The entrance hallway stretches behind her. The Spectre office is cold and metallic. Shepard figured she should check it out at least once before heading back to the Normandy. She looks around. To the right, a door and windows reveal an adjoining shooting range. To the left, a bank of monitors plasters the wall, clustered around some terminals and a holo-pad.

How many Spectres have come through here? How many are out roaming the galaxy right now? It occurs to her that she doesn't know any. Her namesake was one. Kaidan also held the title, all too briefly. A queasy feeling settles in her stomach as she approaches the monitors. She decides to check them quickly and leave.

A step, and then she stops. There's someone else here. She isn't sure how she knows. A sound, a smell, a vibration, some clue that registers subconsciously—it doesn't matter. She just knows. She turns, hand jerking to the Carnifex at her side, and scans the room. There's nothing—only metal and glass, the floor and walls of the room. False alarm.

No. Wait. There. A spot where light seems to bend oddly. A blurred outline in the shape of a person, just two or three meters away. An enemy? She can't be sure, but it would reflect poorly on her to shoot a fellow Spectre so soon into her tenure. "I know you're there," she warns, hand on the butt of her weapon. "Show yourself."

There's movement, and then a form materializes before her. A woman, white and black bodysuit, gold stripes down the arms, a mask with red slits. Cerberus. One of those "phantom" bitches. Why are they all female? She killed a few of them during the coup, but not before one managed to tag her pretty good. They're dangerous, nimble, stabby little cunts with palm cannons that can take your shields down in seconds. It holds a sword at its side and regards her wordlessly.

This is fucked up. It's been days since the coup attempt. Why is this thing still here? What the hell does it want? "You get lost? Buddies leave you behind?"

Its only response is to tip its head slightly to one side. Shepard stares back. She can't see its eyes, only the slits of its mask. Beats pass. Fuck this. She pulls the Carnifex halfway from the holster.

"You are Grace," it states flatly. Not a question.

Great. First Oriana, now this thing. Fine. It'll be dead soon anyway. She shrugs. "You got me. Okay if I shoot you now?"

The question doesn't seem to register. "You were X8. Then Grace. Now Shepard. Did you not find your previous names sufficient?"

Well. This one's inquisitive. And oddly personal. Something about its voice seems familiar. She plays along. "I never went by X8. I only found out about that later. Kinda glad. It's a shit name."

It pauses, considering. "So you did not always know?"

"Know what?" She furrows her brow. Oh. "What I am?"

"Yes."

She shrugs. "I know what I am. Now why the fuck are you here?"

"I came to find out."

"Find out what?"

"If you are perfect."

The first swing nearly takes her head. Shepard ducks, whirls, draws the Carnifex. Strands of hair fall to the floor. She gets off one errant shot before the gun is kicked out of her hand. It skitters across the floor.

The phantom presses forward, blade flashing, conducting a vicious symphony. Shepard retreats before the onslaught, all too aware that she has very little room to work with. As the terminals loom behind her, she feints to the left, then rotates her hips as the phantom thrusts its blade into empty air, missing her midsection by millimeters. She delivers a lateral kick to the phantom's solar plexus and is rewarded with a soft grunt as it staggers back a step. Its blade hand drops just a little. It's enough. Shepard squares her stance and follows with a biotic charge. Somehow, she's met with an elbow to the face. The collision knocks the phantom back a few more feet, but it quickly recovers, crouching into a ready position. Shepard regards it, ears ringing as she wipes fresh blood from her mouth. Damn. She probably got the worse end of that. This one is even tougher than the others she's fought. "I have a question. Did you sign up for this? Or did they take you?"

"Neither. I was... born to it."

Born to it? That voice. It's flat, devoid of emotion, but she can't shake the nagging sense of familiarity. Frustrating. She stretches out an open hand, coiling her shoulder muscles, pulling. The Carnifex stirs on the floor and leaps toward her hand.

The phantom springs forward, thrusting its sword into the gun's trajectory, neatly spearing it through the gap in the handle.

Shepard raises an eyebrow as the captured gun slides down the phantom's blade. "Fuck. That was pretty impressive," she admits. "Now," she says, pressing the tip of a fresh omni-blade to the phantom's throat. "Why don't you cut the shit and tell me who you are?"

It glances down, then drops its blade to the floor in resignation. "I am the fate you escaped. I am the spare parts." It holds its chin up. "But I am no longer property."

What? Property? Spare parts?

Oh fuck.

No. No. Dread envelops her. Shame suffocates her. All this time, she's just blithely ignored the fact that she wasn't the only one. That there was another one out there, in Cerberus hands. In the lab that she destroyed, her birthplace – the place where she murdered X20 – there was a datapad. She remembers. X3 has been activated after a series of transplants from... And then it listed a half dozen other subjects. Her sisters. Jesus. Oh Jesus fuck.

She lowers her omni-blade. When she speaks again, her voice is barely more than a whisper. "Show me," she says.

X3 takes a step back, reaches up, pulls the helmet off. Brown hair tumbles down, longer and straighter than her own. Her face is marked with reddish lines, scars that will never quite fade. One eye is green, the other brown. Shepard looks at her. Really looks at her. She looks the same, but different.

