Pt. 9 El'azar Rises

2230 Hours, Saturday, April 23, 2185 / {TOP SECRET LOCATION} Lazarus Station, Dark Space, Horsehead Nebula, Earth Systems Alliance Space / 1 year, 1 month Pre Reaper invasion of Earth

Cerberus space stations tended to be built with a degree of paranoia in mind. If one was ever to be compromised by a boarding party or bombardment from opposing pirates, slavers, or organizations, fail safes were in place to be sure vital staff or project members and technology were secured. Not that I had been aware of any actual emergency occurrences on one of our other stations. Each was far too isolated. Binthu was not in dark space, Shepard had been an exception, Lillium was a fluke, and I simply figured the Illusive Man was cautious.

There was plenty of cover from potential gunfire, and routes to elude an enemy. Unless of course that enemy knew all those hiding places, routes to shuttle evacuation zones, and vital project sites. Which I could correspond my knowledge of to my debacle with Hope Lillium. Alas, I blame the service tunnels for leaking mechs all over the facility. And myself for being totally blindsided.

Well, almost totally. I had suspected a mole inside Lazarus the moment I discovered a well-encrypted transmission between one of my staff members and a Shadow Broker operative… dating back nearly two weeks from the date and onward.

Apparently I had spent too much time fretting over Shepard's basic care and too little monitoring my own people. Granted absorbing and implementing five years worth of medical and nursing school text books into less than six months, versing myself in every objective fact there was to know about Commander Shepard from his service and medical history, managing the day to day functions of an entire station, writing updates to the Illusive Man on our progress, and keeping an eye on every single vid cam, bug, and monitor in place was a lot to ask of a normal person.

But I was supposed to be perfect. I should have been able to find a minor discrepancy. I was designed to circumvent discrepancies. I had been molded to foresee error. Yet this transmission had slipped through the net, and I had only myself to blame.

And Wilson.

[Encrypted Transmission}

"Agathe, it's Wilson. Shepard's almost…{Data Corrupted}. Tell the Shadow Broker… {Data Corrupted} Lazarus will finish soon and I can get the body to you on…{Message Encrypted}. It'll be done. Just remember, I need to be paid and I'm not doing this for my health. The Illusive Man'll have my head for this if he find out."

Heat rushed to my face and I breathed out coolly to cease the erupting storm of anger in my chest. My nails ground into my palms, burrowing small markings into my smooth flesh, and my eyes narrowed hostilely up at the message on my omni-tool. The one that floated just above my face, taunting me. My gaze raked across the decoding transmission for just 2.45 seconds longer than it should have before I decided that if anyone were going to mount Wilson's head as an ornament, it would be me.

I was livid. Blood rushed through my ears. I wanted to… I wanted to throw something. I wanted to do something irrational. I wasn't irrational, just… How could Wilson do this to Lazarus? To all of my work and progress? To Cerberus? To the Illusive Man?

I inhaled deeply to settle myself. In an instant I had rolled off my bed in one graceful movement and stalked like an apex predator across my quarters towards my very organized- if rather empty- closet. From within I withdrew one of my preferred white with black ensembles, thigh-high leather combat boots that I could lace up with perfect ease, and a double-sided utility belt. Practical, simple to move in, mesh fibers built in along with kinetic barriers to act as protective plating. My only concern for my belongings was washing out Wilson's bloodstains when I ended him, supposedly non-blemishing material aside.

Given the fact Wilson had nearly euthanized Shepard the previous month and just recently tipped off the galaxy's most notorious and vengeful information broker- the silent party that had desired Shepard's body two years ago- the pros of permanently terminating my chief medical technician's dealings with Cerberus were vastly outweighing the sole con of, 'Maybe it's not what it looks like.'

I would not make the same mistake twice.

And then the screaming started.

The greatest part about being able to hear on par with a bat is that I can pick up high-frequency sounds like blood curdling cries of anguish, or bombardment of silenced submachines guns- yes, those are definitely guns- going off from nearly half a klick away through numerous, dense metal bulkheads in the way. And whatever firefight was happening outside was certainly not pleasant. The carpeted floor beneath my still bare feet rumbled and shook the walls ever so slightly. Screeches of metal grinding metal echoed through the gangways, and the sounds of bullets sinking into the soft organic tissue of their targets made their way to my ears. And almost made me cringe.

