Her wrists are cuffed behind her.

Admiral Anderson enters the cell, appraising the room before settling his eyes on her. "Anderson." She remains seated on the cot. "I'd salute but as you can see, I'm a bit tied up." He shakes his head. "Is this really necessary? A trial? Cuffed like a common criminal?"

"They're not my rules, Shepard." He looks at her, as if trying to determine whether he recognizes her. "I asked them to remove your cuffs. Unfortunately, they know your reputation. They think you're dangerous. And they're not willing to risk you making a run for it given how difficult it was bringing you in. How have you been?"

"How do you think?"

She's angry and embarrassed. Their situation is unusual. Their relationship has always been that of mutual respect. She doesn't know how it happened. After her father passed and she joined the Alliance, Anderson seemed to seamlessly step into the role. He was hard-assed but encouraging. He pushed her when she needed pushing, and pushed others when she needed backup. If not for him, they'd never have been able to escape on the Normandy to chase after Saren on Ilos. She made him a Council member. She was naive then. She thought the Council would look after all members of the galaxy. In the end it's politics as usual. She's just the token sacrificial lamb.

"I thought you were dead."

"Technically undead," she mutters. Anderson fixes her with a hard stare. She glares gently at the wall. "So is this the part where you tear my head off for working with Cerberus?"

"So it's true. A year ago, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. That's the least of our problems now. You blew up an entire system."

Oh, that. "So I keep hearing."

"This is the last thing we needed. You were just beginning to shake off the Butcher of Torfan moniker. The galaxy is looking at us—and in turn at humanity. They think we're bullies. That we run around shooting first and asking questions later. Over three hundred thousand batarians dead—and you've made no statement—"

"I stopped the Reapers—"

"The Alliance is worried how the other races will perceive us. Udina is up in arms. He wants you hanged."

"Fuck Udina." Power hungry maggot. Though she knows now she was naive before. Anderson's a good man but he doesn't have the stomach to get his hands dirty and do what needs to be done. He panders to the Council. Udina is bolder. Udina is selfish. Sometimes a little selfishness is needed for the greater good. Anderson steps closer. She can smell the fresh scent of his aftershave.

"Why didn't you come see me at the Citadel? I sent word. Kaidan says he saw you at Alchera."

"What?" The last time she saw Kaidan was on Horizon. So much for a happy reunion. She saved his ass on Virmire and he gets pissy at her for being alive. She remembers when he pursued her. Shepard liked him well enough. A good guy. He may have had a shot had she not met Liara. Then they lost Ash on Virmire. Her decision. Some part of her resents Kaidan for it anyway. She never went to Alchera. She got the message but who had time to go? It wasn't on her list of priorities to excavate the bodies of her old crew. "He's lying."

Anderson looks at her skeptically. "Why would he do that?"

Why would he do that? Unless... She thinks of that thing, with the burning green eyes, biotic power like Jack's—Samara's even. Where the hell did it come from? "Anderson, listen to me. There's someone out there. Someone who looks like me. That must be who Kaidan saw." Anderson keeps his face expressionless. "I don't know where they came from, but I'm thinking it must be a clone or something, or—"

"Shepard… You've been away for a long time. I'm no fool. Working with Cerberus—hell. I don't know how they brought you back. Whatever it was, it can't be natural." Anderson shakes his head. "Don't tell me it wasn't you that blew up the Bahak system. You're not going to try to tell me it was an evil twin—"

"I know what I did!" She gets to her feet. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. You've been in the brig half a year, Shepard. Being in solitary confinement… It does a lot to a person. You once said you'd be dead before you joined Cerberus. Hackett asked you to turn yourself in and you refused. You were ready to gun down a squadron of soldiers when they tried to bring you in. War changes a person. This changes a person." He meets her eyes. "Between you and me, I wouldn't go around talking about clones. Or copies. The Council might try to play you for a war criminal. You'll need your wits about you. You go around with talk like that… They'll throw out any testimony you may have. Lock you up and throw away the key. You understand what I'm saying?"

"They can't do this to a Spectre."