X3 watches her impassively, as if accustomed to being examined. Shepard looks her in the eye. "You came to kill me?"

"Yes." A beat. She shakes her head slightly. "No."

"Explain."

X3 glances down, takes a deep breath. "I did everything Cerberus asked, but I was never good enough. They only wanted you. I needed to understand why."

Shepard shakes her head with a wry smile. "That explanation is batshit crazy. But I get it. I know exactly where that impulse comes from. Or, rather, who."

"You are referring to Jane Shepard? The first of us?"

She nods, glances away. "Yeah. Even in the end, as twisted up as she was, she needed to prove she was the best."

"So she is dead now? You defeated her?"

"I don't know if 'defeated' is the right word, but yeah, she's dead. It's just you and me now." She takes a breath. "The things she was doing... She wasn't herself."

X3 nods. "She was indoctrinated."

Shepard looks at her sharply. "You understand about that?"

"Yes. I have seen it. I refused the upgrades, but I do not believe I would have been allowed to refuse for much longer. It is why we... I left."

"Smart. So you gave them the slip during the coup attempt?"

"Yes. I will not fight for Cerberus any longer. They talk about family and service to humanity. That is a lie. Cerberus serves only itself."

Shepard nods. "So what's your plan? What will you do next?"

A frown. "I am not sure. I know how to hide, but I do not wish to. I wish to fight. Against Cerberus. Against the Reapers."

Shepard rubs her chin. "I think I may have something for you."

"I am listening."

"Good. Here it is. There's been some chatter on the military back channels recently. The Alliance is starting something up that I think could do some real good. They've had all their resources tied up fighting the war in the trenches, but the brass knows that's not where we're going to win this thing. It's pretty unofficial right now, but N7 is taking in aliens, criminals, mercs, pretty much anybody with special skills, for a series of strategic operations across the galactic theater. I think you'd be perfect for it."

X3 considers. "I agree." She hesitates, looking away. "But I am not alone. There is another with me. She is nearby."

Shepard shrugs. "Can she fight?

"Yes. She is an excellent marksman."

"She's of the same mind as you? Regarding Cerberus?"

"Yes."

"Then bring her. There's always a need for shooters. Look, it will be dangerous as hell. You'll be taking orders, but you'll be doing good. I think you'll be able to sleep better at night."

"Then I accept."

"Great," Shepard smiles, folds her arms. "So, you got a name?"

She looks at her quizzically. "X3."

"You're shitting me. That stuck?"

"I am not 'shitting' you. Annalise calls me Three."

Shepard shakes her head. "That's a little better, but this won't do." She activates her omni-tool. "I have something for you. Let's link up."

X3 activates her own omni-tool and completes the link. "What is it?"

"Old baggage," she says, frowning slightly as she types a series of commands into the haptic interface. "A new beginning for you." She waves the omni-tool. "There." She extends a hand. "Nice to meet you, Grace Morgan."

"You lied to me."

The door to Liara's office slides shut. Miranda Lawson gazes around the room, at the monitor feeds, Glyph, finally settling on Liara. Her eyes reveal nothing. If there is apology or regret for any of her actions, she doesn't show it. Liara asked Miranda to meet her after the coup. Miranda took her sweet time in responding. Liara anticipated the woman wouldn't arrive and here she has without announcing she would be coming. Who let her on the ship? Shepard? 'Shepard'.

"More accusations," Miranda says.

Liara grits her teeth. When Shepard died there was anger and grief, a devastating loneliness. She buried her feelings. It seems in the past few years all she does is bury her feelings. It's like archaeology in reverse. Recently she's had difficulty containing her anger. She attacked Shepard or whatever – whoever she may be in her cabin. She doesn't want to attack Miranda, even if she wants to yell and tell her she failed. "First you deleted all Cerberus activity from my Shadow Broker network."

"The Shadow Broker network you'd stolen, we helped you get and you'd had for seconds? I wouldn't really say it was yours." There's a beat. "I thought we'd moved past this."

"I thought so too." Liara watches her. Even now, Miranda seems uninterested in the discussion, as if she's only deigned to appear. The woman is reserved and aloof. Her expression, when not arrogant, borders on bored. "You never mentioned the clones." That gets Miranda's attention. Doubt fills Liara again, hope, despair. Liara envies Miranda's evenness, is afraid of thick emotion. 'Shepard' mentioned the clones. Liara didn't want to believe it. How could she? "Deny it."

Miranda takes a step back, crossing her arms gently. "That's… sensitive information. How did you find it?"

"Have you forgotten that I'm the Shadow Broker?" Her head spins. She isn't sure if she's covering for Shepard or not. Miranda hasn't denied it. Which can only mean it's true. Or she could be messing with you. Another possibility, but unlikely: Miranda doesn't have a sense of humor. She wouldn't know a prank if it beat her over the head. "How long have you known?"

"Long enough."

Liara collects her breath, tries to gather her thoughts. Liara scavenged the universe in a path of vengeance, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. She hardened herself, delivered Shepard to the enemy she loathed for the chance to bring her back. It was a mistake. Was it a mistake? It was. "You made clones," she hardly recognizes her voice, "with what I brought you of Shepard."