Subsequently the ordnance popped another chorus and influenced my decision to layer myself with ebony and golden-striped Spirit armor. Not the best choice in names, but the glossy framework was certainly designed with a wearer that crept like a shade in mind. Light weight, sturdy ceramic plating with microcomputers that gathered real-time battle telemetry to synchronize precise biotic and tech attacks and allow for proper cool down time for both my amp and omni-tool.

With my door already sealed with omni and manual locks, I immediately switched on the monitors at my desk and witnessed the terror that were sabotaged mechanicals. Security drones pooled out across the station like the Great Flood- devouring everything in its wake. LOKIs reeled on their unsuspecting security officer during the middle of a patrol across a bridge. An YMIR opened fire on the crowd in the rowdy, populated mess. Another programmed with an IFF I once considered tried and true- given the fact I had personally supervised their reprogramming after Hope Lillium's little adventure into the security network- slaughtered the nurse outside of his station across the hall from the med lab Shepard lay unconscious in.

It was a cave, and a stone lay against it.The Son of God and Man cried out, "Take away the stone."

My stomach dropped about half a mile. I had never been much for prayers, but for an instant I sincerely hoped that the loitering droid would forego curiosity, walk away from the padlocked door, and not attempt to fire at any circuitry.

I prodded on the wrist piece I wore at all times and my omni-tool flashed back to life. To no avail I tried to access the station's IFF mainframe. A red flashing {Error} lit up across the holo-screen. I released an unladylike grunt of frustration and within the next 2.5 seconds tried scrambling one of the firewalls. This time I was met with {Error. Rerouting. Identify Friendly-Foe Program has been corrupted. Data Erased.}

"Dammit," I breathed, disallowing the swell of stress and what could only be severe apprehension from settling in by compartmentalizing the emotions into functional states of being.

Oh, god. I silently panicked as I tried to reroute the IFF sensors and put more foes on the LOKI's radar on the deck below. If I couldn't access the actual IFF, I could at least put false movement on the grid elsewhere. Even if there was a risk of putting my surviving staff in danger. Shepard was priority number one. This is it. All of my hard work. Right down the drain. Shepard's going to be killed and Lazarus will have failed. You were wrong Petrovsky. There's nothing to be proud of here. I failed a-

Oh.

Thankfully, my worry was for naught. Most VI militia bots are usually too stupid to go hunting, and apparently most did not debate my assumption. I heaved a massive sigh of relief when the LOKI merely made a right on its flank and continued down the gloomy, red flashing gangway.

But little time would eclipse before the next set of bots decided to scout the medical bay because someone would most certainly send them there. This spontaneous attack had to be an inside job. No one had slipped in or off the station in several weeks. No scheduled shuttle departures to Minuteman, no conspicuous activity. I monitored all supply shipments, personnel arrivals and scarce departures regularly. The only people that would have had the security access to the mechs would have been security and myself. More specifically my top lieutenant.

But Jacob was… Jacob wouldn't… No, he couldn't. He couldn't just betray me like this.

But, Wilson could. Wilson was sly and cunning.

My fist clenched tightly, and a frustrated spark of biotics leapt from my palm. My resolve clear, I knew exactly what I had to do. I was going to find and finish Wilson. Maybe it was petty, unprofessional, or nearly personal. But I would make him pay in full for each life lost aboard Lazarus Station, for the life of the once great Spectre he had jeopardized.

Chiefly I had to get Shepard out of that med lab and preferably off the station. He certainly wasn't safe lying defenseless and unconscious in a hospital bed with a catheter strapped to the commander's genitalia, an IV plunged deep within his slender right arm, and a breathing tube plowed down his still recuperating throat to prevent any airway closure. So half dressed and sliding on a pair of greaves over a glove that I would gladly strangle the traitor in, I set up a secure connection and radioed the one person I knew I could trust.

"Jacob, it's Miranda." I ignored the urge to apprehensively rub at my chest and hoped he was still alive. My options were running slim. "Jacob, do you read me? Are you there?"

… 1… 2… 3…4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9…

"Jacob. Come in." I would poach twenty extra seconds. Nothing more. Not a millisecond less. If Mr. Taylor did not respond then I would find another way to retrieve Shepard safely.

