The candles flicker in the darkness. An array of stars dim and pulse along the walls and ceiling of the domed room. The Illusive Man lies on the massage table, arms at his sides as Gwendolyn's dexterous hands expertly knead his lower back, rubbing against oiled skin. This is a diversion, but a necessary one. The stresses of his position are severe, taxing even his considerable patience.

The Omega-4 operation is proceeding smoothly for the moment. Commander Shepard has come to heel, but problems have popped up in other areas. All leads on Paul Grayson have proven to be dead ends. It seems Cerberus trained him too well. Meanwhile, Rasa and X8 have become full-blown vectors that he must continually plan around. The platoon he sent to Illium to recover X8 was wiped out. The krogan mercenaries failed to recover Oriana Lawson, and Henry's trusted assistant became a casualty. Compounding matters, a valuable Cerberus research station known as "the Barn" was sabotaged hours ago. Everything was lost, and he finds himself contending with yet another runaway operative.

Strong fingers locate his knotted latissimus dorsi muscles and begin squeezing, pressing, coaxing. The masseuse is deaf. No matter. Small talk is for small minds. He breathes out stress. Gwendolyn is a sorceress.

Kai Leng's image manifests over a small holo-pad, its glow clashing with the ambience of the room. Leng is impassive, utterly unmoved by sentiment. The Illusive Man values that about him. It makes him clearheaded and practical, but being passionless has drawbacks too.

"You wanted to see me." Leng crosses his arms.

"I've received reports from the Phoenix facility." Kai Leng has always gone out of his way to please him. He'd like to keep Leng 'happy' but he needs answers. "You damaged the Nemesis unit. Walk me through your process."

Leng scoffs. "The blonde is decent in the field but a distraction off it. The soldiers won't stop gawking at her. X3's breaking protocol because of her. She's asking questions. She's defiant." Leng waits. "I thought the whole point of this child-rearing exercise was for her to be compliant."

"Children rebel, Leng. What other measures did you consider?"

"Termination. To show X3 and the others how Cerberus deals with insubordination."

Troubling. The Illusive Man ponders for a moment. "I asked you to oversee the day to day operations of the Phoenix facility for a reason. I trust your judgment, but remember this. These individuals come to us, eager to serve humanity, often leaving their old lives behind. Cerberus is their family. X3 may not have come to us in the usual way, but she is not so different. If her loyalty is wavering, it's because she needs something that we are not providing. Rather than damaging valuable assets, you should consider finding a way to satisfy that need." Leng is a cold man, joyless and without sympathy, but not unintelligent.

"We're rewarding failure and discord now?"

"I don't see it that way." The muscles in his back and neck sing as Gwendolyn continues her ministrations. "X3 has more value to us than ever. Miranda interfered with our efforts on Thessia. X8 was within our grasp, but has once again slipped away. You understand the threat she poses to Cerberus and our mission. The parameters have changed. X8 has proven too problematic for reintegration, and Miranda has outlived her usefulness. It's time to contain the situation."

Leng stands straighter at the news, his mouth curling in a slight smile. The man became a killer at a young age. His propensity for killing served him well when he joined the Alliance. It made him a standout in the N7 program until he got himself thrown in prison. There is something very human, Illusive thinks, about wanting to end life, no matter how flawed. "And the girl? Lawson's clone?"

"Last sighted with Miranda and Rasa." The two of them are working together now. It's not an outcome he would have predicted. "If Oriana can be apprehended, do so. She still holds considerable sentimental value for Henry Lawson. Oriana may be critical to keeping him satisfied. I cannot overstate the value of our new partnership with him. His work is revolutionary. Together we will usher forward a new era for Cerberus. Our soldiers will be unmatched, and his research may have ramifications beyond that."

"More coddling," he complains.

Leng is not customarily so impertinent. Clearly he is frustrated. "Not every problem is best solved with a hammer, Leng. Sometimes a drop of honey is called for. It's past time you learned that."

The advice only seems to heighten Leng's contempt. "Understood. Coddle X3. Coddle the blonde. Coddle Henry Lawson."

"Yes." Illusive tires of the conversation. He'll pacify Leng by giving him the thing he needs. "There's something else. Randall Ezno broke ranks and destroyed the Barn. He's headed for Omega. He knows too much. Find him and terminate him, but do so quietly. Omega is a valuable staging area for our operation beyond the Omega-4 relay. It is paramount that we maintain our business relationship with Aria for the time being. See to it that you do not upset the balance."

"Ezno has turned against us?"

"Yes. Do not take him lightly. He has been heavily enhanced."

Leng nods. "I'll take care of it," he says before his hologram blips out.

Illusive rolls onto his back. The light of the candles lends a lovely incandescence to Gwendolyn's auburn hair. She smiles coyly as she hands him a cigar, then lights it as he puffs. Moments later, the towel slips away from his waist and crumples to the floor. Capable hands dig into his thighs, sliding upward before gripping him. He closes his eyes and allows his body to respond while his mind continues to race. There have been setbacks, but they are outweighed by the successes. The risks can be managed. He exhales a slow, controlled breath, threads of pungent smoke swirling around him.

The shuttle moves on auto-pilot. Morinth has never been opposed to drifting. Drifting leads to interesting places, to unforeseen adventures. Her mother was the opposite. She always had a destination in mind, some boring goal to accomplish. She chose the Code over life, over family. Her mother thought Morinth was only a disease to be purged. And now she's dead. Serves her right. Morinth won't follow in her footsteps.

Morinth studies Grace. Shepard sent Morinth to watch over Miranda but Miranda is a nuisance and Morinth has long since paid her debt. Not only that, Shepard has exhausted her usefulness. Morinth would prefer to spend her time with this copy. So much anger and darkness swirling inside of her, trying desperately to be contained. It washes over Morinth, hot and delicious. She remembers when Shepard had that fire.