"Out of her genetic material, yes. I didn't oversee the project," she shrugs delicately, as if the matter were entirely out of her hands and she isn't sure why it's being debated. "There were twelve of them, meant to be spare parts in case your Shepard needed them."

She blinks rapidly. Clears her throat. The room is swimming. "She wasn't my Shepard. You didn't bring her back. It's clear you didn't bring her back. I know you didn't bring her back. You brought back a monster. A monster conspiring with Cerberus," she can't get enough air into her lungs. "I gave you everything and you failed."

Miranda is stiff, unmoving, guilt flickering in her eyes. "I'm not going to get into a pissing contest with you and tell you what has worked. Clearly you've made up your mind. There's another matter. What of Shepard? She stopped the coup. Somehow." Shakes her head gently. "Reminded me of someone else I used to know. What should we do with her?"

"That's my concern now. You've shown me you're not capable, you're not trustworthy. Leave. Now."

"So much for our working relationship." Miranda scoffs. "I thought—" she licks her lips, then gives another shake of her head. "I'm sorry she didn't come back the way that you wanted. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not perfect and I do make mistakes. I did everything I could to steer her in the right direction." She takes a breath. "The reason I wasn't here immediately after you made contact was because I was tracking something down. A control chip. I'd wanted to implant Shepard with it when I was first resuscitating her to avoid these kinds of… complications. The Illusive Man didn't agree and here we are."

A shiver trails down her spine. A control chip. To make her someone else. Someone who obeys. Is it right? Is it better than a bullet in the brain? And if Liara allowed it, made herself an accomplice in the action, would she be implanting the wrong woman? Would she be enslaving an innocent?An imposter. "This… control chip. How exactly are you planning on getting it into her?"

"I rebuilt Shepard from ground beef. I think I'm qualified." She seems to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "I was hoping you'd help. Shepard has a soft spot for you. Use it."

Liara's nostrils flare slightly. Love as a weapon. "Those clones you made. Did any survive?"

Miranda smiles grimly. "None that matter." She pauses, her eyes clouding over, seeming to consider. "There was one. Real idealist type. Smart. Brutal. Helped me get Ori back. Stopped Cerberus at Grissom. But Shepard killed her on Tuchanka." Liara stops breathing. Goes numb. Goddess. Is it true? It sounds crazy. Could it be true…? It might be true. Goddess. She shakes. Goes cold. It's true. "We only have one left. One that can do this. I have the control chip. Do I have your cooperation?"

Liara goes to the door, unable to think. "I can't—I'm sorry. I need to think. Go. Just go."

Miranda scowls. "Have it your way. As arrogant as ever, I see."

Miranda exits the office. A rush of cold air sweeps into the room. Liara blinks, the sounds seeming to be too far away, soldiers moving about as if in a blur. Shepard is in the med-bay, talking to Dr. Michel. They turn, catching each other's eyes at the same time. Liara tries to fight the numbness. It's not her. It's not Shepard. Who the hell is she? What the hell is she? What the hell is it? Goddess. This is all…

She turns away, locking the door behind her, wanting to be left to her solitude.

Samantha is convinced she'll either pee herself or keel over from a heart attack. Miranda is onboard. Oh, she remembers her quite vividly from the Dark Star Lounge on the Citadel. Under slightly brighter lights, and absent a good buzz, she realizes the woman is even more devastatingly beautiful than she had imagined. Her pen pal! Her drop dead gorgeous, sexy penpal.

Focus on work. There must be something to do. Her eyes strain on the monitor as if her life depended on it. Miranda stalked by earlier (or maybe she should refer to her as ML or M), ignoring Samantha's existence completely. Maybe she didn't see you? A possibility but one she questions. Without any pressing questions regarding Shepard or how to catch dastardly spies, she may no longer see a need for her.

She opens up a new window on the computer. Maybe she'll send her a mocking email. Not a desperately hurt one? Well, that's a start.

"Specialist Traynor?" The crisp, accented voice isn't immediately recognizable. Samantha turns and swallows a surprised expletive. "Ah, I see I caught you in the midst of writing me email. I hope you don't discard it upon our encounter. Your emails have been one of the few bright spots in the past months."

Samantha is fairly sure, but not one hundred percent convinced, that she doesn't just soundlessly move her lips. "Have they? I wouldn't have guessed from the lack of response." She looks at her face, smooth and pale as ivory— but bruised along her nose, along the corner of her jaw. "You're um—" she gestures hopelessly, as diplomatically as she can at Miranda's face, "you all right? Wait. I should see the other guy?"

Miranda grimaces. "We should avoid that, if it's at all possible."

"Oh, were you in that big Citadel coup thing? God, it's terrifying. I'm glad you're all right," she bites the corner of her lip, "erm—who else would needle me constantly for information? If you're here about the Commander—I'm afraid I have no more details. None that I can share, anyway—even with a mystery penpal."