10… 11… 12… 13…

For what felt like an eternity I detained my breath, lingering in absentia when suddenly the opposite end of my radio line popped and fizzed to life. Gunfire coated the fuzzy feedback crackling away in my ear and deep, heavy breathing followed suit. "Oh, shit. Katie, get down!" Jacob Taylor barked to someone on his end and heaved another sigh. "Miranda, I read you. You okay? What the hell is with all the mechs? Maybe it's just me, but this is starting to feel a bit cyclical! Except this time they're all after us."

I released a grunt of disapproval. "Don't remind me."

"Any idea whose fault this is?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

Another 'Pop! Pop! Pop!' drilled against my eardrum before Jacob growled, "On the edge of C wing. Bethany Bridge over by D wing's main entrance. This is an inside job, huh?"

"Absolutely, and I'm going to take care of it. But first, what's your situation?" I asked, searching for a safe route between the locked down med bay and Jacob's nesting point. "I'm working on pulling up your location on the camera feed."

"Nikolaidis is down. Mechs are pourin' outta the service tunnels across the gangway. I've got Katie with me. We're pinned down pretty hard. I thought you reprogrammed them after Lillium decided to-"

"Believe me, I did." I snapped, tersely biting down on my tongue for my failure. "At least so far there's no reminiscing of 'enkindle this' blaring over the loud speakers."

My top lieutenant released a bitter laugh as his image appeared on my monitor. With him was one other, embellished in the brilliant, ivy Cerberus armor. They were barricaded behind cover, firing at LOKIs down the hall in random intervals. Unleashing a bout of biotics, Jacob ducked back down. "Because choppy bits of Mozart make me feel better."

"Beethoven," I corrected, working my way around the station's mainframe. "And I'm not going to waste time shutting the bloody background soundtrack off. If I even can. I will however, trigger some alarms- give you a diversion. I can't access their programming, but according to the feedback I'm receiving these mechs should still respond to emergencies… Apparently there's a band of pirates boarding and an electrical fire going off in E wing."

"Thanks, but won't everybody over there be in jeopardy now?"

"Only Shepard matters, and I need you to go wake him up. He'll be dead by the time I get to him. You're closer."

"You want me to wake him up?" Jacob nearly choked in surprise.

"Yes. Then get him to the shuttles."

I had given ample consideration to the possible detrimental impacts on Shepard's health prematurely waking him could cause. By and far my largest concerns were an increased risk for stroke or heart attack sometime in the immediate forty-eight hours, in spite of his young age. Atrial flutters and tachycardia were incredibly likely given the immediate cessation of sedatives. Musculoskeletal exams were still necessary to determine full functionality, especially considering the fact that during his time under the knife, Shepard had lost nearly 20% of his original bodyweight since his time fighting Saren. His coordination and instinctual reaction time would undoubtedly be impaired, and any question of lucidity would be thrown right out the airlock. His topical and inner systems were riddled with sutures of recent surgery, and were likely quite painful to an alert mind. Each of which would have been fine and reversible given time-e had he not been forced to wake up in the middle of a gunfight.

There was a heavy pause over the radio, and Jacob suddenly adorned a jarred hesitation in his movements. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "Serious enough to get him up and running?"

"I doubt he'll be able to do much running. Which is why I need you to help him, Jacob." I swallowed resolutely. Down the gangway, the screams had drowned out against walls of gunfire. Metal bipeds marched clumsily through the walkways, and I knew there was only a matter of time before any of their corrupted mandates would realize there was still at least one survivor in the housing wing. "Lazarus is going up in smoke as soon as we're off the bloody station."

"I'm sorry, Miranda. I know how much you loved the project."

"Don't be. Just be sure any lives lost today aren't in vain."

Sirens blared over the distorted music and dissipating cries outside. For nearly ten minutes I nervously fingered the knife on my belt as I rattled off forewarnings and safe directions for Jacob and his comrades. With Mr. Taylor's adequate telekinetic abilities, they were easily capable of overcoming a small detail of LOKIs. One bot's head exploded on contact, and the other two were crushed like tinfoil against the iron bulkheads. Dust and smoke had begun to flood the corridors, fires teemed with life, and emergency life support systems had been compromised.