"You're not a Spectre anymore. You died. They wiped you from the system. I asked you to come to the Citadel, to meet with me, to meet with the Council. You didn't do that. You're involved with Cerberus, and they're responsible for countless war crimes. I don't know that it's in the cards—"

"I saved them!" She never wanted to be a Spectre. When she got it, it became a weapon. She used it the way she saw fit. It got her out of scrapes and others into them. For a year she's been running around thinking she still had the title, the protection. Carte blanche. She goes pale, a knot in her stomach. "How's that for gratitude?"

"It's not fair," he concedes.

"You've gotta get me out of here."

"Tell me one thing. Why Cerberus?"

"They gave me what I needed to get the job done. They know about the Reaper threat. They're trying to fight it, while everyone else buries their head in the sand. While the Alliance plays politics."

Anderson keeps his hands buried in his pockets. A moment later he knocks on the door. "We're finished in here, James."

There's blood everywhere. Every inch of her throbs. She drools saliva and blood. Her jaw is dislocated. Leave me. Ust leave me. We have to get you out of here. It doesn't matter anymore. Grace tries to bat her away. Mowinth. Mowinth. Yoah not Samawa. Who ahe yoo. Who ahe yoo. Someone else. Same as you. Her vision is collapsing. There is red and shadows everywhere. Movement leaves trails of colors. She's pushed through a doorway. Take care of her. For a moment, Grace doesn't recognize her. She's someone else. She's someone else. Her eyes are no longer blind. They are contemplative and full of regret. She turns her back to her. Don't die, Grace.

Pale sunlight streams in through the window, falling over her eyelids. She wakes. That same dream. Those same memories. Ben is loading up the wood stove. He notices her and comes over, half slipping into the bed and catching her lips. "Morning." His stubble scratches her face.

"You should have woken me."

"After the way you were tossing and turning last night?" He presses another kiss to her cheek and returns to the stove. "I'll start up the bacon if you want to get the eggs." She nods absently, wiping the sleep from her eyes. The wood cabin is cooler than expected this morning, even for Alaska. Ben's wearing his black and red checkered flannel. Grace slips into the jeans tossed haphazardly on the floor, grabs the brown carhart jacket and exits.

A field of sunflowers as far as the eye can see. Fresh, bright grass. In a few months it will go yellow and die away but she'll enjoy it for the time being. Winter is coming. We'll make love, drink hot cocoa and snuggle all winter long. She smiled at that. It's so... simple but she isn't adverse to it. It's been six months since she left Omega. Six months of trying to forget. Once she could walk again she took the first shuttle off the godforsaken asteroid and didn't look back.

She takes the small steps down, hearing her footsteps clunk in the wood. There's so much life on Earth. She has the time now to enjoy it, to stop and smell flowers, to run her fingers over blades of grass, to nestle her toes in the ground. There's a river not far from the cabin and she goes there every now and then. Sometimes Ben comes and they talk, fish, sometimes making love on the grassy banks.

Though the term doesn't sit well with her. She doesn't love Ben. She enjoys being with him. He's a good man. He's handsome. She tells herself it will be different when she can forget. When they first met, he questioned her constantly. His inquiries have ceased more recently. Maybe he saw the discord on her face when he pressed. Where's your family? Do you have any sisters? What did you do before you came to Alaska? Nothing she can answer. Anyone ever tell you you're the spitting image of Commander Shepard?

She pretended it was the first time anyone had said it.

What's the point of looking like me when you're clearly the inferior product?

That's what she is. A product. Something manufactured. Something that can be property. Not anymore. She's put away her things. The Paladin is stuffed at the bottom of a duffle bag, the N7 helmet, her CAT6 armor, her biotic amp boxed beside it. The asari medics removed the amp while operating and she never saw any need to slip it back on. Now she keeps the bag hidden beneath the bed.

She tries not to think of it. The items, like vipers, in the bag. Her past. The longer she's away the easier it is. She dreams of Shepard, of the Collectors. Boogeymen. More often, she dreams of Samara... or Morinth—of Liara, of Hope. Love and resentment flood her.

"Grace!" Daphne, the munchkin next door (a twenty minute walk away) comes barreling over, arms stretched out. Grace isn't sure how old the girl is. Older than you. Six or so, blonde hair braided into pigtails. Grace stoops, picking her up and swinging her around twice before setting her down. "Mom said I could look at the chickens if you were okay with it."

