the bitch down. Joria grabs her by the lobes and slams her face into the now-cracked wall, once, twice.
Samara starts to turn but Joria doesn't relent. She punches the woman in the side and is rewarded with another grunt of pain. A kick to the back of the knee, and the woman stumbles. Joria draws her stiletto and forces her down. Samara slumps against the wall, the tip of Joria's blade at her throat.
Samara looks up at her. The expression on her bloodied face is unbowed, perhaps even excited. There's something in her eyes that she can't quite place, something that tickles a warning, but Joria is cloaked in the righteous wrath of Athame. She smirks at her fallen opponent. "Two imposters in one day. How interesting." Her eyes go dark as they lock with Samara's. It's so easy to be in. /Tell me who you really are./
Her opponent smiles, lips parting over bloodstained teeth. /I am Morinth, Demon of the Night Winds./
Too late, Joria realizes the mistake she has made. Too late, she recognizes the thing she saw in those eyes. Hunger. Ravenous hunger.
The dagger slips from her hand as she screams.
Morinth stretches her limbs like a cat. Waves of electricity radiate through her, making every inch of her flesh pulse with pleasure. It's been months since she last fed, and never has she fed so well. The Inquisitor was exquisitely powerful, and now that power belongs to Morinth. She all but purrs with satisfaction.
The Inquisitor's corpse slumps at her feet, bloodshot eyes open and staring, her face a twisted visage. It won't do to leave her like this. They'll know what happened. She unhooks her M-15 Vindicator and empties a burst into the Inquisitor's body, punctuated by a round to the skull. There. That should take care of that.
She looks to the clone, Grace, who has begun to stir. She could kill her right now, while she's helpless. It's what Shepard would want. Miranda wouldn't complain, not that her wishes matter. But where would the pleasure be in that? There would be no challenge, no thrill of the hunt. She clamps the Vindicator to her back.
She goes to the clone and unlocks her omni-cuffs, then examines her for injuries. The resemblance truly is uncanny. The clone is every bit the physical specimen that Shepard is, sinewy and radiating strength, despite currently bleeding from several knife wounds. Undoubtedly, the wounds are excruciating, but none are life-threatening. The Inquisitor was skilled. Still, the injuries will slow them down. She reaches for a medi-gel pack.
One of the clone's hands shoots out, snakelike, grabbing her by the wrist. "Who the fuck are you?" she rasps.
Morinth looks into her eyes, coolly. "My name is Samara. I'm going to take you out of here, but we must leave quickly."
The clone looks back at her, measuring her for a long moment. "You… You're the justicar? Shit." She releases Morinth's hand and sits up with a grimace.
The door swings open and Lieutenant Kurin rushes in. She stares at the Inquisitor's corpse lying in a spreading pool of blood. "Goddess! What happened in here?"
Morinth answers. "The Inquisitor determined Commander Shepard was innocent, then tried to assassinate her to cover up her illegal interrogation." The clone furrows her brow. "I could not allow it. We will be leaving momentarily, after you return the commander's belongings to her."
Kurin looks to Grace, then to Morinth again, uncertainty straining her features.
"Now, Lieutenant."
"Yes, Justicar." Kurin runs off.
Morinth tosses a medi-gel pack to the clone. She tends to her wounds in silence while Morinth checks her omni-tool. There's a message from Miranda, received minutes ago. Rasa is at the spaceport, dock D-78. Meet me there.
Kurin returns with Grace's equipment and hands it to her. "Shepard..." she hesitates. "I'm sorry."
Grace's eyes burrow into her. "Did you know this would happen?"
She shakes her head. "No! I swear! I've never even met an Inquisitor before. She just barged in here, and… The Matriarchs, they…"
Grace slaps her arm good-naturedly. "I like you, Kurin, so I'll take your word for it," she slams a thermal clip into the Paladin, "this time."
Morinth resists the impulse to roll her eyes. "Commander, we need to go."
Too much time has passed. Grace moves swiftly through the halls, ignoring the burning medi-gel as it glues her back together. Samara keeps up with her quick pace, looking unhurried in the process. She has to get to the spaceport. She was taken in the night. The skies are turning a midnight blue. The same color as the Inquisitor's skin. What did she pull from her? Her real name. Hope's location. But now she's bleeding out in a holding cell.
Grace makes her way to the skyport. A cab is arriving, a passenger paying before making a call. Grace holds the cab door open and reaches in, yanking the salarian driver out and throwing him onto the terminal. "Sorry," she tells him, climbing inside. There's no time. She has to get to Hope and Oriana. She should have never let Kurin take her into custody. She's fumbling with the cab controls when Samara slides into the passenger side and shuts the door. "What are you doing?"
"I have an appointment to keep. I believe we're headed in the same direction."
"I don't have time for this." Grace steps on the gas. Everything smells like blood and sweat. Why is the justicar here? Hope hadn't mentioned hearing word from the attack on the Collector base. Did they survive? Did this justicar? "You lied to Kurin." She thinks she lied to her. She burns where the blade went in. "Why are you really here? Why are you on Thessia?"
"I am an asari and you are a human. I should be asking you." She looks out the window. Grace takes a quick glance at her as she speeds through the skies. Her eyes are like pale light on the window glass. "I seek out injustice. A grave one was being committed. I thought it appropriate to assist."
But how did she find her? How did she know an injustice was being committed? When did she leave Shepard? Is it possible the asari thinks she's the real Commander Shepard? "You're still not making any sense."
"I suggest you pay attention, Commander. A truck is on course to collide with us."
Grace looks up. A massive truck is racing at top speed in their direction, blasting its horn. Grace swears and yanks the wheel to the side. Colors whiz by, the sounds of cars smashing. The cab barrel rolls twice. Samara glows calmly, keeping her balance while Grace slams into the window. "Fuck!"
