They take refuge on Watson, where the long days are made interminable by the horrifying reality of the war. Hope follows the coverage on ANN, like everyone else, trying to grasp the magnitude of what's transpiring. Earth is under siege. The Alliance is on its heels. The Hegemony is in tatters. The batarians were all but wiped out before anyone even realized what was happening. Even the mighty turians seem unable to stop the inexorable advance of the Reapers. Soon Palaven will be feeling the same heat as Earth.

It's nothing short of the goddamn apocalypse. She failed. She was supposed to stop this.

Grace was supposed to stop this.

Hope fights the numbness that threatens to engulf her. It may be welcoming, but it's no friend. Much better to embrace the fear and the anger. They at least can be productive if managed, given focus. She's never given up, never allowed herself to become the victim. Not when she was a child slaving away in those mines. Not when Kai Leng thrashed her on Bekenstein. She won't start now.

It's been four days since she received the notification on her omni-tool—the one she'd been waiting for. The search program she designed to continuously dig through the detritus of the extranet finally struck gold. A picture that didn't belong. Not just one of the countless stock photos of Shepard that proliferated the extranet. Not even the false alarm of some new candid snapped by one of the vultures circling Shepard's impending trial. Hope's heart nearly leapt to her throat when she saw it. An image of her. A frown on her face, a toy Normandy held aloft in one hand, a field of sunflowers stretching away in the background. The caption read My friend Daphne knows Commander Shepard. Guess I better watch what I say around her from now on!

Barely able to quell her excitement, she quickly traced the image to a social media page belonging to a boy in Alaska. She ran software to exhaustively analyze the image for any sign of fabrication. It came up clean. If it's a fake, it's an exceptional one. But what would be the point? It's Grace. It took her six months, but she finally found her.

She immediately started packing and making travel arrangements. Less than two hours later, the Reapers hit Earth.

She was too late.

Hope rolls over and looks at the clock. It's 3 am. Time to go. Not to Earth. Not yet. But she won't stay here. She won't keep running, hiding. She pushes the covers back and slips out of the small cot. She dresses, pausing for a moment to run her fingers over the cross-pattern of scar tissue on her right shoulder. The shoulder still aches from time to time. It's stiff, weak. She can no longer hold a sniper rifle steady. She uses the Wraith when enemies get too close.

She quietly gathers her things. Miranda and Oriana are in the other room. All the lights are off. She only needs six hours of sleep most nights. The wonder twins need significantly less. It irritates her how many waking hours they have to spend together. For six months they've stayed together, moving from system to system, evading Cerberus assassins. Sometimes they go on the offensive. Miranda somehow came into possession of a sizable cache of Cerberus data. They infiltrate Cerberus substations, gathering intel, stealing, sabotaging.

Cerberus has been busy. Somehow they ousted Aria T'Loak and took over Omega. They've ramped up their recruitment efforts and increased production across the board. Project Phoenix continues to churn out specialized forces at an accelerating pace. Dragoons, nemeses, phantoms, the list goes on. As Hope feared, the Illusive Man has started implementing Henry Lawson's 'improvements' among his low-level troops. They've seen the evidence in the faces of those they've been forced to kill.

Miranda is an icy bitch, but she knows the ins and outs of Cerberus as well as Hope does—even if previously she was naïve. She's good in a fight, and she's smart. They've saved each other more than once. They're an effective team. Even Oriana has stopped mewling and whining and started carrying her weight. Miranda's first thought was to stash her away somewhere 'safe', as if the word had any meaning, but Oriana wouldn't have it. So Miranda outfitted her with a bio-amp and began training her. If you're going to stick around, you better make yourself useful. Hope helps with the weapons training.

Even with Grace gone, Hope can't seem to escape the company of clones. It amuses her, as much as anything does these days. Miranda told Oriana the truth about their father, about themselves, the very night Grace ran off with the justicar. Oriana took it hard at first but in the end they grew closer. They bonded.

Hope wishes it could have been that easy with Grace, but her truth is not the same as theirs. Miranda and Oriana share a face. They're clones. They have the same DNA, but they aren't copies. They're unique individuals, with childhoods and life experiences that were earned, not imprinted. Their father created them to be his legacy, the pinnacle of human perfection. Grace was created for spare parts. Their truth comes with its own set of pressures, but it's not the same.

It's just not the same.

Hope gave Grace a life. She gave her a purpose. It's better than what would have become of her if she had left her in that lab. She couldn't tell her the truth. The truth was impossible, untellable.

She should have told her.

She misses her. She can no longer fool herself into thinking otherwise. She lies in bed at night, fighting tears, cursing her weakness. How did this happen? How did this get turned around on her? She has to get her back. For the sake of the galaxy, if not her own.

It won't be easy. Just getting to Earth will be incredibly dangerous. And she's unlikely to find her hiding out in some sunflower field in Alaska. Who knows where she's gone? Or if she's even still alive. The thought makes her stomach drop. She's alive. She has to be.

She needs more to go on. She can't just roam the countryside, calling out Grace's name while Reapers busily go about harvesting the human race. She'll only have one shot at this. She needs to make it count. She'll continue monitoring every scrap of news that makes it off Earth. Somehow Grace will give her a sign. In the meantime, she has to know what happened to her after she left. She needs to understand. She'll find the justicar. Samara will tell her what she needs to know.

Everything she needs is packed. She takes the bags and sneaks past the other bedroom, making her way to the door. She makes no sound. She's a master of stealth. They won't realize she's gone until…

"You're leaving?" A whisper behind her. Oriana. Shit. She was hoping to avoid this.

Hope turns to her. She whispers back. "Yes."

Oriana stands in the moonlight that streams through a window. "Miri said it wouldn't be long. You're going to look for Grace, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That's good," she nods. "Miri has her doubts, but I don't. Grace is important. We're going to need her." She step forward and extends a hand. "Good luck."

Hope takes the hand and gives it a pump. "Thanks. You two… take care of each other." Ori gives a slight smile at that. Hope releases her hand and turns to the door.

"One more thing." Hope freezes. "When you find her, tell her… Tell her I'm sorry."

Hope nods, then opens the door and disappears into the night.

The Reapers have a dragon. Grace isn't sure what else to call it. There was an ungodly howl from above, followed by the flapping of massive wings. She looked up and caught a glimpse of it through the canopy—an enormous creature with wings and a wormlike neck. It flew over her, moving toward the same sounds of a pitched battle that had drawn her into the woods.

A fucking dragon.

That's just great. As if hordes of loping zombies and flesh-eating batarian things with cannons for arms weren't enough to deal with. Never mind the skyscraper-sized cuttlefish with death rays that slice through everything. Now there's dragons too?

She thinks back to that first day, when she fled Ben's farmstead. It seems like a lifetime ago. By dusk, she came upon Whitehorse. The orange glow of the burning city illuminated the darkening sky. One of those massive cuttlefish things stalked the smoke and shadows. A towering nightmare given form, realized in fire and death, at once primordial and incomprehensible. How do you fight something like that?

Bring on the dragon. She can fight a dragon.

She wades through the woods, hacking through the worst of the underbrush with her omni-blade, ignoring the aching in her feet. When she got to Quesnel and found the bridges destroyed, she was forced to abandon the truck. She managed to find a small boat and get across the river, but she's been on foot ever since. That was three weeks ago.

Max follows her skittishly up a steep hill, growling at the air. The sounds of battle clarify themselves into a dialogue. The ratatat chatter of automatic weapons, the thunderous declarations of artillery fire, the jarring interjections of Reaper weaponry. Among the cacophony, a new, repeating pattern emerges: Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Several seconds go by, then... Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! What the hell?