Miranda's smile is bright against the dark of her eyes. "I may have asked for too much. I promise… I had my reasons," she shakes her head. "I've been assured the Normandy is docked for a few days… while Shepard and the others assess the damage to the Citadel. If I might inconvenience you further… how about a lunch date?" Samantha is still as her mind implodes. She doesn't mean lunch 'date'. She means… a lunch. It's similar to how straight women say 'girlfriend' when they really mean girl friend. Confounding women. "I could use a good meal and given their recent setback, Cerberus shouldn't come after me so soon."

"Cerberus is after you?"

Miranda straightens. "It's… a long story. One… I'm not really looking to get into. But I would like that lunch—if you're agreeable." She looks around. "Why is it so dark in here? I'm surprised everyone isn't asleep at their stations. Everyone must be running on fumes."

"We're running on whatever is left after fumes."

"Is that right? All the more reason for some relaxation. Not that—I've ever seen much need for that myself but… it's on me," she offers. "The meal." Her eyes dim briefly. She's been on the run for so long that Samantha isn't sure she has the credits for it.

"I'd have to ask Commander Shepard," she blathers. Shepard is a hard ass. She won't let her. Which is probably best. The last thing she needs is to develop a crush on an intimidating woman who likes to drop off the face of the universe. Oh, and is being hunted by Cerberus assassins. "I—I wouldn't hold my breath. I'm not sure she likes me very much and … she's seemed so uptight lately—more so than usual—"

Miranda narrows her eyes. Shepard exits the elevator, settles her eyes on them before going to her console. Samantha turns sharply to focus back on her terminal. If she looks like she's slacking, Shepard will throw her off the ship. Miranda's eyes burn into her. A second later, Miranda clears her throat gently. "Shepard?" Samantha dares a glance to the Commander. She looks at them, serious and tired, sad. Major Alenko was a friend of hers. Samantha can't imagine what it'd be like watching friends die all the time—having friends attempt to kill her. "Would you mind terribly if I kidnapped your Specialist Traynor for a few hours?"

"If she's game," she jabs at the computer keys. What? If she's game? Samantha blinks. That's… unexpected. "Just bring her back in one piece. I need her on this ship." She pushes away from the terminal and gets back into the elevator. It's the most exciting and anti-climactic interaction she's had with her since she's joined the ship. So… win?

"Seems like she's amenable," Miranda nods. "Actually—I've a few errands to run. Why not make it dinner? I can get cleaned up… and you can finish your work?"

Samantha blinks. "Oh, sure." She'll get cleaned up? Oh, God, what's she going to wear? It's just dinner. A friendly dinner. People get cleaned up before they go to dinner. You're overreacting. "Dinner…" date, "thing it is!"

"Dinner thing," Miranda crinkles her nose, "yes."

"Raiding the medi-gel supply again?" Dr. Michel asks.

Garrus stops, caught red handed—red taloned, whatever, claws wrapped around a few packets of gel. He tells himself to let go of the medi-gel but doesn't. "You saying I'm a lost cause, Michel? Hell, your bedside manner could use some work."

"Maybe you'd feel differently, if you let me show it off every now and then?" She says with a side glance. Garrus doesn't blush. Turians don't really do that, but he feels heat crawling up his body. Michel smiles, plucking the medi-gel packets from him, counting them out and adding the number to a clipboard. "So, you are here stealing supplies—"

"When you say it like that—it sounds so… exciting."

She smiles, "But you forget that I am the doctor on the Normandy. Shepard didn't bring me here for my good looks. And if she has, she's hidden it well." She crosses her arms gently.

"Maybe she's blind." Should he apologize for saying that? Take it back, maybe? Sure. Go from the frying pan into the fire.

Michel blinks. There's a beat. Hrm. "Have a seat," she points at the medical bed. Garrus looks at it warily. "Go on."

"Ah—it's not necessary. You weren't with me on Omega." The things he saw, the things he experienced. He's been riddled with bullets. He took a rocket to the face. "I've learned a few tricks. Have a knack for patching myself back toget—" she pushes him back and his turian ass finds the medical bed before he expected, "her—"

"What happened?"

"On Omega?" He doesn't know where to start. Sidonis' betrayal, his squad, mourning Shepard's death. He picked up the mantle when she went. He remembers thinking he would do anything to have her back, to avenge her. He kept thinking how things could have been different. But what the hell could he have done against a Collector ship? It'd be easier if it was someone he could gun down. He thought that often. If it was someone trying to take her down, I could stop that. He did and now….

"On the Citadel," she corrects. She stops, in front of him, light green eyes introspective. "I heard about Major Alenko. I know he was a friend. I am sorry." Garrus flexes his mandibles, clears his throat again. A second later she eases medi-gel into the wound at his side. He bites back a cry, hadn't even noticed her doing it. The wound burns. Her eyes are cool. Normally he doesn't like that sort of thing, but there's something tranquil about them. Soothing. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He isn't sure. "Not much of a talker. Feelings…" he makes a face. "I prefer a spar session. Gets the tension out. Seems easier. More natural, anyway." She looks up at him, continuing to ease medi-gel into his side. When did he take that bullet? He isn't sure. It grazed him, hurts more than it should. Normally he doesn't really notice things like that. Everything is more vivid since he killed Kaidan.

"A spar partner may prove beneficial," she says with a nod, "easing tension is very important. If you lack a spar partner, there are other ways." She holds her hand at his side. Oh. "You should take care of yourself, Garrus. You've always been reckless."