Grace breathes quickly, taking sharp, shallow breaths. Her face and arms are soaked in blood. Morinth saw the scene from the shuttle. Grace attacked her companion. Rasa. Morinth knows a liar when she sees one. Grace fawned over the woman minutes before attacking her. Grace is unpredictable, dangerous. Morinth hasn't changed back into her mother's clothing but she picks up the black glove, still wet, and slides it along Grace's face, wiping some of the blood away.

"Why are you here?" Grace's eyes remain green, her voice shaking. She lashes out, takes Morinth's arm fiercely. For a moment, Morinth thinks she'll snap it. Grace pins her to the floor. "You're working for Cerberus. You're working for Miranda. I should kill you."

"No. Shepard—"

"Stop! Stop! Stop! I know you're lying! I know you know what I am!" Spittle hits Morinth's face, warm in the cold shuttle. "Did you laugh at me? Did you all laugh at me?"

Morinth is still. Dark biotic energy spills from Grace, gnashing and turning, prodding her. Morinth wants to taste her, take her, suck her dry but she is still so young and full of potential. Her power will only grow. It would be a waste to take her now. Poor clone, suffering through an existential crisis. "I only aided Cerberus so long as they opposed the Collectors. I gave myself to Shepard. I pledged myself to her under the Third Oath of Subsumation. It was the only way I could follow her orders." Grace's fingers crawl to Morinth's throat, her eyes still blazing. "She abused my oath. She forced me to..." She makes herself take a long pause. "She is... unjust. I could help you find them. The ones who... created you. I could help you find Shepard... if that is your wish."

Grace stares furiously down at her. Morinth wonders if she'll be quick enough to stop her if Grace decides to snap her neck instead. She is struck by how her position mirrors that of her mother in her final moments. Shepard was battered at the time. Grace is just as bloody, though the blood is not her own. Morinth waits for her to strike. Instead, Grace brings a hand to her face and begins to cry. Morinth narrows her eyes gently as the hot tears fall to her face. Yes. As she suspected. Unpredictable.

They've settled into a hotel room in some city on some planet that Samara suggested. Grace was barely listening. She feels like she's on the run again, as she has been for the majority of her existence. Except now she's with a justicar instead of a lying sociopath. The room is small, high up in a needle-like building that juts into the sky. Lightning crackles through the clouds, momentarily chasing away the pitch black of night. Grace's eyes are raw and red from crying. They keep the lights dim.

Samara holds up the skintight oily black outfit. "A justicar may not dress as a huntress. However, if you prefer my old uniform I may be willing to trade for yours."

Grace flicks her gaze to Samara. The justicar often makes statements that would be regarded as a joke coming from anyone else. Grace pulls off the black and grey glove she wears, removing the armguard and rolling up the camouflaged sleeve of the CAT6 armor. "It's all yours."

It's arduous keeping her voice steady. She hasn't slept since she found out who she is—what she is. She was Hope's – Rasa's – whoever the hell's toy. Some Cerberus scientific abomination gone wrong, to be used for whatever political scheme she had in mind. Kill Shepard, Hope said. Become Shepard. She's a disgusting secret. So many measures intended to keep her identity hidden. It's no wonder the woman fought so bitterly with her to keep her from choosing a name. She isn't allowed her own identity. Not now. Not ever. Her fingers curl. She unclenches her jaw and pulls out the knife strapped to her thigh.

"Tell me about Shepard," she tells Samara.

Samara turns, pausing in the midst of pulling off the huntress leathers. Grace sees a flash of pale blue skin along her back. Their eyes connect before Samara lowers hers demurely. "Forgive me, Comma— Grace. I am accustomed to a solitary life. I'm afraid I have not yet grown used to being in the company of others." She moves around the corner, out of sight. Grace sees a black sleeve of the huntress uniform slip around the corner before being shed. "What would you like to know?"

"What's she like?"

Samara's voice floats from the corner. "Commander Shepard is... a severe woman. A vile woman. You may recall that she abused my Oath." Samara's voice is remarkably steady given her opinion of the woman.

Grace frowns, taking the knife sharpener to the edge of the knife. Scrape, scrape, scrape. "What kind of oath is it?"

"It is the most sacred oath a justicar can make to another individual. It relinquishes my moral code. I pledge my loyalty to her, no matter the cost. I would not have been able to successfully aid her on the Collector mission otherwise. Her morals, her wishes and directives supplant everything I stand for, should she desire it. As you might imagine, it puts me in a very compromising situation, to become subservient to another. And she did. Put me in a very compromising situation."

Her stomach turns. Disgusting. She came from the DNA stock of that woman? Is she like her? Will she become more like her the longer she lives? Is it nature? Is it nurture? Hope raised her. Trained her. But what is Hope but a liar? A manipulator. Sometimes she was kind to her. Why? To keep her in line? That's the most likely scenario.

She realizes that Shepard died nearly three years ago. She only recalls her existence for the last year. Is that how old she is? One? She's lightheaded and stabs the knife into the edge of the table, holding herself steady. Samara is speaking personally of the injustice she suffered. Get your shit together and think of someone else for a change. "You're all right?" she asks gruffly.

"I am a justicar. I am incapable of feeling deeply for anything outside of my duty. However..." she clears her throat. "Such a violation is not allowed to stand. I promised I would end her once the matter with the Collectors was resolved. She asked that I assist Miranda in recovering her sister. I thought the greater good should prevail and that her existence should be allowed for a while longer." She exits from around the corner, dressed once more in her usual justicar regalia.