She's witnessed farmers and ranchers wielding shotguns and hunting rifles, making suicidal last stands against the alien invaders. She's encountered hardscrabble civilian militia groups gathering in the hills—most recently when she skirted around the suburbs of Prince George. She knows, without having to see, that this is neither of those things. This is a genuine military engagement.

She's close now. The trees have thinned, the woods abating. She pauses for a moment to open her last ration. It isn't an indulgence. She hasn't eaten in two days. She's going to need the energy. She tears off a chunk of the protein bar with her teeth and chews perfunctorily before swallowing. It doesn't taste awful. She must be even hungrier than she realized.

She takes another bite as she crests the hill and finds herself on a ridge overlooking a huge clearing. A battle rages over a military camp. Slipping her helmet off, she drops to her belly and pulls out the pair of binoculars she found in Ben's glove box. Putting them to her face, she surveys the situation. Alliance soldiers dug in behind barricades. Corpses, both human and Reaper. Overturned military vehicles and the smoking wreckage of a downed gunship. Dozens of Reaper troops, including a few turian-looking things she's never seen before.

And a fucking dragon.

She figures the soldiers must have been holding their own before, but they're in trouble now. The worm-necked creature has perched itself on a wall and begun bombarding the soldiers with explosive artillery blasts. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! They spew from the twin cannons that jut from its maw. She studies the creature for a few seconds, its appearance verging on familiarity, until recognition emerges from that place where things she didn't know she knew reside. Harvester. It used to be a Harvester. The Reapers husked it, entwining machinery with flesh to create something soulless and obedient. The knowledge is chilling but unimportant.

What's important is that it's exerting constant pressure on the soldiers with those fireballs. Their barricades won't last, and it's making it all the more difficult for them to defend against the more mundane enemies. One of the soldiers mistimes his movements, picking the wrong moment to reveal himself and fire a shot at a husk climbing up the barricade. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He pays the price as one of the blasts turns his face to ash and his eyes to jelly.

When she came to Earth, found Ben, settled down, she hoped she was done fighting—that she could just be Grace Morgan. Live a quiet, peaceful life. Hope always insisted she was the real Shepard. Part of Grace wanted to believe that, even after everything. Shepard pounded that delusion out of her on Omega. Hope was wrong. Grace is no Shepard. But that doesn't mean she has to lie down and let these grotesque fucks murder the world.

Ben's truck had a radio. In those early days, she cycled through the dial as she drove, picking up whatever news she could. Arcturus station was destroyed. The Reapers were expanding into multiple systems, overwhelming all resistance. None of the news was good. Then the radio stations started dropping off the air, one by one, mile by mile, until there was nothing but static across the spectrum of the dial.

The truth is that Earth is alone. No help is coming. They have to get themselves out of this mess.

Two thousand miles. That's how far she's come, just to throw herself into the fray. She's about a day's walk from Vancouver, capitol city of the United North American States. She knew that if she came this way, she'd find organized military. Alliance soldiers, working together, with weapons, armor, ships. She could make herself a meaningful part of the resistance.

Here it is. Here's her chance. Her task is clear. She stands, puts her helmet on, checks her gun. Fresh thermal clip. Check. Only two left. It'll have to do. She turns to Max, tosses him the rest of the protein bar. He sniffs at it. "Stay here, Boy." He cocks his head and whines. She turns and jumps from the ridge.

Time to go slay a dragon.

The Reaper forces lie dead, bloody, mangled, burned. There's an enormous patch of scorched earth where the Harvester exploded. Once the worm-neck realized it was flanked, it tried to fly away and reposition itself. Grace didn't give it any relief, sprinting from cover to cover, ducking behind walls and overturned vehicles, staying in tune with its patterned cannon bursts as she launched attacks of her own.

It took the pressure off the soldiers, who knew exactly what to do. They focused their fire on the ground forces, keeping Grace covered. After a handful of biotic explosions and a spent thermal clip, the Harvester blew. From there, the battle was over quickly. She wasn't expecting the explosion, though. Lesson learned. She files it away for future reference. Luckily, neither she nor any of the soldiers were caught in the blast.

Afterward, exuberant soldiers shake her hand and clap her on the back. She's exhausted, spent, barely standing, but she offers up firm handshakes and weak smiles. She keeps her helmet on throughout it all. She's too tired to answer that question right now. After a while, Max emerges from where he was hiding and trots up to her, licking her hand.

"You with the Seventh?" one of the soldiers asks her. The seventh? Seventh what? "We radioed them for help. Didn't think anyone would get here in time, though."

"We got here as fast as we could, Corporal." A deep voice, behind her. It tickles something in her memory.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

The corporal snaps to attention and salutes. "Admiral Anderson!" Grace half-turns, then stops awkwardly, unsure what to do. Should she salute? Should she run? Her heart races out of control. She stands, frozen, unbidden memories flooding her mind. She remembers him as Captain Anderson. He selected her to be his XO when he was given command of the Normandy. He was someone she looked up to.

Anderson steps up to them, waving off the salute. "At ease, Corporal. Why don't you give me a moment with the soldier who stole my thunder?"

"Yes, sir." The corporal scurries away.

Anderson turns his attention to her. Get your shit together! She stands smartly, facing him. He's tall. Older than she remembers. He looks her up and down, appraising her, eyes lingering momentarily on her helmet. He settles on her dirt-covered face, peering at her through her visor. He extends his hand. "What's your name, Soldier?"

She takes the hand. His grip is like iron. So much for being old. "Morgan, sir. Grace Morgan."

"Morgan." He says it like he's trying it out, then releases her hand. "I understand this squadron has you to thank for their lives." He motions to them, mingling with his own squad, working together to tend to the injured and remove the dead.

She shakes her head. "I just did what any good soldier would do, sir."

Max sits on his haunches, looking up at Anderson, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Anderson chuckles, stooping to scratch Max behind the ears. "Solo a Harvester with biotics and a pistol? I can assure you, Morgan, that takes an exceptional soldier."

She shrugs. "I was glad to help."

He nods. "Who are you with? You get separated from your unit?"

She shakes her head. "I've been separated for a while, Cap… Admiral, sir," she stumbles. Fuck.

He narrows his eyes, studying her face again. "That so?" He pauses. "May I ask where you got that helmet?"

Kaidan Alenko gave it to me after we investigated the crash site of the SR-1. You remember him, don't you? He was our head of the marine detail. "N7 Academy, sir. Where else?"

"What year?"

"Twenty one eighty."

"Huh." He furrows his brow. "Mind if I inspect it?"

Shit. Fuck. Shit. "Right now?"

He looks around. "I think it's all right, Morgan. I don't see any hostiles about."

She hesitates, takes a deep breath, reaches up. He watches intently as she pulls off the helmet.

There's a beat as he stares at her face. She hands the helmet to him. He stares a moment longer, then takes it. He turns it over in his hands, thoroughly examining it. He hands it back to her. "You really ought to take better care of your equipment, Morgan. This helmet looks like it was rescued from an incinerator."

"Yes, sir."

He nods towards the troops. "Now, why don't you come meet your new unit?"

He's beginning to think he hates this old bird. When he first met Shepard he was antsy for adventure. He'd had enough red tape to last a lifetime. Her 'let's give them hell' attitude excited him. Here was someone else who got it. Shepard knew that sometimes you have to cut through the bureaucratic bullshit and act.

When the Normandy blew up, taking her with it, some part of him thought he was taking up the mantle on Omega. His best friend may be gone but wherever the hell she was, he liked to think she'd be proud—taking out the scumbags who thought they were above the law. The day he saw her rushing up that bridge was one of the happiest of his life.