He laughs, embarrassed, too conscious of her touch. "Me? Reckless? No… I'm… unpredictable… bold!"

"I remember the way you used to rush into my clinic, guns blazing." She smiles faintly. "For what it's worth—I'm glad someone is there to make the difficult decisions. It couldn't have been easy but saving Shepard—that's important. But look out for yourself, as well. I'd hate for something to happen to you." She steps back to write into her datapad. "You're all done."

"Shepard. Got a minute?"

She's loitering near the memorial wall. Garrus has been visiting so often he's worn a path. He knows Shepard has noticed him there. Something has kept her away, given him space. Normally he'd think she didn't care. Now he wonders if she feels guilty. She wouldn't be the only one. "What's up?"

"Uh—in private, if you don't mind." Garrus notices her smirk, has seen her use it more often; her eyes remain clouded. She follows him to the battery. It's the only place that's ever really left alone. The lounge is always crowded and Life Support has become the go-to for secret make-out sessions. He has seen things he cannot unsee and would prefer to prevent any further psychological damage. You killed a friend but the make-outs—that's what will scar you.

They've rarely spent time alone together since he returned to the Normandy. She seems nervous, fidgety. "Shoot," she says. "At least one of us is able to." She winces, paces. "Garrus, I'm sorry. I saw what was right in front of me and I couldn't… I wanted it to be different."

"You wanted for what to be different?"

She stills, brow creased. "Everything. If… I had done things differently—maybe it wouldn't have been so damned hard to convince him." She rubs at her forehead. "Ash, Wrex and now Kaidan, all on my watch."

"You forgot Tali," he snaps, "Thane, Grunt, Jacob, Kasumi, Mordin," he shrugs, not entirely surprised at her absentmindedness but nevertheless disappointed. "But who's keeping track?" On the field she's a force to be reckoned with. Off it, she's something else. Something new. Uncertain. What's going on with her? Does it involve Liara? "I need to know why he was so convinced, Shepard. I need to know I didn't gun down a friend for a Cerberus lapdog."

Shepard stiffens. "You didn't. I'm not," she says stiltedly.

"Why did he think you were?"

"I don't know." She meets his eyes only fleetingly. She rubs her arms, pressing against gooseflesh. Something humans do when they're nervous, scared. "I know we've had our issues… but I really need you to trust me on this one."

"How?" Why did Liara insist he come along? Why had Liara shrieked as if it was Shepard who had been gunned down? Why was Kaidan so convinced? All questions, no answers, and doubt sprouting in his stomach, making him sick. "Why?"

"Because I don't know what I'll do if I don't have anyone on my side." She presses the palms of her hands to her eyes, tilts her head back and takes a breath. So, it's that obvious that everyone has begun to turn against her? Maybe that's the reason she's been cleaning up her act. If he'd known he would have organized a mutiny sooner. "This is such a mess." He frowns. "You could have let him shoot me. You didn't. Do you regret it?"

Garrus exhales, moving over to his workbench. The conversation is difficult, unexpected, even if he's the one to have asked for it. "I'm not sure. Sorry. I'm sure it isn't what you wanted to hear." He picks up a wrench. "Prove to me that I did the right thing." Once again she's gone still. He scoffs slightly. "Just let me think on it over some calibrations."

He expects a joke, another smirk but she only shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

James gives her the tour.

It isn't anything she doesn't know but Maya Brooks 'oohs' and 'ahs', asks pointless questions that James answers good naturedly. She doesn't know much of anything about this one. His records are sealed and frankly, she never gave a damn about getting to know Shepard's new crew. She would get to know them once Grace took over. That was the plan, anyway. Instead, she wrote a pathetic little email, begging Shepard to let her join the crew.

After a Who is this? and How did you get this address? she got a simple response, letting her know her background scan had checked out and she was welcome to bring a footlocker and join the Normandy until further notice. Miranda, in the meanwhile, has made it clear that she cannot let Liara T'Soni know of their work relationship—they're on the outs and she worries Liara will forbid her coming aboard if she were aware. Easy enough. She doesn't agree with Miranda's plan and she's more than happy to forget her altogether.

"And this is the weapon armory," James says, "but you probably noticed I keep the biggest guns on me." She looks at him and his face reddens. "Uh. Because of my arms? It's a joke, hey."

"Oh! Yes! Right! Tickets to the gun show! Of course." She gives an assertive nod. Work on your jokes, she wants to say. Not that she blames him for his arrogance. He is a fortress of muscle, friendly enough, and likely with the brains of a Neanderthal. He could use a shave but he isn't hard on the eyes. She wonders what they'll look like, if he'll see it, when she blows Shepard's brains out. "I can barely tell the assault rifles from the shotguns," she begins to pick which ones she'll use. Something lighter.

"Hey, every marine's a rifleman, right? Ah, you probably won't have to arm up but it's always good to know your options and pick out your best fit."

"Maybe you could show me sometime?" She suggests before grimacing. Her arm throbs. She's eased what little medi-gel she can find onto it but it hasn't been much and the bullet is still lodged. She's fighting an infection. Perspiration beads her face lightly. It's likely she has a fever.