Grace remembers the Collectors. They cut down her entire squad in a matter of seconds. That... thing that talked to her, that voice she heard, taunting her. It was confused. It thought she was Shepard. She's not Shepard. She won't be Shepard. "And the Collector mission?"

"Successful. I survived, along with a few others. We lost the entire crew except for the pilot. Four squad members perished." She approaches Grace cautiously. Grace dislodges the knife and takes hold of it again. "Are you well, Grace? The revelation must have come as a shock. I would not want you to do anything... irrational."

Grace grits her jaw. She knows where the tracking device is. Months ago, she paid some salarian doctor to scan her, to locate it. "Hope, Rasa, that bitch, will hunt me down. She's spent a lot of credits on me. She won't let me go. Not her precious investment." Samara tilts her head cautiously. "I'm not going to let her find me. Not before I burn Cerberus to the ground."

"They will try to stop you."

"They can try." She puts the blade of the knife along the inside of her forearm, digging in and cutting a small path open. Blood bubbles to the surface. Red. She looks human. She feels human. The pain is negligible. She allows herself to feel it, to take the burning sensation and pretend for a moment that it marks her as something real, as something more than a copy. She sets the knife aside and digs into her flesh, her fingers burying into muscle matter until she finds what she's looking for. It's no bigger than a grain of rice. She was tracked, has been tracked for months, like property, merchandise, cattle.

Biotic energy centers on it until it bursts. Blood runs down the edge of the kitchen table, covers her arm like a glove. Samara's eyes are dark, fixated on her. Eventually she turns away, sitting to meditate.

"Don't get too comfortable," Grace tells her. "We head to Hagalaz in a few hours." Wherever the hell that is. It was Samara's suggestion. She said the "new" Shadow Broker might have the answers they need. Great. Another asshole to beg favors off of. She isn't looking forward to it.

"Of course."

Grace stares at her arm, the mess of tissue, blood, ripped flesh and bone. She takes the medi-gel packet that sits next to her and rips it open with her teeth. She makes her hand into a fist and watches the blood pump more vigorously. A fake. She's a fake. She wasn't even born. What must people think of those who weren't born? What must it be like to be born? To have parents? To have family? She'll never know.

She wonders if she can die. Shouldn't she have died a hundred times over? There must be something wrong with her. She's not even a person.

She grips the medi-gel packet onto her arm, slathering it over her wound with the flat of the knife. Blood and medi-gel mingle. Her arm is on fire. Threads of muscle and flesh wriggle towards each other, wormlike, before the gel settles, translucent. Soon there won't be a scar. It's not right. Not normal. What's she keeping her arm intact for? In case Shepard needs it? She's alive for that piece of garbage? She only exists because of that piece of garbage.

She'll find the Cerberus labs and destroy them. She'll kill anyone who gets in her way. She'll find Shepard and kill her. Then she'll be free.

The little asari bitch got herself a nice ship. Morinth laments Shepard's cowardice. If only Shepard had let Morinth come the first time, she might have had a succulent feeding. Joria was a treat but soon the high begins to wear off. She becomes antsy and the hunt must begin again.

The human who piloted the mining freighter to the Sowilo System is a weakling. Putting him under her thrall was trivially easy, an unsatisfying but necessary exercise. It is inordinately difficult and expensive to book passage to Hagalaz.

The wind lashes them violently. It's hard to take steady paces, climb the slope of the ship and keep her fucking clothes on. I really hate everything about you, Mother. "This way," she tells the clone. She doesn't know which way she's going. She hasn't visited the ship and Shepard was starry-eyed after the mission. Did she and Liara reconcile and physically express their affections? Disgusting.

Not that she doesn't see the appeal. She used to hunger for it. The touch of a lover. She thinks of the husk she left behind the first time she was foolish enough to think she was a normal girl. There was one after that and then another. Then, she thought, she needed to find someone strong enough. She was wrong then, too, but the pleasure that filled her was unlike anything she had ever known. Her mother looked at her with those big, sad eyes. Her mother once felt something. What killed her emotions? Was it having a monster for a daughter? You are a disease to be purged and nothing more.

Morinth keeps her face blank. It's rarely difficult to keep the mask on. Sometimes, when she thinks of that creature that birthed her, it is more so. A crack of lightning flashes, blinding and hot, striking one of the lightning rods several feet away. Morinth's spirits soar. She can respect that kind of blind, destructive power.

Grace follows behind her, strangely solemn. Where are your speeches, Shepard? Where are your tirades on justice? It isn't Shepard, not really. Not that the thing on the Normandy is. What broke her? Dying? Being spurned by Liara? The aura around her was dark and weak. Grace's burns bright and strong. Maybe she's the real Shepard and this is all a big joke. She smiles at that. Imposters pretending to be imposters.

A pair of drones meander toward them. "What's this?" Grace asks. A spark of lightning sates her curiosity. Shields shattered, she wraps the drone in biotic energy and hurls it into a wall. Morinth shoots the other one. It begins to hail. The two slip into cover as ice pellets pummel down around them. "What's your big plan for getting us in there, Samara? I want to hear something before we're knocked off the damn ship."

I don't know. "Do not worry. The Shadow Broker will know we are here. I do not anticipate any difficulties with gaining entry."

No sooner are the words spoken than a deep voice booms across the ship. "Enter, Justicar."

There's a whirring of gears, and they ascend another steely slope. They find an open hatch and slip into the dark, cavernous interior. Morinth has instructed Grace to let her do the speaking. She isn't sure what terms Shepard and Liara parted on but she's fairly sure they weren't amicable. Shepard would have hesitated to give herself to Liara. She thinks of her 'time' with Shepard. No mind meld. Not real sex. Shepard's violence was exciting but without joining their minds it felt incomplete. It wasn't like it is with those who fully give themselves to her. The ecstasy that fills her is untouchable. But either way, either manner of coupling, the act is never fully complete and there is always some part of her left unsatisfied. "Holster your weapon," she tells Grace. Grace's face is helmeted, but she looks at her long and hard. She imagines the clone's hazel eyes flashing green in that peculiar way that they do. "Holster it. We are all friends here."