That was a lifetime ago. Now he's back on the ship. Turians don't believe in ghosts, too practical for that. The Normandy may have top of the line R&D but it can't replace all that was lost. Not only his men on Omega but Donnelly, Daniels, Grunt, Thane, Jacob, Chakwas, ... Hell, it's too depressing to go through all the names. He hasn't been able to bring himself to set foot in Engineering. He doesn't want to see what top of the line core they've put in place make it seem like Tali was never there at all.

He's had enough of death and now he's walking into the Reaper War.

Now Primarch Victus is onboard. Kaidan's at Huerta Memorial and EDI is joyriding the body that put him there. Somehow, all that seems perfectly believable in comparison to seeing Shepard again on Menae. Despite the raging fires, the sweat, the constant battle, when he saw her on that moon his stomach knotted, his blood running cold. Shepard. Things must be desperate if they've sent you, he said. Shepard gritted her jaw. Liara stood still, observing.

The good news is—what's that old human proverb? About a pile of shit and finding a pony? Dr. Michel is onboard. Always liked her—good head on her shoulders, does what's right, even when thugs like Fist's men try to shake her down. She even helped Tali out long ago. He wants to catch up with her but he can't right now.

He settles into the battery, nearly throwing the Krysae sniper rifle and Phaeston down on the work bench. What the hell is he doing? He shouldn't be on this ship but Victus insisted. You know Shepard, and I could use someone I trust.

Huh. What the hell is trust anymore? He does some rummaging in the battery and discovers his old toolkit. He pops the red toolbox open and takes out the instruments, laying them out in a spread like a torturer's arsenal. Time for calibrations. He suspects he'll be doing plenty of those.

When the door to the battery opens he keeps his attention on the tools before finally picking up the wrench. If Shepard's looking to get friendly, she has another thing coming. He still can't stand the sight of her and if not for James and his constant commentary on Menae, he isn't sure how they would have gotten through the mission to find Victus.

Garrus turns, slapping the wrench into his hand. Stops. Liara. She looks around the room, her eyes cool and studious. "I'm planning on really tricking this place out," he tells her, "maybe some curtains. Definitely more guns."

Liara smiles faintly. "I'm glad there are some things that don't change," she moves into the room and to the tools on the table. "Planning calibrations?"

"That joke never gets old, does it?" It's a way to blow off steam. He doesn't have a spar partner and he doesn't have a girl. Tightening every nut and bolt into place is reassuring. As if that alone will hold everything together. It will have to do. "I like for my wrench and I to calibrate in private." He winces. Ah. That could have been worded differently. "What's going on? Haven't seen you in years. And don't tell me those few minutes on Illium, watching you suck face with Shepard counts." Liara could do better.

"I suppose it doesn't." She regards him. "Things between the two of you seem... strained."

"I'm not a hard guy to please, Liara. I expect one thing: competence. Not too much to ask around these parts. It wasn't before." He shakes his head. "I wondered why you didn't join us on the suicide mission. It hurt Shepard. But I'm glad you didn't come. I'd hate for you to be another name on the Memorial Wall."

Liara's lips thin. "Was it that bad?"

"You must know given your...resources." The Shadow Broker. Liara. He never would have called it. That sweet and introverted girl who joined the Normandy the first time is long gone. Every piece of her has been replaced by a numbing chilliness. She's colder, even, then when he met her on Illium. "Look, I wouldn't be here unless Victus had insisted. Shepard saved a lot of men on Menae but now that she's gone we'll go back to losing four hundred men every half hour."

"You don't think we can win?"

"If you'd asked me two years ago—I would have said we can take anything. But Shepard, she's..." Garrus frowns. "I'm not sure who she is. Before we met today, the last time we interacted was when I threw her into her fish tank and she pulled a gun on me. This wasn't exactly a happy reunion."

"I got that," she says quietly.

"Hell, maybe I'm being too hard on her. I lost my squad on Omega and she doesn't fault me for that. It was a suicide mission for a reason. There's something though. I can't put my finger on it. She's changed." He sighs.

"It's possible you idolized her too much. In the beginning you had ... I'm not sure how to put it. A sense of hero worship with her."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel it too."

"She died." Her eyes only skirt over his. "Death changes a person." Liara sounds rehearsed, as if it's a line she's said long enough to finally begin believing it herself.

"Fine. Make me feel crazy. Did you visit her, on Earth?"

"No. I was..." She touches the tools on the workshop table. "Busy." Garrus grunts. "You've never struck me as the sort to take orders against your better judgment. Even from a primarch. Things have changed between you and Shepard. It must feel lonely." Her voice is absent. "Why are you here? Why, if you question her?"

"I'm hoping I'm wrong." But he doesn't think he is. He's always considered himself to be a good judge of character. He doesn't know anymore. To doubt her. Shepard. It seems impossible. "But if I'm not—you know as well as I do that we're the best shot at stopping this thing. The Normandy, your network, this Crucible thing—whatever it is. I can't sit this war out. Whenever there's trouble, Shepard's in the thick of it." A beat. He turns her earlier question back on her. "Do you believe we can win this?"

Her smile is saturated in sadness. He sees the sadness more than that smile. "I don't know."

Exhausted soldiers are cloistered around burning barrels of trash, trying to beat back the chill of the night. Those things are out there. Anderson walks the FOB, searching the perimeter for any weak spots. Men and women are up on a ramshackle bridge, peering into the darkness. Bullets fire in the distance. He hardly hears it anymore.

Shepard warned them about the Reapers. No one wanted to listen. I told you so rings hollow on the graves of millions. The survivors are coming apart. They won't leave their loved ones who have been killed. They sit and stare, catatonic.

They couldn't have anticipated this. As hard as he tries, he can't think of anything they could have done to prepare. There's no preparing for something like this. The Reapers are crippling any defense they attempt to enact. Soldiers whimper in the night, crying for their mothers, dying without medication. Everything's gone to hell.

He narrows his eyes on the figure in the distance. Wrecked cars have been stacked in a crude barricade near a section of buildings that once dotted the skyline. Now they're artifacts of what once was. Grace Morgan stands there, looking into the black. Her eyes constantly search. The husky, Max, sits at her feet. N7 helmet. CAT6 armor. It's a hell of a thing.

Anderson, listen to me. There's someone out there. Someone who looks like me. That must be who Kaidan saw.

He thought Shepard was losing it. Dying. Coming back. Being locked up in solitary. Son of a bitch. She was right. He shouldn't have doubted her.

A cold gust of wind chases dirt and tattered newspapers along the base. Anderson moves to the woman, his uneasiness growing. The soldiers like her. She's a demon on the battlefield. He's never seen another soldier like that before. No one except for Shepard. "Morgan." She turns her head slowly to face him, reservation lining her features. He's no fool. Beneath the mud and dirt he sees her. The exact same face, the same build, the same voice.

"Admiral."

It's her. It has to be her. But it isn't. She says she's Grace Morgan. I just have one of those faces. Bullshit. Trouble is, lines are down everywhere. It's impossible to verify anything she says. What little power and resources they have can't be wasted on this. So the woman's a liar. But she's helped them, time and time again to beat the Reaper forces back. Hell, that's got to stand for something. "You were in the N7 program and CAT6. That's impressive."

She shuffles where she stands, even as she holds his gaze. She switches the helmet to her other hand. "Nothing compared to this."

"N7 and CAT6—those two don't mix. N7 is for the best of the best. CAT6 is run by sociopaths who couldn't hack it in the Alliance, dishonorably discharged. Criminals, murderers. Which are you?"

She stares at him. He sees her retreating within. "Don't see how it matters in times like this."