"You okay? I heard those Cerberus fucks got a couple of hits on you during the coup."

Who said that? Garrus? Liara…? Not that she expects either would take notice of her. Was it Shepard? "Oh. Yes! One or two. Really, really, hurt." Not half as bad as other things have.

"You should see Dr. Michel. She can patch you up before whatever's got you down takes you out." He puts a hand to her forehead. The contact is unexpected and she nearly jumps away from him. She's never had contact that isn't violent, that isn't a means to an end. Except for Her. "Man, you are burning up. That's it, tour's over. Med-bay, now."

"Ah, no, really, I think I'll be okay—I really want to finish the tour. This is the Normandy! Gosh! I can't believe I'm really on it."

James crosses his arms. "You stay here a little while, you'll get used to it. And if you stay alive, I bet you'll enjoy it even more." The elevator doors open to the shuttle bay. Shepard steps out, bathed in the elevator light, too bright against the darkness. James smiles. "Hey, Lola! Sorry to disappoint but you missed my reps earlier."

"Ah, James. Haven't I told you, you don't need to show off for me anymore?" She crosses her arms, looks at the pair. Maya Brooks straightens, salutes sharply despite the crippling pain that shoots through her arm and shoulder. "Thought I should see how the Normandy was holding up given all the missions lately. I didn't mean to interrupt you and your … guest."

"Shit, you haven't met? Commander Shepard, this is Staff Analyst Maya Brooks." James looks at Brooks. "Recently transferred here for her help during the coup. I was just showing her around. Figured somebody had to."

"Point taken. Thanks, James. I'll take over from here."

Rasa nearly gulps. James looks between the two of them. "Sure thing, Commander. I got some rifle maintenance I could be doing anyway. Uh—she needs to get to the med-bay, get checked out. She took some hits during the coup."

"Noted." Shepard nods at him and retreats to the elevator. Bile rising in her stomach, clawing its way to her throat, Rasa follows. She considers going to the armory, grabbing a shotgun, but she doesn't have the speed she needs and Shepard is fast. On the Citadel she could have sworn that it wasn't Shepard, that it was Grace. What was that? Wishful thinking…? The elevator doors close. Shepard slips her hands in her pockets and stares at the blinking numbers. They move past Engineering, past the crew deck, CIC, up to the cabin. An alarm goes off in Rasa's head.

When they arrive Shepard steps out. Maya follows. "Is this your cabin? Lieutenant Vega said I'd never get to see it."

"Guess there's a first time for everything." Shepard moves in. Rasa follows. Looks for weapons. There aren't any in sight. This would be a perfect opportunity. If this were a spy novel she might seduce her, enjoy it, but kill her, regardless. A few fish dart in the fish tank. Models of the Destiny Ascension, an Alliance fighter, hang in a display. Rasa's hot all over, sniffles a little. "Feeling all right?"

"Just a little lightheaded." It isn't a lie. "I can't believe I'm on the Normandy. In Commander Shepard's cabin. With Commander Shepard!" Ah, enthusiasm. It's draining.

Shepard's lips pull faintly. "Is that all it is? Sure it isn't because I killed that wannabe Shepard you thought could take me?" Everything goes still. Rasa hears the water sloshing in the fish tank. The soft techno music playing on the radio. The flickering of the lights. "How's your finger holding up? Could have sworn I'd broken it down there, after I killed your pet project."

Rasa doesn't think. She charges. It's futile. Shepard blocks the first swing and dodges the second. She takes Rasa's arm, twists it behind her back, covers her mouth to silence her scream. Rasa burns. Sweat drenches her. Rage. Impotence. She's pressed face first to the fish tank, Shepard's body against hers, hard and unforgiving.

"Sloppy." Her lips against her ear. Rasa struggles, every piece of her fighting for what she thought had been resigned long ago. "Was this your big plan? Come here. Kill me? That shoulder of yours is fucked." Shepard's fingers squeeze more tightly over her mouth. Maybe it would be fitting if she killed her. "You should have killed me on Tuchanka. You should have pulled the trigger as soon as you saw the N7 suit." Her voice grows hoarse. "Isn't that what you were supposed to do?"

Rasa goes limp. The forceful hands of before grow careful, shift her until her back is pressed to the tank, glide up to her neck, settling. Rasa thinks she'll start to strangle her. Instead her thumbs settle carefully along her jawline, her breathing deliberately slow. Rasa's heart hammers in her chest. "Grace…?" She repeats the name again, even more quietly, as if it were a vow.

Her eyes spark green, pained, before she nods. The air traps in Rasa's throat. For months she let her think she was dead. For months she lied to her. But she's alive. She's alive and she's accomplished what she set out to do. Rasa's breath hitches. Her eyes sting. She looks at her, now that she can. She's harder than before. A scar cuts across her brow. "I thought… you let me think…" Another nod. Curious, how she wants to throw her arms around her. Instead, she shifts, lifts, lips catching hers, fire shooting through her. She's alive. Grace is alive. She hadn't known how she'd wanted it, wished it, prayed it, begged for it—searched every manner of asking, how it destroyed her when nothing delivered her what she wanted.