Grace glares at her another moment before clamping the weapon to her back. Morinth leads the way. Big ship. Lots of guards. She hopes something happens, something that would necessitate them having to kill their way out of here. Grace appraises the surroundings carefully, clearly unhappy to have her weapon put away when there are so many soldiers with their weapons drawn.

Eventually they reach the lair. The term amuses Morinth. She notices the walls of monitors, countless projections on screens, events, lives, timelines, unfolding with every passing moment, each second recorded. The Shadow Broker stands with her back to them, the light of grainy footage cascading over her, making her white suit glow and her pale blue skin appear as pale as Morinth's own. She turns, and Grace stiffens. Surprise!

"Samara," Liara announces flatly. "This is an unexpected visit." Unwelcome too, Morinth would wager. Then again, who'd welcome her mother's company? Those with a death wish. "And you travel with a guest." Her gaze fixes on Grace. On second thought, maybe she should have made the clone wait in the shuttle like a good girl. "Normally I would not question a justicar."

But this one has slept with your Shepard. Morinth is formulating a less antagonistic response when Grace pulls the helmet off her head, chocolate wavy hair shaking loose to her shoulders. Morinth keeps her face tranquil and waits for the fireworks. Liara flinches in a way that puzzles her. Maybe it's only Grace's eyes, defiant and challenging. She's looked that way since they left the others. They focus on Samara, more demanding than before. A pleasant surprise? An unpleasant one? She doesn't know.

"Shepard..." Liara takes a step back, looks away from Grace. This time, Grace is the one to flinch. "What are you doing here?" She looks her armor over but her eyes skirt back to her face.

"You will forgive me, Dr. T'Soni," Morinth keeps her voice as still as her mother's, "but I have asked Commander Shepard to assist me in tracking down a Cerberus facility."

"That's... vague," Liara says. She looks between the two of them. Suspiciously? Jealously? It takes everything Morinth has not to smile. "And as you may know, the Shadow Broker does not simply give out information."

"You would charge a justicar, seeking to right the many wrongs Cerberus has committed?" She takes a meaningful pause. There is no hesitation or apology on Liara's face. The bitch is stone cold. Morinth likes it. "You surprise me." She considers throwing in a word or two about Benezia but bites it back. If she must pretend to be her mother she must do so with all her boring nuances to boot.

"I am busy," Liara snaps. "I shouldn't have let either of you step foot on this ship after what Miranda did." Samara waits but she sees the question in Grace's eyes. "She deleted all Cerberus records from the server. It's taken this long to even know the depth of what she's taken. But it isn't gone. The Shadow Broker was smart and I'm smarter. Glyph and I have been working on rebuilding the databases." She looks to Grace. "You expect me to believe you're helping her?" I'm right here, Morinth wants to say. "I know what you did, Shepard!"

Morinth freezes. Does she know? Did she recoup all the records? Does she know who she is? If she's focused on Grace, she can sink a bullet between her eyes before either woman can react.

Liara continues just as heatedly. "You let the Illusive Man keep the Collector Base?" Grace stares back at her. "Shepard, how could you? You know what happened on that base. The lives extinguished there... What's happened to you?"

"I didn't come here for a lecture, Liara. Do you have what we need or not?" She takes a step forward, looks her over. Morinth resists the urge to pry into her mind, to see what she's thinking. Grace shakes her head, as if not finding what she was looking for, and steps back.

"You would not have this ship if not for Commander Shepard," Morinth points out before Grace says something stupid that will blow their opportunity. It doesn't particularly matter if things blow up in their face, but she thinks hitting the clone facilities might mean more destruction. It will be fun. "She has assisted you many times over. Whatever disagreement you have with me, I trust you will set it aside and help us."

Liara ignores her and focuses on Grace. "Why wouldn't he give you what you need?" Grace, who has her back to them, stares up at the monitors. "Why come to me?" her voice is harder than Morinth would expect. Is she disappointed in Shepard? Angry at her? For sleeping around, for killing a justicar, for killing off her crew, for losing her squad? So many reasons to be disappointed. Morinth doesn't blame her for not knowing where to start. "I'm sorry about Tali."

Grace turns to look at her. Her brow crinkles, as if discovering a memory. A spike of sadness convincingly touches her features. "We'll need the locations of all Cerberus facilities," she says to her. "Don't make a justicar ask twice." Liara laughs caustically. Morinth laments the absence of popcorn.

"Samara," Liara says tightly, "can you leave us?"

"She stays," Grace returns sharply. Her fingers clench and she rubs at her temple. She should have left the helmet on. You should have left her in the shuttle.

"Fine," Liara sounds exhausted. "Glyph. Please collect what we have and entrust it to Commander Shepard." The name twists on her tongue, as if she's said the name sarcastically. Does Liara know Grace is a fake? So many puzzles, so little time. The silly drone notes Liara's orders and buzzes away. Liara looks up at the shattered ceiling. Morinth imagines lights or energy once marked the space. Grace plants her hands on her hips and keeps her back to the group.

Their energy is unsettling. Liara returns to a terminal and types frantically as if there were no tomorrow. Grace keeps her distance, occasionally sneaking a glance over at Liara. Her features shift between soft and hard. Is it just residual clone anger or is it something more? Do clones share their original's feelings, Morinth wonders. She hopes not. The last thing she needs is for her would-be serial killer to go lovestruck over some stuck-up asari.