"What was your squad name?"

Grace scoffs. "Razor. Spear. None of your damned business. I'm here now."

She is. And despite his doubt, he's glad she is. "Yeah, we're damned lucky to have you."

A flicker of a smile touches her lips. He's seen Shepard smile like that before. Her smiles were always like that—small—guarded. There's a strange quivering in his heart. This is dangerous. Shepard—he's known her for a damned long time. He followed and guided her career. He never met anyone like her. Never had a daughter—he supposes… she came closest to what he might have wanted. Some part of her always looked at him that way too. Her childhood was troubled. She lost her father young.

"Huh. I doubt we'd be able to keep this base if not for you." She looks to the stars. "This base. Earth. We're not going to lose it."

That strikes too close. He steps into her, a fist balled. "Who the hell are you?" he menaces. Her hazel eyes are steady, meeting his eyes, falling away. She steps back. He grabs her arm. "You look like Shepard. You talk like Shepard."

"I'm. Not. Shepard." Her voice is as dangerous as Shepard's.

Max gets to his feet and walks around Anderson, wagging his tail. Anderson ignores the dog but reminds himself to bring him some of the dog biscuits he found earlier. Can't stand the sight of dogs going hungry. "Yeah? You could have fooled me." He shakes his head. Her eyes are inscrutable. Shepard was always like that. A bit of a wild card, a viper, until she strikes. You had to dig at her to get her to bite. "Eden Prime. Virmire." A flash in her eyes, as if a knife in her side, and she backs off. "Walking away, soldier?" What the hell is she? "You walk away, you can keep walking, leave this camp."

She stops and looks at him. "Your men need me. They need us. You won't let me walk away. You're a better man than that, Admiral." She whistles and turns. "Here, Max."

Max whines, licks Anderson's hand and follows after her. Goddamn it. Whatever that thing is—she is—she's right. They need her. He can't let her walk away. He'll work with her. For now.

Miranda's eyes snap open not two hours after she's gone to sleep. The ceiling fan spins lazily, wobbling and making a clacking noise. She throws the thin blanket off and swings her legs to the side, her feet touching the dirty floor. The tanktop sticks to her. She pulls at it. Her skin and the cloth are warm to the touch. She stands, goes to the window blinds and stares out. The suns are like magma. The sky is similarly orange. She wipes at her neck, slick with sweat and glances to Oriana, asleep on her side on the thin mattress.

Oriana's gotten tough but thin. Her eyes are darkening, losing their spark. She's seen too much, too fast, experienced things she shouldn't have. Miranda joined Cerberus to prevent this. She left Cerberus to prevent this. She has to get Oriana out of this life. Somewhere safe, where she'll be protected. But where?

Her omni-tool lights up. Miranda leaves the tiny bedroom to the living room where the rickety furniture is located. She sits, the plastic wrap of the couch uncomfortable against her bare legs. She fires up the omni-tool. Another email from Liara. They've been in touch for months now. Liara sends information her way. Miranda tells her what she's seeing. It's a partnership united against Cerberus. Shepard doesn't know—which is… curious.

Specialist Traynor has uncovered some concerning transmissions she thinks may be tied to Cerberus. She suspects they may be headed to Grissom Academy. Shepard is… uninterested in pursuing the matter. Do you have any idea what Cerberus could want there?

Grissom? The Alliance school for biotics. Jack is there. Miranda pushes damp hair back from her face. So. The young specialist is using her talents to usurp Cerberus. Last year, she would have taken issue with her. The woman's clever, to say the least. Miranda thinks of her briefly, her unreturned emails. Traynor eventually gave up. It's for the best. They both have urgent matters to attend to. If Shepard's last run was any indication, she's likely already bedded the woman.

Miranda stands, irritated. Shepard needs to be focused. If Cerberus is going to Grissom… it must be related to the Phantom project. Young, powerful biotics would make for a considerable boon. Unfortunately… she's seen what Cerberus has been doing to its soldiers. Rigged up like time bombs. Their strength is beyond the norm. Her father's enhancements have been used to beef up the troops. Bastard.

She can't risk Oriana. She won't. No doubt Illusive Man has made promises to her father. She won't walk into their trap. Oriana is safe for now but for how much longer? It's easier to slip by undetected on her own but she can't say that Rasa's keen eye won't be missed. She's a hell of a sniper—or was, if the grimace on her face when she lifted the M-97 Viper was any indication. She swore softly under her breath. That arm of hers never healed properly. By the end Rasa was relying just as much on the Wraith. Dead is dead, she would say.

It's funny, how two Cerberus loyalists were so very good at stopping – and evading when necessary – the organization they once revered. Now Rasa is gone. Off to find Grace. She must have found her by now. That woman… Shepard's face… her eyes—well. Miranda never knew her the first time. The last time she saw Grace—she had that same anger that fills Shepard. Strange. She's only meant to be a copy. Rasa is optimistic. Still… if not for the clone, would she have Oriana?

Grace can fight. That's something. She lifts the omni-tool, the holographic keyboard spilling out. She types a quick response.

I believe I know what they want. I'll forward it to a colleague. She has a friend—they might be able to do something.

If she gets it in time. If they get to Grissom before it's too late. She picks the Predator off the coffee table and sits. And waits. Liara needs help. Maybe Grissom and Jack need help. But it can't be her. She sends the information to Rasa. Whatever Rasa thinks of Liara—she'll act if she has a conscience. She'll act when you won't? It's different. Rasa has no one. Nothing to lose. Only ambition. If Rasa and the clone fail then…

At least they'll still have Shepard.

It's the first time she visits him since he landed himself in Huerta Memorial. Garrus and Liara keep asking about it, keep getting that look on their faces when she tells them she hasn't seen him yet.

The Reaper War is bigger than Kaidan. Everyone is focused on appearances. So she visits him. He's alive. Which she already knew. He no longer looks like something she's just kicked the shit out of. That's… good.

If he takes the Spectre appointment then likely he'll be on his own, away from her, away from her ship. Kaidan's got a stick up his ass. He's all about brass, conduct, regulations. And if it wasn't for Eva Coré he'd still be charged with the Normandy. If not for Eva, he might have kicked her off her goddamn ship.

Huh. Didn't think you'd be stopping by to see me, Shepard.

Shepard. Not 'Commander'. She wasn't officially reinstated until his ass was knocked out cold. Hackett gave her the title, like a handout, after they dragged Kaidan to the Citadel. The anger rises.

She buries her hands in her pockets and moves. She has to stay calm. It's hard to stay calm. She gives everything and gets nothing but mistrust. The Collector mission could have gone better but she got the job done. She saved colonists. She stopped the Reapers. And for what? To be questioned at every turn?

They refuse to reinstate her but Kaidan gets an offer. Are they trying to replace her? With him? They can try. She doesn't trust him.

Kaidan's aloof. His words guarded. She's glad he's okay. He wanted her advice on being a Spectre. She doesn't think he's got what it takes. Too by the book. Too sensitive. The responsibility would cripple him. Leading around a few biotic brats isn't enough to qualify him.

They're trying to replace you. All of them.

The thought curdles in her head. She takes the Citadel transit to the embassies. She moves to the Spectre offices but her palm print doesn't pick up. The liquid display is cold and unresponsive against her hand.

Spectre authorization needed.

Fuck the Council. Fuck Anderson. The anger boils over. Shadows and red everywhere. A splitting headache that seems to have settled permanently throbs violently. She turns around. Udina exits the office, looking around him wildly, his eyes settling on her.

"Shepard. We need to talk."

"What now, Udina?"