"You're in luck," Grace tussles her hair. "I was just going to grab some eggs. Did you eat? Want to stay for breakfast?" Daphne nods and they walk over together to the chicken coops. "Lead the way." Daphne runs ahead, careful as she opens the door inside. It's warm and the chickens, once afraid of Daphne, come clucking over. Grace uses a bowl to scoop up some chicken feed from the bag, handing it over to Daphne who throws it out to the chicken in arcs.

They go nuts, pecking happily at the dried worms. Grace takes the time to grab a small basket of chicken eggs. She waits, watching Daphne pet the chickens, picking one of the smaller ones up and letting it walk up and down her arm. She looks back. Grace smiles. This life is not exciting, but she thinks this is what happiness feels like. Only her dreams torture her now, her past actions.

It isn't bad being a nobody. No one has any expectations of her, no more than they'd have of anybody, anyway. "You all done?" Daphne nods and they exit together. No more killing. No more people trying to kill her for what she looks like, for what Shepard may have done. No more lies. She can live this way.

There's a small bite to the air but it's early yet. The sun is bright and the blue skies are cloudless. Ben is on the cabin stoop. "I made some coffee!" he looks at Daphne. "And I see you found a little girl. Let's fatten her up and have her for dinner." He picks her up and makes chomping sounds. Daphne screams delightedly.

Grace slaps his face lightly when he sets Daphne down. "I'm glad someone thinks you're funny." She kisses him and smiles. She tells herself she's happy. This is her life. She is choosing this life over what was dictated before. So why does she feel like an imposter?

The nights are quiet. Ben says he wants to get back to 'the way things used to be.' There's no radio or television in the cabin. They spend their days farming the land, tending to their garden; they hunt. Moose, tall and gangly, antlers wider than her outstretched arms, walk the land with their small calves in tow. Ben doesn't believe in guns, they're not fair, he says, but he keeps the bow at his side, a quiver of arrows at his back. He keeps his arm in front of her, wanting to keep her safe. She doesn't know whether she likes that about him.

At night they sit on the front porch and watch the Northern Lights light up the sky in waves of colors, reds, greens, vivid purples. "You ever wonder what's beyond that?" he asks. She shakes her head. Likely he takes it that she doesn't. She already knows what's beyond and doesn't care to find it again.

None of it makes any sense. Why did Hope—Rasa, whoever, lie to her for so long? Why did—Samara? Morinth—. How can she be a copy and have Shepard's memories? Why did that thing that killed her CAT6 squad call her Shepard? Did Hope ever care about her? Hope told her a thing couldn't know how to love. She was wrong. She wishes she wasn't.

"What's the matter?" Ben looks down at her, palm cupping her face. He's inside her. She feels it physically and nothing more. He's still. He doesn't gnash and thrash like the others do. The cabin is warm and his face is lightly sweaty from his exertions.

Grace blinks at him. "What? Why'd you stop?"

"You're a million miles away." He has that hurt look in his eyes again. "What are you thinking about? You're always—" but she flips their positions, pushing him onto his back, moving against him. He tries to continue his line of questioning but eventually the questions fall away. The smell of the wood stove fills the cabin. The wind carries in the scents of wet grass and earth through the crevices in the cabin. Rain patters against the windows.

She places her hands on his chest and wants to close her eyes. She doesn't. She looks at him. When she closes her eyes all she sees is them.

The long stalks of the sunflowers have been rustling for minutes now. Grace only paid them the occasional attention. Instead she's occupied herself with playing fetch with the husky Ben brought back from a rescue shelter an eight hour drive away. A century later and people are still treating these poor dogs like they only exist for the Iditarod. Reckless assholes.

The husky is yet unnamed. He's fairly young and has the brightest blue eyes she's ever seen. She wagers he's smarter than most people she's met. His little tin dog cookie collar says "Max" on it. "That's original," she mutters. "Go long, Max!" she throws the stick a long distance and he sends dirt and grass flying as he chases after it.

There's a sudden rustling from the sunflower fields. Grace's hand drops to her side. There's no holster. There's no gun. A moment later, Daphne bursts from the field, yellow petals in her hair, weaving along the strip of grassy dirt road to show her an airship model. "Grace!" Daphne runs over. "Look what I got, look what I got! Isn't it cool?" she lifts up the model.