Morinth approaches Liara. It would be fun to gloat but she values her disguise and will hold on to it as long as she can. "I appreciate your assistance, Dr. T'Soni. I apologize if I was... rude."

Liara continues to type. Morinth wonders if she heard her or is outright ignoring her. "The matter on Thessia was resolved," she tells her. Morinth is still. "The reports are fragmented but it seems that Miranda was able to reunite with Oriana."

"Yes."

"That's good," she says distractedly, more invested in whatever she writes than Miranda's happy outcome. "There's talk that Henry Lawson had an Inquisitor looking into the matter. He has transferred considerable sums of credits to certain matriarchs in the past several months. The Inquisitor was an exceptionally talented woman. I was hoping to move her to my employ." She laments the loss of a potential employee rather than a life. Morinth's eyes dance. "The official report states that you killed her." Eventually, Liara lifts her eyes. Morinth strips the emotion from her face.

"She was corrupt and abusing her mandate. I carry a piece of all those I must terminate with me."

"Mh." She looks past her, to Grace, watching her for several moments. Her face is unreadable, then angry, sad. She looks back to Morinth. "Watch her." Her eyes narrow, seeming to glisten. "I can't anymore. I won't."

Morinth looks to Grace, who catches her gaze instead of Liara's. Disappointed, she looks away.

Sweat runs down her face, stinging her eyes. Her breath sounds as if she were in a vacuum. The quarians are running but they're relatively easy targets. The other soldiers laugh at the Quarian fleet ships; they think they're a joke. Junk. Salvage. Scraps pieced together. X3 thinks they're resilient. She thinks there's something to be admired about them.

It doesn't take long for Cerberus to overrun the Idenna. They moved in stealthily but eventually someone sounded the alarm. Quarians are easy to kill. She's facing another direction when a quarian woman tries to slip past her. X3 grabs her, shoving her against the wall and squeezing her blade in between her ribs. Their bones are sturdier than most would presume.

She twists the blade and exhales. They're both faceless. The quarian's mask goes foggy. She breathes some words about her son. Fiddles with her omni-tool even as her bloody body slips away from the blade and down the wall. X3 cocks her head, watching her. "Why?" the quarian asks her.

She has orders. X3 tilts her head in the other direction before turning sharply and lopping off her head. A dying message for her son. A keepsake. It would foster more hostility for Cerberus, for her family. The head rolls a few feet and then stops.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Annalise isn't with her. It might have been different if she had been. Mission failure. Mission success. It doesn't matter anymore. She is a hamster on a spinning wheel, doing drills, doing tricks, killing on orders, for her family, for Cerberus.

The shuttle back to the base takes hours. The others are rowdy, talking about the mission excitedly. X3 keeps her helmet on. She's glad the quarian kept her helmet on too. The Cerberus facility is a massive sprawl of indiscriminate land. The architecture is neat and efficient, clinical, a giant lab. X3 is beginning to think that they're all rats. So many lives lost to what end? Is the end of innocents worth it?

X8 is still on the run. They still want her and they can't catch her. They're settling for X3. Should she be settled on? Should she let others settle on her? A Shepard clone. What's her purpose? Is it Shepard's purpose? Leng's purpose? The Illusive Man's purpose? Property. Leng told her she is property. Does property get to choose its path?

She steps off the shuttle and ignores those who attempt to engage her in conversation. She walks the shadowy halls by memory. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Until she arrives at the room. It's black except for the small glow of the nightstand. Annalise is reclined on the bed, a thin pillow folded in half beneath her head. She has been kept removed from the others. She has been alienated from her family for her failure. Leng has suggested they not work together anymore. X3 finds the idea... disagreeable. Annalise shifts on the bed, looks up at her. There is a moment of panic in her eyes. X3 removes the helmet but the panic doesn't go away.

"Leng doesn't want you here."

X3 flicks her eyes away. "No." She knows Annalise is upset that X3 destroyed her artifact. She may also be upset that X3 dislocated her arm but she isn't sure of that. She may be upset that Leng shot her when X3 revealed she also had an artifact. She taunted Leng and Annalise bore his retribution. "Are you still bleeding?" Without waiting for a response she lifts the white Cerberus shirt Annalise wears. Her abdomen is bandaged, the blood has soaked through. X3 does not want her to die. "We should leave." Annalise looks at her. "Leave Leng. Leave Cerberus. I don't know what family is." She tries to find words. Better words. "I don't think this is family."

Annalise narrows her eyes and yanks her shirt down. "You leave. I'm staying." She turns on her side, facing away from her. X3 stands awkwardly before sitting on the edge of the bed. She thinks about telling her of the innocent quarians she killed. She thinks of asking Annalise if she ever thinks about the people they take out, for being, for getting in the way. "I heard the Bahak system was destroyed?" her voice is small, sad and hopeful.

"Yes."

Annalise curls into herself and begins to cry. X3 doesn't know how to help her. She doesn't know how to cry or why people cry. Maybe, since she's only pieces of people, she isn't capable. Does Annalise want something? Does crying do anything? It seems pointless. X3 watches her, fingers curling around the blanket, helpless.

Wind and sleet lash the shuttle as they pull away. Lightning cuts across the viewport. Grace grips the controls firmly, rising into the tempest. Landing the shuttle was a nerve-wracking affair. Taking off is only slightly less so. Samara sits in the bucket seat to her right, silently watching her with a hint of bemusement in her eyes. You are a terrible driver.

The Shadow Broker's ship – Liara's ship – quickly disappears into the mist beneath them. Liara is the Shadow Broker now. Who was the previous Shadow Broker? Even Hope hadn't known; Grace asked her after the encounter on Ilos. She did some digging on the extranet, finding only absurd conspiracy theories. The Broker is a volus hiding in plain sight on the Citadel! No, he's a front for the Salarian STG! No, I heard he's the last surviving Prothean! On and on it went, each speculation more ridiculous than the last.