But they each have their parts to play. This is Udina's—to serve as an intermediary. And this is hers—to be the tip of the spear. The door shuts behind them, the room darkens. A hologram manifests from the floor. Udina's own private QEC. It must have cost a fortune.

The Illusive Man stands tall, crisp, a cigarette in hand. Shepard can practically smell it. He settles his eyes, far seeing, all-knowing, on her. "Shepard." He smiles. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Anyone ever tell you, you drive like a maniac?" Anderson asks. Grace chuckles, the pickup truck speeding through the broken wasteland, kicking up dust devils. The landscape is obliterated. They wear scarfs around their neck and mouths to try to block the polluted air, the stench of decay. The scream of the Reapers is always in her ears. As is Ben's. She killed him. She killed him. She thinks of the cannibals tearing him apart, thinks of Daphne in that broken field of sunflowers. Goddamn Reapers. "What's the matter, Anderson? Old age getting to you? I can pull over and you can walk the rest of the way."

"That how you talk to Admirals?"

"I'm not in the Alliance anymore, remember?"

This is easy. Unsettlingly easy. Being with him. Talking with him. She was horrified when she saw him. Excited. Anderson was alive. And if Anderson was alive, anything was possible. They can stop this war. They can stop the Reapers. The Wraith sits between them. It's an upgrade from the hunting rifle of before. Anderson looks at it from time to time. Is he going to shoot me? Will I let him? She goes through the numerous ways she could kill him, though none of them make her feel good. Her stomach is in knots.

They both know what she is. A fake. They're making the best of it. His questions get under her skin. She's decided the best tactic for the meantime is to make herself indispensable. She'd like to see to Liara, to Hope but she can't leave Earth behind, won't leave Earth behind. It's her home. It was a luxury to stay for half a year, to meet the people, to breathe in the fresh air and the smell of grass. Now everything's in decay. Animal carcasses litter the land. She can't lose it. Won't lose it to those fucking machines.

Max sits in the back of the pickup truck, his head poking in through the small back window every now and then.

"So tell me about it," Anderson says, "your time in the Alliance."

She scowls, gripping the wheel tighter. He knows about her time in the Alliance. It's been bleeding back to her since coming to Earth. Amongst the nightmares it was easy to forget, those infrequent memories of before, blinding and disorienting. They've been seeping into her slowly. The day Anderson took her hand. Welcome to the Alliance. He saved her. Chewed her ass out just as often, when she screwed it up, when she went over the line. This here stands for something. We stand for something. No one ever said doing the right thing was easy. It was after Torfan. They pinned every medal they could on her. Anderson didn't like it. She'd been trying to scrub the blood off her hands for days. I got it done. That's all that matters.

"Not worth talking about," she ducks, the light in her eyes, and turns the pickup truck into a gated area in a sprawl of land. Untouched. Clean. "Look at that." Anderson looks around him, opens the truck door, doesn't shut it. Grace steps out, taking the Wraith, clipping it to her back before unholstering the Paladin. Anderson holds the M-8 Avenger. Max hops out, alert.

"Nice and quiet," he tells her.

She nods. They move forward, quickly but carefully. A large farm with barred doors waits. They circle the perimeter. Nothing. Grace hears voices. She presses her ear to the door. A wooden bar keeps it shut. They move to opposite ends, lifting the fifteen foot bar and setting it down. They pull the massive farm doors open. The doors groan every inch until they step inside. It smells of piss, sweat and vomit.

Anderson stops. "God, almighty—"

Horses lie dead, swarming with flies. Anderson presses the scarf closer to his face. Cages line the walls, men, women and children stuffed inside, bone thin and gaunt.

There's an inhuman shriek. One of the cages bursts open. Husks. They sprint at them, kicking hay up. Teeth bared. A Reaper horn sounds. More screams fill the air. Grace sends a group of husks flying back, impaling them on the farm tools hung on the walls. One of the husks gets stuck on a hook. It dangles there screaming, looking at its arms. Grace ignores it. "We've got to get them out of here—"

"There's more on the way!" Anderson fires off clean, precise shots. Cannibals and marauders stream into the farm. They drop but not quickly enough. The imprisoned men and women are desperate, holding on to the bar cells, begging for help.

Grace sweats. No key. "Stand back," she blasts the locks off. Ammo is a precious commodity. Wasting it on locks seems just that. "Call the FOB for pickup," she tells Anderson. He's reaching for the walkie at his shoulder when a marauder grabs him, Anderson ducks, slams the butt of the assault rifle into its face. A grunt from the marauder and Anderson leaps back. The marauder lunges and rips the radio from him. They're swarming around him.

She takes a step back, runs, springs in a biotic haze. Time slows. She's still not used to this. The blast flings the marauders and cannibals back. Blood drips down her nose. She unclips the shotgun and fires at point blank range. "Get them out of here, Anderson!" Anderson looks behind him. In the darkness there's a sliver of sunlight slipping through. Another door. He yanks the doors to the remaining cells open, ushers them to the rear.

The husks keep coming. One of them grabs her arm, another one grabs her neck. Biotic energy flows through her. She can't shake them off. She fires at the ravager coming around the corner. Its sac bursts open, swarmers spilling out in sticky goo. "Get off!" she rights herself, a wave of biotic energy hurling them away.

The ravager crawls forward. I should have gotten rid of those goddamned things. She swings the shotgun around and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She's not used to the shotgun. She pales. The ravager fires. The blast melts right through her shields, pummeling into her. She flies back. Lands hard. The air goes out of her. She wheezes. Everything's black and red. She can't see. Everything's white. No air in her lungs. Stars. Space. Everything's fire. Bullets. Bullets. A ghastly scream. Shepard! Not Shepard. Shepard!

"Shepard!" Anderson kneels next to her, slaps her face hard. Grace blinks, stares at him. He swims. His face is relief. Guilt. Embarrassment. She heaves for air. He yanks her to her feet. "Come on. We've got to get moving. They're outside."

"Everyone all right?" her words are small, breathless.

"Look to be. And you took care of the Reaper forces." She looks back. The ground is splattered in blood, limbs, dead cannibals, husks, marauders. The one on the hook hangs there, swinging back and forth, clutching at its chest. "Got to the radio on the truck. The FOB's on their way with transport. Gave me a hell of a scare back there."

"Guess I owe you one."

"More than one."

She lies on the pickup truck bed, staring up at the stars. Her side burns fiercely, despite the medi-gel Anderson forced her to take. We lose you, we lose a hell of a lot more than just one person. Maybe. The FOB is in high spirits. Families have been reunited. Their food supplies are almost nonexistent but none of the soldiers hesitate to rip into the MREs, to give their few rations to the starved men and women.

There's a weight on the truck and soon she sees Anderson climb in. Max is on his heels, having taken to following him around. "You like the stars?" he asks. Grace looks at him. She has a love, hate relationship with the stars. They remind her of her death. They remind her of Hope and Liara. She folds an arm behind her neck and says nothing. "Where'd you come from?"

Junk DNA. A Cerberus facility. She shrugs.

Anderson has a box of dog biscuits. Max sits patiently at his feet, though his tail twitches. Anderson throws him a little bone biscuit, which Max eats greedily before wagging his tail, slapping Grace in the face with it. Anderson laughs. "Good boy." He looks at Grace. Grace sits up painfully, leaning back against the bed. "You got anyone you're worried about?"

"Yeah." She says grudgingly.

"They on Earth?"

She hopes not. What's Hope doing? Trying to get to Shepard? Trying to stop this? Or hiding out somewhere? What about Liara? She was angry last time they met. Let them go. You'll never see them again. Focus on the war. "No." Anderson nods, gets ready to stand. "They're up there." She nods at the stars. Sighs. "I wish things were different."