Grace thinks of the collection in her cabin, kept in a glass case. Blinks at how startling the memory is before she looks at the little Normandy being shaken at her. Grace reaches out to touch it but takes her hand back. "Yeah, that's great," her voice nearly shakes.

"I got it from John," she says, "His dad bought it at the Citadel. It's so cool!" Grace nods and takes the slobbery stick Max returns to her. She pets his head and throws the stick again. Grace thought Daphne would be happy about the husky but doubts the girl has even noticed him in her excitement. "I traded a week's worth of allowance for it. He just said his dad would get him another one."

"Mh."

"I told John I know Commander Shepard!" she blurts out. Grace stiffens. For a moment she's angry. She has an impulse to take the toy model, throw it to the ground and stomp on it. The heat of the anger is so jarring that she's momentarily dizzy. "And he doesn't believe me. 'Why would Commander Shepard be in Alaska, stupid,' he said. Can I please get a picture with you and the Normandy? Please? PLEASE?"

Grace stares at her. Max returns with the stick but Grace pushes him away. Max whines and sits on his haunches looking up at Grace. "I'm not Shepard," she says sharply. "You shouldn't lie, Daphne. Lies hurt people."

Daphne looks like she's been slapped. Grace relents. Isn't that what she's been doing since she landed on Earth? Lying. It isn't lying. You just haven't told them everything. The same as what Hope did to her. She rubs her forehead and exhales.

"I know, but..." Daphne lowers her head. "We live outside of the stupid village and I don't have any friends. Everyone bullies me. I thought... If I could say that I knew Commander Shepard..."

Grace crosses her arms. Stupid, stupid, child. "Fine," she says irritably. "Just one and quick, okay?" The sadness and disappointment melts away immediately from her face. How easy it must be to be a child. Not that she ever knew. She sees fuzzy memories on a red tricycle, her father pushing her, pumping her little legs over to her mother saying, not now, Janey. She bites her tongue and kneels next to Daphne, who readies her omni-tool.

"Hold this," Daphne commands, giving her the Normandy. She snaps a picture and frowns at it, turning to Grace with vexation. "You look angry. I don't know..." she considers. "I guess Commander Shepard does look like that a lot of the time. Let's try another one, just in case." She snaps the picture. "Now you look sad." Daphne grins brightly in both pictures.

"Sorry."

Daphne takes the Normandy back, holds on to it. "I'm sorry I made you mad." Grace shakes her head. "Do you want this? I'll give it to you if it'll make you feel better."

Grace smiles wryly, pinches her cheek. "Don't worry about it."

"Why are you sad?"

Grace considers the question. "I don't know. Lots of reasons, I guess. But! Have you met Max?" Max gets to his feet and barks. "He loves playing fetch. Here, I'll take the Normandy and you can throw the stick for him, okay?" Daphne nods enthusiastically, handing the Normandy over and throwing the stick, chasing after it with Max. "Hey uh—don't put those pictures up on any social media site, all right?"

She isn't sure that Daphne hears her. Maybe she's ignoring her. Stupid kid. So stop smiling about it.

At night Shepard lies in her cot and stares up at the ceiling and the flickering shadows. She thinks about that thing on Omega. What the hell was it? A clone? What did it want? It was wearing your helmet. What the fuck do you think it wanted? She took Anderson's advice and hasn't mentioned the matter again. She won't. Not yet. That's a conversation she's saving for the Illusive Man, if she ever sees that scheming, chain-smoking bastard again.

For months she's been awaiting trial. So much work for nothing. The Alliance has turned against her for doing what she could to stop the Reapers. More horrifying yet, the Reapers are still out there and no one is doing a goddamned thing about it.

Months of solitary confinement in a square room with a drab grey desk and a cot for furniture. They took the Carnifex and the Eviscerator. They took her armor and the biotic amp. They threw dingy navy blue fatigues at her and told her to wait. She has her omni-tool, but the fabrication module has been deactivated and her access to the extranet is blocked. She can use it to play games and read, neither of which she has much patience for. She spends her time exercising, pacing, sleeping. Sleep only brings anxious dreams of running through a dark forest. She awakes exhausted.