Hope said the Shadow Broker was The Illusive Man's chief rival. He interfered with the operation to recover Shepard's body, nearly succeeding in handing Shepard over to the Collectors. Liara and Cerberus prevailed in the end, and Miranda Lawson went on to rebuild Shepard. You're not the real Shepard. You were just the spare parts. Not worth my time. Grace owes her existence to Cerberus, yet to them she's just a collection of limbs and organs to be harvested. Somehow Hope didn't think it worth mentioning.

The bucking of the shuttle gradually stills as they exit the atmosphere. The freighter awaits them in orbit around Ansuz, the fourth planet in the system. Grace still isn't sure how Samara managed to secure passage for them. Credits are in short supply. That was one thing Hope was always good for, but the justicar has made herself invaluable as well. How refreshing to share company with someone who has made honesty and justice her "Code," her way of life.

They have the location of a suspected Cerberus cloning facility. Her likely birthplace. How many others were 'born' there? Will she find more like her there? Her hands go clammy at the thought. Liara's data is incomplete, but the records indicate the facility may still be active. Grace turns to Samara. "We're heading to the Attican Cluster next."

Samara nods. "Of course, Commander."

"I told you to stop calling me that." Grace thinks the justicar is enjoying this more than she lets on. Why didn't she mention Liara?

Samara smiles wryly and looks out the viewport at the stars. Ansuz is a bright dot, slowly growing larger. Grace watches Hagalaz shrink in the rearview monitor. It looks remarkably calm from a distance, like a giant olive surrounded by lazy swirls of cotton. Conditions are incredibly harsh on the surface, but there is life there. It is the nature of life to fight, to adapt, to persevere when given the smallest chance. "Have you given thought to how we will bypass their security measures?" the justicar asks. "Guns and biotics will not be sufficient."

"Are you sure? I find they usually are." It's a joke, but Grace knows Samara's concern is valid. Hope has taught her some basic hacking methods. She can override simple security systems, but that's the extent of her abilities in that area.

There's a soft rustle behind them, and then a man's voice. "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

Both women whirl around in their chairs, drawing their weapons. The man that stands there has large, dark eyes, gilled cheeks, and scaled flesh that glistens with a chromatic sheen. A drell. He stands with his arms behind his back.

"Who the fuck are you?" Grace growls, Paladin pointed at his face. "How did you get in here?"

The man raises both hands, showing his palms. "I mean you no harm, Commander. Do you not remember me? I am Feron."

Grace furrows her brow, searching through the muddy soup of Shepard's stolen memories. Nothing. "Feron?"

"Yes," he speaks calmly. "We met briefly, when you assaulted the Shadow Broker's ship. Your associate, Miranda Lawson, freed me from a torture device. I am grateful."

He seems sincere. And what can one drell do against her and a justicar? "Oh. Feron," she says knowingly, lowering her gun. Samara follows suit. "Glad to see you're okay, but I'd still like to know what the hell you're doing on my shuttle."

He lowers his hands. "I apologize for the subterfuge, Commander. I appropriated a tactical cloak and boarded ahead of you. You and the justicar," he nods towards Samara, "asked for data regarding Cerberus facilities. I can only assume you intend sabotage? I would like to assist."

"Why not just ask?"

"Ah," he looks down. "I'm afraid Doctor T'Soni would have protested quite vehemently. I did not want to put you in that position. She has been… very protective of me. Perhaps it was craven and presumptuous of me to take this course of action, but I have—what do you call it? Cabin fever? I wish to be of use."

Grace nods. "And what 'use' would that be?"

He blinks. "I'm afraid I'm not in your class when it comes to combat, Commander. However, I am skilled at infiltrating. Along with the tactical cloak, I have acquired a highly sophisticated suite of cybercracking software." He smiles. "One of the benefits of having nearly unfettered access to the Shadow Broker's resources. In addition, I have some familiarity with Cerberus security protocols, having spent some time with them."

Grace raises her Paladin again and steps closer. "You worked for Cerberus?"

To his credit, he remains calm. "My history is complicated. But, yes, I worked for Cerberus for a short while. I assisted them with recovering your... you from the Shadow Broker. That was the extent of my allegiance with Cerberus. Now they are Liara's enemy. My enemy."

Grace studies his face for a moment, then puts her gun away. She extends her hand. "Welcome aboard, Feron."

EDI reminds her she has new email messages at her terminal. Shepard lies on the bed, her forearm draped lazily across her forehead. Her time is running out. She's pushing it. Hackett's words. She can be a good Alliance pup and turn herself in or let the world continue to think she's a terrorist. The Alliance isn't doing anything to clear up any public misconceptions. Khalisah Al-Jilani is running her name into the ground. She should have put a bullet in her head.

The new fish tank pulses a pale blue. The hum of the machinery is like a lullaby. There's something soothing about its constant company. She forces herself to stand. Liara got her ship back and ditched her. There's been no word from Miranda or Morinth. Garrus wants nothing to do with her. Tali's dead. The others didn't matter. She has a headache.

She goes to the desk and looks at the empty model stands. Liara's photograph stares back at her. She was younger in the photograph, staring with wide, idealistic eyes towards the future. Now she's a bitter, jaded bitch that uses her for free labor whenever she needs something. Fuck you, Liara.She massages her temple and logs onto her email.

Spam. You'd think Cerberus would be better at weeding that kind of thing out. There's an email from Conrad Verner. She groans inwardly and considers sending it straight to the trash bin. Against all reason she opens it. Maybe she's bored. Maybe she needs a good laugh.