"Everyone does." He sits next to her. "I've got someone, too. These are the end days—"

"Hey," she slaps his leg. "This isn't over yet."

"Yeah, you're right." He doesn't seem convinced. "Actually—she's somewhere you might have gone—if you'd been born a few years later." She winces but he doesn't notice. "Grissom Academy. Sometimes—being in the Alliance—doing the right thing—you have to give things up." He takes his hat off and slaps it back onto his head. "Sometimes the cost seems too high."

Grace bites her tongue. "What's her name?"

"Kahlee Sanders. Hell of a soldier. One of the most brilliant minds I've known. When this war is over…"

"You'll find her again."

He smiles tightly. He wants to believe. "It'll be a long war."

"Then let's end it quickly."

Imorkan. The dangerous, dirty version of Omega. The energy is frantic. Shuttles and ships zoom past each other. Near collisions happen constantly but no one bats an eye. It's been weeks since the Reapers hit. They're decimating the galaxy. Soon, she'll have nothing to feed on.

Music plays. Not the frenetic, pulsing beats of Omega but a slow rhythm, a siren's call, beckoning explorers to its depraved depths. There are pirates everywhere. Mercenaries. Murderers and criminals, on the run everywhere except here. They think they're safe and they're wrong.

Imorkan is darker than Omega, smaller. The architecture is as frantic, as if it were built out of desperation instead of design.

The walls squeeze together here, become gulfs there. The ceilings spike in certain areas and in others, most have to duck their heads to get through. Gamblers, Red Sand junkies, brothels as far as the eyes can see. "Hey beautiful," one of the asari call out to her, "looking for company? I can tell you're all knots."

"Does this life satisfy you?" Morinth asks, her tone even, her eyes glass. "Seek other pursuits before I consider you worthy of my attention."

The asari shrinks back and Morinth keeps walking. Tall halls. Narrow halls. Shouting, screaming, moans and groans of pleasure. She walks into a brothel, the walls and lights painted red. The people see her, they know her, they don't meet her eyes. They get out of her way and even the owners make it a point to press against the walls.

She climbs the curved steps to the second level. The rusty steps creak under her weight. Her destination is on the left. She moves with languid determination, her hand finding the door and turning the lock. Imorkan, where you can get anything you want, for a price. The two men turn to look at her with wide eyes, the girl, some little asari thing, not even to her tenth year runs to the corner of the room and whimpers.

"Hey, we paid—"

Morinth unclips the M-9 Tempest at her side and shoots him at point blank range. His head splatters. She almost laughs. The girl in the corner shrieks. Morinth pays her no mind and advances on the turian. He reaches for his gun and trips over his loosed pants, sprawling to the ground. He looks ridiculous. "You should probably look away," Morinth tells the girl. She unclips a knife from her side and sets her eyes on the turian. "Now it's my turn to dig into you."

He screams.

An hour later she exits, the girl's small hand in her own as she leads her out of the establishment. There is a shuttle headed to the Citadel. The appropriate fees have been paid and an escort will guide you there. May the goddess watch over you.

Morinth goes to the bar and sits. She orders her usual drink and drops in her usual dose of Hallex Prime. The drink sizzles purple and she drinks it. She likes how it amplifies and dulls things. It's like dancing in the Void. It's like fucking in a cemetery. It's like feeding on a monster. The galaxy is going to hell. She's going to be hungry soon.

"Samara!"

Morinth turns her head. Ah. The clone's guardian. Hope. Rasa. Lilah. Whatever it is she goes by these days. Her eyes aren't concealed like before. There's fire in them. Morinth nods at the seat opposite of her but Hope, Rasa, Lilah, doesn't sit. Does she know who she is? Morinth wonders. With so many identities it must get confusing.

"You're a difficult woman to track down."

Morinth swirls the drink in her glass. Hope's voice is far away and too close. She can smell her fragrance, her desperation. It's intoxicating. "You live. Thank the goddess."

"The justicar is on a warpath," Hope says. "And people think the Reapers are dangerous." Morinth smiles at her. "I don't care what you do. Grace is on Earth. She was gone, for months. I presume with you. What were you doing?" Morinth shrugs gently. "I need answers."

"Why?"

"Because she's on Earth and we need her. We need her to win this war. Commander Shepard isn't going to stop this."

Samara's eyes spark. "She put a stop to Grace." Hope freezes. The air sucked out of her lungs. Samara considers wrapping her fingers around her jacket, drawing her close, drawing her breath, sipping her slowly. "Grace was devastated when she found out the truth. We went around to Cerberus facilities and set matters right. And on Omega, Grace found Shepard." She finishes the drink and sets the glass aside. "The battle was over quickly. I found myself… disappointed."

"…What…"

"It wasn't fair. Grace didn't even look human when Shepard was through with her." Cold, even tone, a warm smile on her lips. "What makes you think she's alive?"

"Grace is alive," Hope says through gritted teeth. "She's on Earth, fighting those things. I've heard things in the news… I'm pretty sure it's her. I need to get to her. This war needs her but not down there." Morinth takes a breath. "I need your help. Earth is… I don't know how long it will take to find her. You stood against the Collectors and she trusts you. She won't come if it's just me asking. Please."

Samara nods. "I will help you."

The elevator doors open and Shepard, free of the blood and guts that decorated her hardsuit earlier, steps out wearing an N7 Hoodie and her Alliance uniform. Breathe, Samantha. She may be the hero of the Citadel but she's a human being like anyone else. Shepard meets her eyes and moves to the information terminal.

Samantha steps away from her own station. Breathe in. Then breathe out. "Oh. Commander Shepard. I was hoping to have a moment of your time." Shepard keeps her eyes on the terminal, shifting slightly so Samantha can't see her screen. Eventually she looks at her. Samantha straightens, swallows the lump in her throat. "Erm—how was Sur'Kesh? The weather seems—quite tropical. And with all that blood spilling—it must be hotter—"

"Traynor, what do you want? Spit it out."

Samantha takes an audible breath. "Right. Well... I was doing a little bit of digging..." Shepard steps away from the terminal. For a moment Samantha tricks herself into believing that Shepard is going to give her her undivided attention. Instead she starts walking away. Samantha walks quickly with her. "Oh—yes, a little bit of digging. There appears to be some strange activity happening in Benning."

Shepard takes the steps down to the third floor and Samantha follows after her. "From what I've gathered it looks like Cerberus is kidnapping civilians."

"Why would they do that? They've got a war to win."

The question momentarily stumps Samantha. The answer is so simple that she can't help but believe it's a trick, that she must reevaluate. "I can't say I know their plans. But 'because they're bad' is my guess." Shepard narrows her eyes on her. "Um. Ma'am."

Shepard stops in front of the Memorial Wall and rubs at her forehead. Oh, bloody hell. Am I giving her a headache? She supposes she's always heard most celebrities skew towards the douchey side, but she hadn't expected it from Commander Shepard. She's the Butcher of Torfan. Were you expecting cookies? Tea parties? She told Shepard about Grissom and Shepard ignored it. She told her about the lab on Sanctum and Shepard brushed that off too.

"Specialist." Shepard says. Samantha stands straighter and tries not to wince. "It's my understanding that you're here from R&D? And it's your duty to let me know when I've got messages or anyone on the vidcom for me, is that correct?"

I'm not a bloody yeoman, I'm a communications specialist. That's just an added bonus. I dare you to say any of that to her. "Yes, Ma'am." she stammers.

"And when I want you to put communication through for me, you do that, don't you?"

"Ah, yes."