On occasion, she's taken to a privacy chamber where she meets with her counsel, a prim, attractive female lawyer appointed to her by the Alliance. The visits become more frequent as the military tribunal gets its shit together. It's during the sixth visit that the lawyer tells her that no matter what the outcome of the trial, Shepard has a home with Cerberus. A family. The Illusive Man values her service to humanity, even if the Alliance doesn't. Shepard doesn't see it coming, but she takes it in, weighs it, considers the implications. Cerberus has sleeper agents everywhere.

Other than the lawyer, the small, barred window on the door is her only link to the outside world. James Vega, the Neanderthal who cuffed her, is usually on guard duty. Whenever she needs escorting he's the one who takes her. Big guy, tats, a couple of scars. He's obviously seen some action. If she's honest, she likes the look. For the first few months, he watches her curiously, but whenever she tries at conversation with him he keeps his responses clipped and to the point. Jesus, he could use a shave. "Any news on the trial date?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Commander."

He still calls her Commander. That's something. He has some lingering regard for her. Not that she's Alliance anymore. They're calling her a war criminal, a terrorist. She knowingly worked with Cerberus. They sling the accusation left and right, forgetting that if it weren't for Cerberus, she wouldn't even be alive. The Alliance gave her up for dead. Hell, if it weren't for Hackett she wouldn't be in this damned mess to begin with. And the Reapers would already be here. She did the right thing. She'll keep doing the right thing no matter what the cost.

She drops to the floor and does another set of pushups, counting them off between controlled exhalations. She'll stay strong, ready. When she gets out of here—and she will get out, nobody will stand in her way. Not James Vega, not her mother, not the Reapers, not even Anderson. And especially not that thing.

Pale sunlight streams in through the window, falling over her eyelids. She wakes. No dreams. A good night's rest. She doesn't see Ben. She pushes the covers off and dresses. It doesn't take long to start the wood stove. She settles a kettle full of water on top of it, prepping the coffee before stepping outside.

A field of sunflowers as far as the eye can see. Fresh, bright grass. The blue skies go on forever. She searches the skies but doesn't see any of the usual birds.

She takes the wooden steps down slowly. She has learned to take measured steps instead of marching. To experience instead of observing, judging. The door to the greenhouse is open. Max lies in front of it. He spots her and trots over. "Morning," she gives his head a vigorous patting.

"So the dog gets a greeting before I do," Ben exits the greenhouse, a vine of fresh tomatoes in hand. He kisses her. "Turned out good, huh?" She looks at them. They're bright red and unblemished.

She digs a finger into his side. "Well done," she nips his neck gently. "I've got the coffee started."

"And that's why I love you," he kisses her again. She hasn't said the words to him. They've talked about it. She isn't there yet. He's convinced one day she will be. I just need to give you time. One of these days you're going to wake up and realize you're madly in love. Her pale smiles are enough for him. For now. "By the way, Daphne's out in the sunflower field playing with that toy of hers."

The Normandy. Grace nods. "We're low on wood. I'll go cut some if you want to finish up the coffee."

They separate and she goes to the collection Ben has hauled in, bundles of logs, twined in rope, ready to be split. She grabs a bundle from the back of the pickup truck and throws it to the ground beside the massive stump of a tree that no longer is. The ax sits in the bed of the truck as well and she picks it up, the weight now familiar in her hands. It's a tool now. Not a weapon. Though the shift in thought took too long.

Cutting the rope free, she grabs a log and situates it in the middle of the tree stump. One easy swing and the log splits in half. She sets them to the side and repeats the process. The mindless repetition is a balm. It's an easy and welcome respite. If she just focuses on the task at hand, she doesn't have to think of what happened before. Everyone she knows is nestled in the back of her mind. They burrow into her but it's getting easier to ignore. Thwack. Another log split. Beads of sweat begin to form along her brow, cold in the morning.

In the distance, Daphne is playing with the Normandy. Moving in zigzags along the dirt, grass road. Smiling and happy. I showed John the picture. I told him you said that if they bullied me anymore, Commander Shepard will kick their ass! Grace smiled faintly as she told her the story, no matter how the name makes her flinch. She still recalls the blow that dislocated her jaw.