Jane,

It's me. I know you've wanted answers but I can't give them to you right now. The mission was a success. I wouldn't have been able to do it without Samara so thank you for that. Cerberus is no longer safe for me or Ori. I won't be returning. I don't expect your forgiveness but I hope you understand. One more thing: I believe there may be a rogue agent after you. Watch your back.

—ML

Shepard stares at the orange text on the black background. Miranda's gone. Morinth is likely gone. And now she has a 'rogue agent' after her. It must be Tuesday. That's fine. She doesn't need them. She doesn't need anyone. She has the Normandy. She has EDI and Joker. The Illusive Man supports her. She's come back to life, stopped the Collectors, killed the Shadow Broker and stopped a Reaper invasion.

"EDI, have Joker set course for Omega."

She could use some shore leave. She's in no rush to go to the Citadel. Anderson wanted to meet with her but she's in no hurry to see him. For all she knows, Hackett will have a team ambush her there. Illium doesn't work either. She's about had it with the asari and all their fine print. Omega is dirty but honest and unapologetic. Anything goes as long as you've got enough credits and a large enough gun.

{ Hey, Commander. You've got a vidcall from the Council? Blow up one relay and everybody gets their panties in a twist. Do salarians wear panties? Anyway, they are not letting up. }

The Council has attempted to connect with her on several occasions since she's spoken with Hackett. If the Alliance has turned against her, she doubts the Council will be any better. They've always had their heads up their asses and there's no doubt that working with a human survivalist group will guarantee that she's landed on their shit list. "Tell the Council I'm unavailable, Joker."

{ Sure you don't want to hang up on them yourself? That was always pretty cool. }

Tempting. There are few things more satisfying than disconnecting from their calls. "I've got business on Omega. If they're so insistent on speaking to me, they can meet me there."

{ Yeah, okay, I hope you don't mind if I don't hold my breath on that one. I'll pass that along, Commander. }

Shepard pulls the gun from the holster strapped to her thigh and sets it on the desk next to the laptop. Why'd she save the Council to begin with? They've always been a pain in her ass. It's not like her to disobey orders from Hackett. She's been described as ruthless and pigheaded but she hasn't been known to willingly ignore protocol and orders. You're not the Alliance anymore. They're trying to pin a crime on you for diplomatic reasons.

It's a simple matter but she's uneasy. No one follows her anymore. Hard to take orders from a zombie, maybe. What if she didn't come back right? The thought has plagued her. Less so with each passing day but there, like a spike, it worms its way into the back of her thoughts.

Something moves in the shadows. She stands, hand around the grip of the pistol, finger on the trigger.

There's nothing there.

A rogue agent is after her. Who? No one to worry about. No one walks out of a fight with me alive unless I say so. Yeah, sure.

But she's unsettled.

They land about a mile away to avoid the anti-air defenses and trek through marshy woodlands until they get to the outer perimeter of the compound. Feron hacks into the security system and brings down the electrical fence. If you don't mind, Commander, I'm going to stay cloaked as much as possible. He's a decent shot with the Indra he carries, but he's no Hope.

The Cerberus troops are well-organized and varied. They have a small army of mechs, including an Atlas. Samara is incredible, a force of nature. Grace marvels at her ferocity and power, even through the red haze of her own fury. Shepard pissed this woman off? She must be an idiot. The asari speaks of justice and "the Code," but it's obvious she enjoys the mayhem of battle. She's frightening to behold. Together, they devastate the enemy forces with a relentless series of deafening biotic explosions and well-aimed gunfire.

For all their combined might, their mission might have ended in frustration at the bunker doors if not for Feron. Within five minutes he cracks the cyber-lock and the bunker slides open. Inside they meet only token resistance and the blaring sound of klaxons. They go room to room, quickly dispatching the soldiers they encounter. There are scientists and technicians who beg for their lives right up until Grace blows their brains out. She looks to Samara. "Got a problem with this?"

The justicar shakes her head coolly. "Not at all. They have been conducting illegal and unethical research for a terrorist organization. They do not deserve mercy. If you do not kill them, I will."

Grace nods and continues toward the next room.

"Commander," Feron calls out. "I have accessed the blueprint for this facility." He summons up the holo-map with his omni-tool, and points to a highlighted area with his free hand. "This is the server room." He slides his finger over to another spot. "And I believe this room holds what you are looking for."

"Nice work," Grace replies. "I want you to get to those servers and wipe them clean. No copies, and no uplink to Liara. Do you understand?"

"Commander… I—"

"Do you understand?"

"I… Yes, Commander."

"Good." Feron has been useful, but she doesn't fully trust his motivations. His first loyalty is to Liara. She turns to the justicar. "Samara, go with him. Keep him safe."

Disappointment flickers over her face, but she nods. "Very well. Make haste, Commander. Backup is likely on the way."

Grace nods, then turns and leaves. Walking briskly, she makes her way through flickering corridors, toward the lab. She wishes she had thought to tell Feron to deactivate the goddamn klaxons. She can't hear herself think. A balding scientist pokes his head out of a doorway, then ducks back in when he sees her coming. She walks into the room. The moron is hiding under his desk. She grabs him by the scruff of his lab coat, drags him to his feet and pulls him out of the room. He babbles hysterically—something about a wife and kids.

The lab is four doors down. There's a keypad lock on the door. She could try to hack it, but this will be much faster. "Open it," she tells the man. He punches in some numbers, fucks it up, gets a panicked look on his face. She slams his head into the door. He yelps, grabbing his head. "Stop screwing around. Open it." He tries again. The door clicks open. "Leave," she says. He runs.