This is the kiss she remembered. This is the one she replayed over and over in her mind, loathing herself all the while for it. You're burning up, Shepard breathes between kisses. Is it her? She thought it was Shepard. Whatever. Rasa shakes her head. It doesn't matter. She'll survive. She wants this moment. She doesn't want it to go anywhere.

She hears something else in the distance. An elevator. Footsteps. Against her every desire, she pushes Shepard away. Like on that shuttle before the CAT6 program. Shepard stumbles back. Liara T'Soni enters the room. She enters as if she's accustomed to it. Is she? The coldness in her eyes ebbs and flows.

"I'm sorry," Liara doesn't sound sorry. "It wasn't my intention to intrude."

"I was just giving Staff Analyst Maya Brooks the tour," Shepard says to Liara, blinking, somewhat breathless. Liara narrows her eyes gently. "She's been gun-shy about meeting with Dr. Michel. But I've already scheduled an appointment for her." Rasa looks at her. Is that true? "Sorry, Brooks. Can't have anyone on my ship who isn't fit for duty." Shepard looks at Liara. "I've had to twist her arm to make her go."

So now she's a comedian.

"You should probably get to it then," Liara tells her coldly.

Rasa bristles. Smiles instead. "I guess I really can't say no to Captain's orders," she bubbles. "Okay. Um—good to meet you, Miss— is it Doctor T'Soni?" Another small nod. Neither Rasa nor Brooks can make this moment stretch out anymore. "Great! I'm Maya. Brooks! Which you already know. I'll leave you to it!" Her eyes catch Shepard's. She exits the room. The door shuts behind her. She stares at the door. She wonders what they're doing.

"I didn't know you were in the habit of giving tours," Liara says. Shepard's eyes are foggy. She swallows, looks at her. Liara sees her in a way that's familiar but out of reach. "Your face is flushed."

Shepard brings her fingers nervously to her hair. "I'm fighting a fever of some kind. Guess that blade on the Citadel cut deeper than I thought," she shrugs.

Liara wonders if it's true. What would the purpose be in lying about it? She could verify any information easily enough with Michel. Shepard got the injury helping Garrus. Kaidan is dead. Shepard didn't shoot— this woman, didn't shoot. She doesn't know if the woman she knew... would have. If it's the same woman or someone different. Someone evolved to be different. "Will you be all right?"

"You know, you can't just keep walking in here as if it were your cabin."

The iron in Shepard's voice surprises her. "Is it yours?"

Shepard's jaw tightens. "Why are you here?"

Shepard's on the defensive. She's always been that way. She's always been most dangerous when backed into a corner. Some part of Liara knows that were she anyone else, in the position to know what she possibly knows— things may have been concluded much differently. If this is Shepard, if this is some copy—perhaps she has the same weaknesses. "I've... been thinking. About everything you've said. It's—it's a lot to take in." She looks around the cabin, tries to ignore the memories.

On the Citadel, Shepard asked her not to give up on them. That there was nothing more important. She lied. She hurt her. Before then, Liara had never known a purer soul—despite her actions, she was unrepentant and brave. After Miranda brought her back she was different. She lied. She cheated. Maybe she'd always been like that. Maybe she'd only ever been another way with her. Liara chastised Garrus for idolizing Shepard, not knowing she did much the same.

Since Tuchanka this woman has let indignities go. She's borne Liara's anger, her attacks. Shepard's only contact has been kisses. Along her bruised flesh. Her skin still recalls the scratchiness of her lips, the warmth of her apology.

Shepard's silence is unsettling. Liara can't stand it. "Won't you say something?"

"You and Garrus think that maybe it should be my name on the memorial wall. You don't trust me. I can't make you trust me."

"I don't know what you are."

"'What' I am?" She smiles ruefully. She sits on the couch and slides the decanter on the coffee table closer, pouring scotch into the lowball glass. She massages her temple.

Liara watches her apprehensively. "Are you all right?" She asks again. She doesn't know if she cares. These old habits are hard to let go of.

Shepard holds the lowball glass in her hands, brow knit thoughtfully. "You came here to tell me you don't buy my story. That's… just great. I'm... tired, Dr. T'Soni. Why don't you see yourself out? Unless you're going to try to take me out again."

Liara licks her lips, considers. "I've been able to verify some of what you've said." She draws breath. "But even if it's true, I have no way of knowing whether the woman in the video was you."

"Can a thing be a woman?" She takes a drink of scotch and stares ahead at nothing. "It wasn't me. I won't force you to meld minds with me to confirm it." Another drink, her smile is tinged bittersweet once more. "That isn't fun for anyone."

Liara walks closer, sits beside her. Shepard tenses and doesn't look at her. "What am I supposed to do about all of this? Can you blame my skepticism, after everything I've seen?" Shepard is quiet. "Before the Reapers hit earth and you were taken into custody we met in this cabin." She looks around now, remembers Shepard's words, her vows of love, the slow ferocity to her lovemaking. Liara wishes she could forget how she fumbled in the dark of her mind. "Do you remember any of that?"

"Why would I? It wasn't me."