Grace lifts the ax again, ready to split another log when she hears a growl. She looks for Max but doesn't see him. Likely, he's followed Ben into the cabin and is looking for bacon. Letting her arms fall back to her side she wanders away from the truck and to the dirt road in front of the cabin. She hears her breathing and nothing else.

Everything's still. Daphne's sitting on the ground now, bobbing the Normandy along the grass.

Grace watches her until she hears panting and footsteps behind her. She turns. Grey skin, threads of electricity pulsing through it. A soulless howl. For a moment she stands there. She's hallucinating. The skies are darkening too quickly. It's almost on her when she swings the ax, lopping its head off. Hot blood splatters on her. She moved by instinct. She takes a step back, is grabbed, yowling, bites, teeth sink into her shoulder.

With a grunt, she throws them off of her, instinct makes her shoot a hand out. The husk stumbles back a few feet but without her biotic amp there's nothing to stop it from coming after her again. With a sharp breath she lashes out the ax, burying into the husk, severing its arm. Another swing and the head comes off. "Ben!" she screams.

She hears him, panicked and rushing out. The husk that grabbed her from behind is on her again. An elbow to the face and she knocks him off, onto its back. Once on the ground she stomps on his head. Crack, squish. This is all too familiar. Too normal. Comfortable. Despite the thick smell of blood in the air, sweat, she feels refreshed and startlingly alive.

Ben stares at her, horrified.

"Get Daphne," she says to him. They look to Daphne. She's stopped playing with the toy, her attention gone up. The breath goes out of Grace's lungs.

"What the hell is that?" Ben asks. She's never heard him sound like this, choked and panicked, terrified. "Oh, God. How many are there?"

Grace thinks she says her name but she's only breathed it. They're dotting the skies. Locusts. Grace runs towards Daphne. She isn't sure that she's ever run faster. The red beam shoots from the Reaper, sending up a cascade of dirt and rock. Sunflowers scatter through the air. "Daphne!" She heaves in air, choking on dirt and comes through the rubble. Reapers. The Reapers are here. Where the hell is Shepard? Why the hell isn't Shepard taking care of this?

She searches for Daphne but can't find her. The other Reapers have lighted and are walking the land like insects. A small arm dangles from the sunflower field. Grace sprints, kneels, finds her face down. She turns her over. Her eyes are wide open, her face streaked with dirt. Sunflower petals all over her. Grace is frozen. She touches her face. "Daphne?" her voice a broken whisper. She taps her face, stoops to listen to her heart. Nothing.

More howls. The sunflower stalks are shaking violently. "I'm sorry," Grace says, leaves her, runs.

No sign of Ben. She calls his name out, runs into the cabin, flips the bed onto its side, takes out the duffle bag. Quick, quick, quick. She's had to do this in under a minute before. Her hands shake as she snaps into the CAT6 armor, clicks the holster into place, checks the Paladin, inserts the biotic amp into the back of her neck. She carries the helmet in hand and exits.

Ben is there, a shotgun primed into the field. Max barks violently next to him. He looks at her. He looks wounded. Betrayed. "Who are you?" he asks. "Are you Commander Shepard?"

There's no time to answer. A horde of... what are those things? Stinking like raw meat, they come surging forward in a wave. She sends them flying back with a biotic push but more come. The Reapers are stalking forward, their footsteps creating earthquakes. She lodges bullets into the husks and the other things, dropping them one by one. There are too many.

"Ben, we have to go."

He fires a shotgun blast, staggering one of the monsters. Was it a batarian...? "I'm not leaving. This is my home."

"Don't be stupid, those things are everywhere! You're not going to have a home!"

"Why should I listen to you? How long have you been lying to me?"

"I haven't lied." Not really. Not entirely. He turns frantically, firing off another shot that only slows the husk before it hurries forward again. "Daphne's dead. The Reapers are here. Let's go!" The Reapers are firing off red beams across the land. Fires are burning, pillars of black smoke filling the skies. Everything was quiet before. Peaceful before. It was only minutes ago. "I don't have time for this," she grabs his arm, begins to shove him towards the truck. He fights back, his shotgun slamming into her jaw. It's enough to loosen her grip, enough for him to get free and run, enough for the batarian things to lunge and grab him.