Heart pounding nearly out of her chest, she opens the door and steps into a refrigerated blast of air. She pulls her helmet off. She can see her breath. A solitary desk and chair sit in the middle of the room. On either side of her is a row of six coffin-like pods with translucent covers, stretching to the back of the room. There are tanks pumping gases and fluids into the pods. The pods sit on horizontal beds, tilted forward at about a 20-degree angle. They're numbered sequentially from 13 to 24, the numerals stenciled on the glass covers. With dread, she realizes they contain shapes. Some of the shapes don't look… right.

A datapad sits on the desk in the middle of the room. Grace walks to it and sets her helmet down. She picks the datapad up with a trembling hand. She skims through the text.

… adjustments have been made to compensate for Shepard's numerous chromosomal mutations, but failure rate remains high … clone development has been further complicated by the introduction of element zero into the nutrient solution … X8 is the only subject to have developed without defects … ideal candidate for the Phantom project … X8 has been stolen. Jones is dead. Operative Rasa has disappeared … X3 has been activated after a series of transplants from X2, X4, X5, X7, X10, X12 … remaining material from the first batch has been destroyed … … batch 2 has been initiated … X20 appears to be developing well, with only minor, surgically correctable defects to the respiratory system ... new language engrams have been installed. Viable clones will now awake with the power of speech ... X14 and X19 have abnormalities but are considered viable … recommend utilizing the remaining subjects as transplant donors

Grace staggers away from the desk, nearly losing her balance as the room spins around her. What the fuck? What in the fucking fuck? Her breath comes faster and faster. She was a part of the original twelve. There are another twelve. Twenty-four total? Twenty-four its...? Things? Hers? Not even. She isn't any different than they are. She's another scrap, salvage for Commander Shepard. Does Shepard know about her copies? Does she laugh at them? Does she move into battle fearlessly knowing that there are tools at her disposal? She has the luxury of savagery and recklessness. What must it be like to live without fear? Is it living? Is Shepard something more now? Brought back from death, and more created in her image. Is she a god?

Grace slams a heat sink into the Paladin and swallows the lump in her throat. Her heavy breath fogs around her. She is not unique, she is not special, she is not a person. She is a project. X8. An object unworthy of even a name. Is that why Hope refused to let her have one? Was it only that she wanted her to become accustomed to bearing the name Jane Shepard or did she not think her suitable of having one? Hope has had countless names. Hope the liar, murderer, terrorist.

Her legs are numb. Her steps uneven, pitching her forward. It's not fair. It isn't fair. She was created and given the ability and intellect to love life, end life, but she is only a shelf product. These things, these other its... they're like her too.

She regains control of her breath, musters her determination once again. She walks to the pod numbered 13 and pries the cover open. The thing inside is misshapen and stunted, barely resembling a human being. It breathes through a toothless mouth, its eyes unblinking and vacant. She deliberates. When she found out what she was, that there were others, it became clear to her what she must do. Now she hesitates. What crime has this thing committed, except to remind her that she is the spawn of genetic material? Does it even have a soul? She searches its eyes and finds nothing. No. Things don't have souls. Grace puts a bullet in its head and moves to the next pod. X14 is deformed, but less grotesquely so. It has awareness in its eyes if not understanding. Another thing. More scraps for Shepard. She ends its brief existence and moves to the next pod.

One by one, she continues this way. She can always find a reason. She is chipping away at Shepard's defenses. Shepard won't have anything when Grace finds her. Most are monstrosities, the stuff of nightmares, but X20 is different. X20 is the one that will haunt her sleep. Perfectly formed, it looks at her with intelligence. Eyes widening as she points her gun at it, it stretches out an arm and utters a raspy mewling sound, pleading with her. "No," it speaks to Grace in her voice. It tries to crawl out of the pod, tugging at tubes. Grace barely remembers her own awakening, the weakness in her legs. This one has just been 'birthed'. It's faster than she was, more advanced. It begs. "Please..."

"Sorry." She's surprised by the evenness of her voice, the flatness of it. She lowers the Paladin, lines the shot until the moment its eyes turn green. She pulls the trigger. Its brains spatter, her head falling in chunks on the floor. It's her. That thing is her. If Hope hadn't woken her up, would it have been X3 to come along and eliminate her? Would it have been X20? Maybe Miranda would have taken some part of her and given it to Shepard. What is she? A thing. A monster. A scrap. Soulless. A shell. She's hyperventilating again. The blood smokes on the floor, hot against the stinging cold of the room.

She looks around at the massacre of her. Murder-suicide. A simple act of self-loathing? Dead. They're all dead. Was this what she was looking for? Was this her family? She gasps, slipping on the bloody floor as she takes weaving steps, holding herself up at the edge of the desk, touching the datapad, staining it with blood. What is she? What the hell is she? Shepard is a monster. Is she any better? Her shoulders hunch over, she sinks, the tears spilling hotly over her cheeks again. Weak. Pathetic. You were just the spare parts. Not worth my time. Crying again. Broken piece of shit. She's cried too much, lately. Get yourself together. Get yourself together X8. She takes a few more gasping breaths, straightens. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she turns to the door. Samara stands there, watching her intently. How long has she been there? They stare at each for a long moment, unmoving. There's something magnetic about the justicar's gaze.

Samara holds the door open. "Feron is waiting. We must leave, Grace."

Grace. That name. What a joke. She slips on her helmet and looks around at them. Her murdered family. Her sisters. Her. She shoots at a few gas valves and is rewarded with licking flames She thinks of Torfan. She remembers how the batarians begged. She wasn't moved then, either. Her hand drops to her belt and unclips a few grenades. She pulls the pins and chucks them into the room. Cerberus can't have any of it. Any of her. She'll leave them nothing. They won't make more, build more, not here. The room burns, hot air caressing her face. The klaxon sounds, ringing in her ears. She tells herself not to look back but she always will.