"The bulk of your military experience has been in a research lab, hasn't it? Do you understand that we have a war to win here?" Shepard steps closer. Samantha supposes this is a rhetorical question and Shepard doesn't actually want her to respond. First step. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry."You know what I'm focused on? Stopping the Reapers. That's it. This ship is state of the art. Every. Second. Counts. You're asking me to jeopardize billions of lives so I can check out some kooky signal you've uncovered? A signal, that if true, may save, at best, hundreds of lives?"

Samantha swallows. Her face is red. And numb. All of her has gone numb. She may have peed herself. She's not sure. "I'm sorry, Ma'am—"

"What's that, Specialist?"

Samantha looks up at her, but it's difficult to meet her eyes. "I said, I'm sorry, Ma'am. I thought—"

"You thought what?"

I thought you wanted to help people. But the thought is silly. Shepard wants to save the most people she can. That's important too. Samantha averts her eyes entirely. There are a lot of names on that Memorial Wall. Yours might be joining it in a few seconds at the rate you're going.

The energy dissipates from Shepard. She exhales and buries her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. "Sorry. Look, you may not get where I'm coming from but trust me. I know what I'm doing. Cerberus is a distraction. We need to focus on the bigger picture. Play all the strategy games you want, but those same principles don't work here." Ouch. Low blow. "Do your job. Nothing else. If I need something, I'll come to you. Got it?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She salutes. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Dismissed."

Samantha turns tail and runs. Shepard stands at the Memorial Wall. Liara approaches, stepping beside her, staring at all the names on the wall. Garrus wasn't joking. Goddess. Tali'Zorah. Sweet, sweet Tali. She was young, even for short lived species. Liara glances at Shepard who glowers at the Memorial. Who erected the monument, Liara wonders. Was it Shepard's idea or Admiral Anderson's? "You were a little harsh with her."

"From the woman who threatened to flay someone alive." Shepard looks sidelong at her. "I see that you're still snooping. Can't say I'm surprised."

It's going to be one of those days. Liara mentally prepares herself. There are days when Shepard tries to be close to her, tries to have conversations with her on where they are, where they will go. Liara has been evasive. She isn't sure of anything. Then there are other days, like this one, when Shepard is hostile, when she wonders if Shepard secretly despises her. Liara doesn't know which is more difficult. "We should follow the lead she uncovered."

"We've got bigger issues at hand. You know that."

"The Illusive Man is relentless. Any ground we can take from him betters our chances."

"I disagree." She sighs. "What is it with the yeomen on this ship?" Liara doesn't correct her. "Better looking than the last one, at least. Maybe I should take her for a ride, too."

And now she's attempting to bait her. Liara won't bite. "What do you think about Wreav? He's... different from Wrex."

"He's a maniac. That might be the kind of thing we need. If we cure the genophage, he'll lead the fight against the Reapers." Shepard crosses her arms. "But the Dalatrass had a point. Wreav's a thug. Can we really let the krogan population spike again? They'll stop the Reapers and then run us all out of the galaxy."

"We need the krogan." We need the cure, is what she means, but she understands Shepard's concerns, as well as the Dalatrass's. The situation makes her head hurt. "Progress on the Crucible is going slower than anticipated." Shepard doesn't react. "The salarians have good scientists—"

"We don't need them."

"What do you suggest?" The Crucible needs scientists. Isn't that what everything is riding on?

Shepard says nothing. Liara turns away. Shepard grabs her wrist, pulls her close. Liara takes a small breath. "We need to talk." Shepard's eyes are fiery, her voice gone low. Liara's throat goes dry. She tugs her arm free. "You owe me that." Liara says nothing. "You don't respond to my emails, you don't visit me on Earth. I was locked up for half a year," she menaces. Liara says nothing. "If it's over, tell me it's over."

"This isn't a conversation we should have out here," Liara says. She walks away, to her room, her office, her network, her livelihood. Walking makes it easier to breathe. The door to her sanctuary opens and Liara feels the air returning to her lungs. As soon as Shepard walks in, the door sliding shut behind her, it ceases. "Shepard, I have work."

"Work. You always have work. You always have the network. I got you all of this," she hisses.

Liara stands still. She could argue with her. She could say she made her way up in Illium using her own resources, her own skills, but at the end of the day, it was Shepard's Cerberus intel that led her to the Shadow Broker. Perhaps it's right to lord it over her. Maybe Liara only resents that it's true. "Thank you." Ice.

Shepard stares at her. "Did you see something?" Her intonation makes it a declarative rather than a question. The emotion, the anger, the suspicion is gone from her voice. "The night we spent together after we beat the Shadow Broker. We melded—did you see something? In my head? In my memories? Did something happen-" For a moment, she looks frightened.

"No. No." She shakes her head. "I saw nothing."

Wesker goes down. He falls like a sack of potatoes next to her. She ducks, feeling the whip of the bullets above her. She presses against the little cover she has—the remains of a building long battered by Reaper beams. Bricks, wires and concrete are scattered around her. She lifts her head, throws out a singularity field, detonating it.

The explosion is deafening. Ears ringing, she jumps out of cover, sprinting to the cannibals beginning to feed off the fallen husks and marauders. Two pumps of the shotgun and they're reduced to brown muck and blood. The other soldiers shout, come over, pat her back, muss her hair. Idiots. So stop smiling. "Look around for survivors," she says to them, circling a hand in the air. Wrap things up.

"Hey, look, we've got a bird," one of the men shouts.

Grace looks up. A shuttle is beginning its descent. The people of Earth are beginning to look at them as if they're dinosaurs. Months in and Grace still hasn't seen one make it out of range of a Reaper beam. Shuttles are a rarity now. "Get to work," she says.

If it's a shuttle, no doubt it's someone looking to take something. Supplies. Food. Or refugees looking for shelter. Things aren't sustainable and the Reapers are pressing closer. They're harvesting civilians. Turning them into husks. Using their own against them. Sick. Effective. Disgusting. She stoops by Wesker. Young, blond and dead. She thinks of Ben and Daphne. Fuck this war. Fuck the Reapers.

She massages her head, closes Wesker's eyes. Hears the whoops of the soldiers but ignores them. She pats Wesker's pockets, pulls out a few thermal clips. She'll bring them to Anderson. They can add them to the small heap they have. Night is falling and Reaper attacks have increased. They're vulnerable then. Men and women take shifts through the night but everyone's exhausted. She can't remember the last time she got more than a few hours of rest.

The click of a gun. Heat at her back. She's being watched. She pulls the Paladin, turns.

Stops.

Stars.

The air goes out of her lungs. Hope. Samara. Morinth. Hope's jaw is set tight. She doesn't look as if she breathes. Morinth is still, her glassy eyes searching. The last time she saw her… Strange how the violence returns, a memory on her skin. Her jaw throbs. Grace stares. The Paladin still lifted. The other soldiers mirror her now, weapons readied on the women.

"Say the word, Morgan," one of them mutters. He's excited. Ready to prove himself.

"Grace," Hope says tightly. A reprimand. A plea.

Neither Morinth nor Hope seem to notice the group around them. Grace hardly notices them. The air builds in her lungs, burns. Hope's here. Alive. They both are. A sharp exhalation before she sucks the air back in again.

"Clean shot," Grace hears another soldier say.

Her fingers tremble. Liar. Liars. Sociopaths. Both of them. She exhales again, energy depleted. Her arm falls back to her side. "Weapons down," she commands. All the soldiers lower their weapons. Hope closes her eyes and takes an unsteady breath.