Samara smiles. "You are a terrible driver." Her face is bloody. Grace retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket hastily and throws it into her lap. Samara takes it and dabs at her face.
Grace peers into the rearview mirror. So far, so good; things look clear for the moment. She skirts another look at Samara. The blood dripping down her nose, to her lips and the bottom of her mouth make her look as if she were a vampire that just finished feeding.
It's been raining for hours. As dawn approaches it's slowly letting up.
There's a crackling sound followed by buzzing as the station lights flicker overhead. Hope looks at them cautiously. A thunderstorm passed over the area a short time ago. Oriana, still disguised as an unassuming asari, sits next to other passengers waiting for upcoming flights. She plays with her omni-tool like a bored teenager. Hope supposes she is.
Hope's checked and double-checked her biotic hardening and combat exoskeleton modifications. If the Thessian Republic Guard catches up to her it will mean one hell of a fight. Being slippery fits with her M.O. and she can't take chances given her company.
Hope leans against a wall. She grits her jaw and waits. Grace is late and has sent no word. Has something happened? Has Henry Lawson tracked her? Has Leng? There's been no word from Gardner either. Did they all die? A steady stream of announcements punctuate the air. The shuttle they are meant to take will arrive in half an hour.
Something is wrong.
Grace isn't late. Grace doesn't dawdle. Grace doesn't play mind games. Something has happened. She observes the space around her and makes sure Oriana doesn't take off. It was stupid to take her. She's more trouble than she's worth. All clones are. Hope tells herself she isn't sentimental. Thinking back on her past deeds makes it easy to believe. What will Grace think when she learns that she, Miranda, and Oriana are the result of arrogant science? All of them, motherless. Hope ponders her own absent family. She only had Cerberus. Once upon a time, in a faraway place, she wanted to stand for something. That family is gone too. She isn't sure who betrayed whom.
Oriana looks over her shoulder. Maybe Grace will see the mistake as an act of good will. Maybe Grace can forgive her deception. The plan will never move forward if she doesn't. Where is she?
She glances expectantly at her omni-tool, eager for any word. The light dims and brightens. It's on the fritz. Hope frowns again. She reaches for the Phalanx at her side at the moment that Oriana stands abruptly, lips parted in surprise. Hope whips the pistol to the side but staggers back before she can line up a good shot. A biotic push. She congratulates herself for having the foresight to get the suit modifications.
Miranda's features twist with aggravation. Of course she's alive. Losing the bitch on the suicide mission would be too good to be true. How the hell did she find her? "Where is she?" Miranda growls, advancing. Hope smirks. She could tell her but Miranda fired the first shot. For all her reputation as a diplomat, she's turned to violence first, questions later. I pushed her to that. Some part of her is giddy.
"Miranda Lawson. Be still my heart. You still run around in that getup? At your age?" She blocks Miranda's incoming punch and returns one of her own. Heat and pain explodes over Hope's hand as it connects. The sting of her fingers is dulled by the satisfaction that floods over her. That felt good. Miranda droops only an instant before righting herself. "Who will be the poster girl for Cerberus now," Hope asks, seeing the welt beginning to form on Miranda's cheek. A pity, with that fair skin of hers.
"I don't have time for witty banter," Miranda pulls the M-9 Tempest from her side. Hope cloaks. Miranda is still, her eyes searching the perimeter. The spaceport travelers have run away, save for a few hiding behind several rows of chairs. Miranda breathes slowly. The next moment she's thrown onto her back, a boot slamming into her stomach. She grimaces, the air going out of her.
Hope laughs. Maybe one day Miranda will learn that there are benefits to not wearing heels to a fight. "Ready to play nice yet, Lawson?"
Miranda squeezes off a burst. The lights of the spaceport flood a blood red. Hope retreats, bleeding in the process. Fortunately the alarm system in the spaceport will make it difficult to track her. Her shields are gone. Shots at such close range make them irrelevant. Hope thought Miranda was smarter than firing wildly when she's trying to recapture her 'sister.' Maybe Miranda isn't thinking anymore. Miranda jumps to her feet. "Stop cloaking, bitch. Tell me where my sister is or I'll finish the job."
An alarm begins to sound. Hope uses it to her advantage, sprinting to the chairs and hurtling over to grab Oriana. She hopes she grabbed the right 'asari.' It's hard to tell them apart. Oriana howls as Hope yanks her to her feet. "Shut up," Hope tells her. Where's Grace? Things are falling apart. "I'd tell you she was better behaved the last I knew her but she's always been a bitch," she says. She uncloaks and brings her pistol to Oriana's head. The sting of the bullets is making it hard to hold the pistol but she smiles and bears it. "Don't worry. I'm not going to blow your brains out. I can't make any promises for sister dearest."
Miranda closes in, gun drawn. "Taking hostages, Rasa? How common."
"What can I say? I didn't have eezo fused to my spine to give me that biotic edge. I had to make my own way, on my own merits." She's always had to make do. She's always had to do the unsavory to make up for the hand life dealt her. She isn't bitter about it but doesn't expect the privileged to understand.
"Your name is Rasa?" Oriana squeaks out.
Miranda blinks. The pain is bearable but Hope's arm doesn't agree. The Phalanx slips from her hand and clatters to the floor. Miranda lunges. It's over. Hope thinks maybe she should have just handed Oriana over. Miranda is just about on her. Then there's a shift. A shout. Miranda is sent hurtling back, crashing forcefully into a column. Grace steps forward, bloodied and determined, Paladin drawn and aimed at Miranda.
Samara observes the scene serenely. "Ah. I see that we are just in time for the fun."