Liara bites her tongue. She gave her the one thing Shepard might have latched onto. It's possible it was too obvious. Shepard manages to look blank and bereft in one. Miranda said Shepard killed a clone on Tuchanka. She remembers Shepard rushing into her office, bleeding and battered, stating she needed to get to her cabin. If she was trying to get to her cabin, why rush into my office? It makes no sense unless – of course. Her current office was Shepard's cabin on the SR-1, before it was blown up. She's ready to ask another question when Shepard speaks—

"For the record—the last thing I remember—the last thing I really remember of you— before everything went to hell— was telling you to get your ass on the escape pod. Good thing, too. Without you, would I be here?"

"You have her memories," she says somewhat breathlessly.

"They're my memories." She sets the lowball glass down. "Her memories. My memories. I don't know." She buries her fingers in her hair, reclines against the couch, closing her eyes.

"Why have you said those things to me?" She isn't sure if she's angry, curious. "Why have you—why have you spoken to me as if you know me? When you don't."

Shepard faces her now, eyes narrowed. "Because I know. Because I remember. Because I experienced it. I remember you, trapped in that stupid field on Therum," she laughs softly, "you sounded like such an idiot. It was pretty cute, though. You told me about asari myths and culture, about your mother. I know your scent, I know how you feel, how you taste. Don't tell me I don't know you."

Liara's face heats. She knows the same of Shepard. She doesn't have to pay it any heed. "They're just memories."

"What makes us, if it isn't our memories?" She shrugs. "Your Shepard is dead, Liara. Sorry. The Collectors killed her. Me. Whoever. That Shepard on Tuchanka— all she had were memories. And a bunch of implants that made her go crazy, is my guess."

"You don't have to speak so lightly about it!"

"No? I thought you were some tough shit Shadow Broker now." She picks up the glass of scotch. "You took me by surprise, storming in here and flinging me against the wall. I would have never imagined the Liara I knew doing that." She looks at her again. "People change. You don't need to be the Liara I remember. I don't need to be your Shepard. I need to win this war. I will win this war and I'll do it without Cerberus. Whatever you or I want me to be— it doesn't matter. What matters is stopping the Reapers."

"You talk about it as if it were so easy-"

"None of this has been easy!" She gets to her feet, her eyes, her biotics pulsing in blues and greens. They never did that before. It's Shepard but it isn't— her biotics are more powerful. The air crackles with energy, the scotch on the table rattles. Everything in the room does.

Liara stands. "It hasn't been easy for me either. You have no idea what I've been through. What I went through to get you to them. To bring you back."

Her lip curls, her jaw trembles. "Sorry to disappoint you." The biotics fade and everything in the room goes still.

Liara blinks. "You're angry at me? When you've been lying to me for who knows how long? Shepard is dead! If what you say is true, I have to mourn her again! Do you know how soul-draining that is?" Shepard looks away. "If I hadn't seen that evidence of…" she doesn't know whether to say 'you' or 'Shepard'. Both seem wrong, "would you have even told me— that you're – whatever it is you are?"

"Would you have noticed?" she asks, coldly. Liara lashes out. Shepard's fast. Her fingers snap around her wrist before the slap can connect. "No. You don't get to do that anymore. I'm getting pretty damned tired of everyone making me into their personal punching bag." Liara releases a sharp breath like a gasp, hot running through her, tears springing to the surface. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't know any other way. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted for you to look at me the way you're looking at me right now." Her thumb grazes along her face, easing the tears away. Shepard lets her go. Liara sniffles, wipes at her face, can't quite look at her. "Are we done here?"

"That's it, then." Her voice is bone dry. "She's gone."

"Not all of her. I'm still here." Shepard gives a small shake of her head. Whether to dismiss Liara or negate her own statement, she doesn't know. "I know you have a lot of questions. I can't imagine what you must be thinking. I'm sorry, I get—" her jaw twitches. "Angry. Defensive. I understand if you don't want me around. I can't make you think of me as anything more than you're able to. I wish that were different but it's not. All I ask is that you let us finish this thing. This Reaper War. Maybe you want to expose me—I don't think the Reaper War can afford that."

"The Reaper War or you?" It makes sense. Still, the Shepard that came back always had an angle, always had some crucial piece of information she was leaving out. "Is that your only reason for hesitating?"

"Everyone is depending on Shepard. What would it do to them to know she was dead? That it was some clone who'd taken over? Do you think I wanted any of this? I was trying to forget. I wanted to be someone else. I tried. On Earth for a little while. It felt like a lie." She shrugs. "This feels better— but I still don't want any of it. Think of me as a weapon. A tool. No one ever meant for me to be anything else."

Sad words. Liara isn't sure how true they are. She says she was meant to be a weapon—but the woman wasn't intended even for that. There was never any role intended for her. She was only meant to be an organ farm. Scraps. Pieces. "Did you always want this?" Shepard scowls. Liara shakes her head. She's said over and over again this is the last thing she wanted. "Why are you here, if you didn't want this? Did you just wake up one day? With all her abilities… with … with everything?" She bites her tongue. "Did anyone guide you?"

Shepard finishes the scotch, sets it down on the table without looking at her. "I was always meant to be a lone wolf." Her voice is flat, her brow furrowed. "I chose this path."