Their fortifications are falling apart. Grace picks up an empty foot locker. She'll fill it full of debris. It'll be a small hurdle until they can find something better. Hope follows after her. Grace recognizes her steps still. Soft. Cautious. "You have to listen to me," Hope says. Grace ignores her and keeps moving, setting the foot locker in front of the failing barricades. She picks up pieces of the broken building and dumps them into the foot locker. "You can't stay here. You have to come with us."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you doing here?" Her voice is thick with frustration. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you?"

"I don't care." Grace can't look at Hope. It's impossible to be still. To listen. She can't. Hope's voice is a live wire. If she lets it in, it'll wrap around her. If she listens she'll be convinced. "Earth needs me. Anderson needs me. This base needs me. I'm not going giving that up because you want me to run around and play Shepard."

"What do you think you've been doing here? Have you heard those soldiers talking about you?"

She has. They look alike. It's natural. A toppled car has been knocked onto its side. Taking a breath she outstretches an arm, lifting it with a biotic kick, stacking it on top of the others.

Hope crosses her arms. Grace thinks of CAT6, of the disappointed instructors. "Samara told me what happened."

Grace stills. Samara? So. She still doesn't know. The memories spike, digging like daggers. Morinth drags her down the halls of Omega, an arm tightening around her waist, pulling her up. Her voice is different. Grace's knuckles drag on the dirty floor. She can't speak. Can only think. Just let me go. Just let me die.

The sky is a dark blue, the stars beginning to shine. It's been nearly a year since she saw Hope. She's been thinking of her that long. Dreaming of that blade going into her. Her eyes. Her lips. The heat of her skin. I worried. Liar. It would have meant she cared.

"I know how it went down. It doesn't matter."

Grace can't look at her. Hear her. Bear her disappointment. Ice trickles down her neck, her face burns. It feels like an eternity. Grace turns, faces her, searches for Hope's contempt but only sees determination. She wants to kick it out of her. "You wasted your time. All the operations, all the training, it was pointless."

Hope looks tired. "Something's wrong with Shepard."

"Not my problem." She moves ahead to gather the larger chunks of rubble that can be used for fortifications. She grabs a boulder, arms straining, going lightheaded. Too long without sleep. Too long without a real meal.

"Grace, stop. Stop," Hope follows after her, grabs her arm, holds it tight. Grace drops the boulder, rears on her. Hope shrinks back. Is she afraid? Grace remembers the pressure it took to sink the omni-blade into her. It wasn't much. "Look at me. Please look at me." Grace's eyes flick over her face but can't still. When did Hope learn how to say please? "I know what you must think of me." Grace's lips curl. "But this is bigger than me. This is bigger than us."

"There is no us."

Hope flinches. She takes a breath. "We have to go. Shepard is… I'm afraid she's working with Cerberus."

"Then the two of you make quite the pair."

"I'm serious!"

Grace walks away. "Find someone else."

"They're going to Grissom!" Hope calls after her. Grissom. Why does that sound familiar? "They're going to take kids! Biotic children and turn them into—I don't know what. You're going to let that happen?"

"Let Shepard take care of it."

"She won't!" Hope hurries after her. Grace squeezes her eyes shut. She wants her gone. She wants her gone. She wants her gone. For almost a year she thought she wanted nothing more than to see her again, than to tell her she was sorry but she's still angry. All this time later and Hope still only wants something from her. She always wants to take and take and take. "Miranda sent this to me. Liara forwarded it to her!" Grace slows. Liara…? "Liara is on the Normandy. She's working with Miranda. Kahlee Sanders—your boyfriend's girlfriend—is there. Are you going to let her die? Are you going to let those kids die?"

"Don't act as if you give a damn about those children," Grace snaps. "You don't care about anything! Anyone! You'll do anything, say anything, to get what you want!" She walks towards her, shoves her back. Hope stumbles, nearly falls. Grace breathes hard. "Every time anything is good in my life you come back into it. I hate you."

Hope's voice is flat. "Fine. Hate me. Just do the right thing. Come with us. Stop Cerberus. Help those kids. Help Kahlee Sanders. Stop this war. If you won't do it for me, do it for Anderson. Do it for Liara. I don't care. Just do it."

The sky is black. The stars look like pinpricks of light. It's cold. Grace stands in front of Anderson, head bowed. She told him they'd win this. She told him he needed her to stay alive, to keep the others alive. Liar. "I have to go."

The small trashcan burning outside of the tent makes his expressions severe. Concern, worry, is carved on his face. "You're leaving?" he straightens, abandoning the military maps, the upcoming strategy. She sees the chess piece on the map, the queen. Anderson made it a joke, it represented her.

Hope and Morinth stand behind her. "Sorry," Grace says. "There's something that needs taking care of." She clears her throat. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Damn," Anderson hangs his head for a moment. He removes the queen from the map. "Well. I knew we wouldn't be able to hang on to you forever. This their idea?" he looks at Hope and Morinth. Morinth seems uninterested. Hope's eyes are dark.

"There are a lot of people here depending on you. Not just the soldiers." He smiles bittersweetly. Grace says nothing. "But your mind is made up." Not really. She wants him to talk her out of it. But Kahlee Sanders… that's important. She's important to him. And Anderson is important. He deserves that. He's been fighting so hard. "Been holding on to these. Meant to give them back. Hell, at this rate—seems better to give them to you." He dips into his military jacket, pulls out dog tags, weighs them in his hand, throws them at her.

Grace catches them.

"Make sure she gets those."

Give them to the real Shepard. It hurts. The tags are scorched, warm. J. Shepard. She remembers hyperventilating. She remembers thinking of Liara as that last gasp of air left her lungs. She looks at Anderson and hates him. Loves him.

She clenches the dog tags in her fist. They burn. She throws them around her neck, an act of obedience, defiance. He shifts his weight, looks at her cautiously. Something else she can't begin to understand. Their weight is a noose around her neck.

She stoops. Max is there. "I'm going to leave him here," she tells Anderson. "He's good at sniffing them out. And he's more popular than I am with the soldiers."

"Shit, Morgan, that isn't hard." Anderson pets Max. Grace laughs softly. "We'll take good care of him." She nods. "Hey," he stretches a hand out. Her eyes sting. She doesn't want to leave him. She doesn't want to leave Max, the only remainder of her old, new life. She blinks the emotion from her eyes. "You watch yourself out there."

She takes his hand, claps his shoulder. "I'll be back."

"I'm counting on it."

She nods and turns. Max barks and trots after her. "Go back to Anderson, bud," she tells the dog, but he follows. The soldiers watch her go.

"Hey, where you going, Morgan?"

She ignores them.

"You ditching us?"

She walks faster.

"Where are you going!?"

She takes the extra thermal clips from her belts and hardsuit and tosses them at the soldiers. They fall to the ground, the soldiers watching her instead.

Max keeps up with her. The soldiers trail her path. She climbs into the shuttle. The men and women stare in disbelief. They talk amongst themselves. "Samara," Grace says tightly, "get us out of here."

Morinth climbs into the pilot seat. Max hops into the shuttle. Grace pushes him off several times, until the shuttle is out of reach. He whimpers. She can't breathe. He barks over and over again. She looks down at the group. They look at her in disbelief. Disappointed. Betrayed. She doesn't have any speeches, only a knot in her throat. Anderson joins the soldiers. She sees the worry on his face. Grace smiles shakily, salutes.

Hope stands next to her. This is wrong. She shouldn't be leaving. They'll die. So many of them are going to die.

"You're doing the right thing," Hope says. "In time—"

"Go to hell." Grace shuts the shuttle door, throws the N7 helmet against the wall. She doesn't want it. It's poison. The helmet clatters and comes to a still. She sits. Puts a hand to her face and closes her eyes. Anything she ever wanted. Anything she thought she could have—it's gone now.