He yells. His shotgun falls from his hands. They dig into him, pulling off pieces of him with their teeth. It happens so fast. His bloodcurdling screams make her blood run cold. She lifts the Paladin, lines up the shot and he goes quiet. The cannibals continue eating. Grace grabs his shotgun and goes to the truck, Max hot on her heels, jumping into the passenger seat, the way he's always done. She slams the N7 helmet onto her head. The air goes out of her lungs again. Endless black and stars. The sun burning in the distance. The air pulled out of her lungs. She blinks, shot back to the present.

She turns the key in the ignition and looks back. They're everywhere. It's over. It's all over. She turns to the front and slams on the gas.

She's running through the forest again, shapes like shifting shadows all around her, whispering to her. What are they saying? She can't make out the words, but they feel like accusations. There's someone she's chasing. She isn't sure who it is at first, but then she knows. It's her. That thing. She feels as though she's running in quicksand, but she'll catch her. This time she'll finish her.

She comes to a clearing. She is there. She turns to Shepard, a look of profound sadness on her face. She places a gun to her head and pulls the trigger. She falls away. Red light washes over Shepard and a blast of sound reverberates through her, deep and unforgiving, shaking her to the very core.

She bolts upright in her cot, awakening to a new nightmare. The power has gone out, leaving only the emergency lighting in the hallway. Sprinklers go off, dousing the floors and walls. Smoke wafts in through the barred window in the door. The floor shakes with tremors, as if from an earthquake. In the distance, she can hear yelling, screaming, crashing. Doubt suddenly fills her. Is she truly awake? Is this real? She closes her eyes for a moment, bites her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Yes. It's real. Fuck. She stands and moves to the door. "Vega! You have to let me out of here!"

She hears it again, the blast of a Reaper horn. A moment later, there's another, further away. Goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it, they're fucking here. She warned these assholes. She wraps her hands around the bars in the window of her door and peers out. "Vega?" There's nobody there. He's gone. That fucking meathead left her here to die? No way. No fucking way is she going out like this. She will not die in a goddamn box, like some rat caught in a trap.

The door is metal, heavy. Sturdy enough to deter a krogan. She has no weapon, no explosives. Even her bio-amp has been taken. But that doesn't mean she's helpless. She still has her biotics. Stronger than any human, shy of Jack. And that thing, if she can even be considered human. The amp magnifies and focuses her powers, but it isn't strictly necessary for the simple application of force. Yes, she still has her biotics, and she still has her gifts from Cerberus. The Alliance couldn't take them away. They're a part of her. They make her strong. Strong enough to take down a fucking door if need be.

She quickly dresses and laces up her boots. One thing about the Alliance. Good, sturdy boots. Even the prisoners are entitled to them. She stands and positions herself in front of the door. She takes two steps forward and drives her right heel forcefully into the door, next to the lock. The door rattles in its frame, but doesn't give. Damn it. She repositions herself and kicks again, this time clenching biotic energy and channeling it through her leg. The door shudders and groans. She smiles grimly, now confident that the door will give before she does.

Again and again, she kicks the door until it finally buckles outward and tears loose from the frame with the screech of fatigued metal. She steps over the twisted metal and into the hallway. Her leg is nearly numb. She needs a moment. What the fuck is she going to do next? How is she going to fight those things? She needs armor, a weapon. Where is the armory? Which direction? Think. Think!

"Dios mio!" The meathead has returned. He stares at the collapsed door, then at Shepard. "You did that?" She glares up at him as he shakes his head in amazement. "Remind me never to piss you off."

"You came back," she states flatly.

"Yeah." He tosses her the bag he carries. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

She opens the bag. Her N7 armor and bio-amp. She quickly pulls it all out and dons it while James scans the hallway. She stands. She feels like a soldier again. Well, almost. James tosses her an M-22 Eviscerator and a grenade belt. That's better. She grins as she clips the belt on. "I have to admit, Vega. You know how to treat a girl."

"Shit, Lola, you're gonna make me blush." Lola? But he's already moving away, down the hall. "Vámanos, Commander. We've got a bird to catch."