All the while, I kept an eye out for Wilson. And just as Jacob approached Shepard's med bay, I found him. Sweating, panting, and bruised but very much alive, Wilson lurked like a traitorous little weasel towards the temporary safe haven of the network control room, slinking carefully pressed against the walls, armed with a pistol, sneaking glances over his shoulder as the low crimson rays of alarms reflected off of his bare scalp.

A low growl rumbled in my throat. Andrew Wilson would attempt to shut down the mechs, return for Shepard's body once any living staff member was exterminated, and rush for the shuttles. I had at least an eight-minute timeframe before he realized his amateurish mistake in sabotage. The fact that he had encoded them all with a practically irreversible virus, and that they would very likely kill him on sight. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, but I still felt the need to kill him myself.

"Alright I'm here," Jacob spoke again as he tore off his helmet. He waltzed inside the orderly med lab and motioned for his security team to hold the line outside behind toppled tables and ornaments. Clearly anxious, the marine hugged his shotgun a bit tighter before ultimately deciding to holster the weapon. He scratched at his wrist and glanced around the sterile white walls, gawking at the multi-million credits worth of surgical arms used during precise operations hung from the ceiling beside medical imaging equipment. "What do I do?"

"Typically I'd instruct you to wash your hands, but we are really lacking on time for proper procedure. First thing first, remove his catheter."

Indignant almond eyes widened down at the supremely unconscious commander whose chest rose and fell mostly of his accord. "Wait! You want me to handle Shepard's junk?"

"Oh, for the love of god!" I pinched my nose to release the boiling pressure of an oncoming headache.

"You know what I mean? I've never…" he trailed of as his hands waved out in a noncommittal gesture. "Y' know? He's a guy."

"So you're saying, if he were a woman this would be easier for you?" I snapped back.

"What? No!" he protested. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"Then don't act like an incompetent oaf. This is a medical procedure. Shepard has a penis, and there's a condom with tubing currently attached to it. Heaving around any further deadweight on your way to the shuttles shouldn't be high on your priority list." Progressively impatient, I leaned into the screen and hissed, "Take it off of him, Jacob."

"Ugh. Fine." Visibly cringing with his hands beneath Shepard's hospital gown, Jacob looked more like a man instructed to pet a vorcha than perform a medical procedure. And faster than a volus could sniff a bargain, the tubing was long forgotten. "Alright. Next?"

"See the cabinets on your left? On the one closest to Shepard is a box of medications. Inside you'll find a syringe I prepared for emergency purposes filled with and labeled Naloxone. I'm going to need you to clamp off the IV. Do not remove the needle. Replace the tubing with the vial."

"Damn. Slow down," Jacob bit back, rummaging through the box. "I'm not a doctor."

"Neither am I," I retorted, feeling the heavy weight of time ebbing away.

"Well, I can't pick up a book and remember every word on the page. You've gone through what? A hundred textbooks? And I've seen you perform successful brain surgery. The only two differences between you and Wilson, is a degree and intelligence."

I relented, "Touché. Now count to ten while you administer the medication."

Antsy and quivering, Jacob tuned out the gunfire and explosions around the lab's exterior and followed my instructions, barely maintaining the snug IV in Shepard's radial artery. "What is this stuff?"

"Opioid antagonist. It should counteract the anesthetic and wake him up."

Jacob swallowed hard and released a shaky breath. "Why not use a stimulant? Won't that hyper-activate him for a little while?"

"Contraindicated with the sedatives he's now probably, slightly addicted to. Might give him a heart attack," I muttered. "Speaking of which, watch his heart rate. If his pulse becomes thready and rises above one hundred beats per minute, give him the antiarrhythmic in the bucket. In fact, pocket it just in case. It should keep him stable."

"Great. Will do." Voice growing progressively smaller, the novice medic removed the needle from Shepard's chest and pressed a cotton swab to cease any extravagant blood flow.

Why so squeamish? I happened to be tempted to taunt him, but my higher cognitive processing told me to be aware of Wilson looking mightily pleased with himself against a monitor in the network control room. "Good. The medication should set in momentarily. While he's still unconscious tilt his head forward, and pull the breathing tube out of his mouth. Careful! You could scratch his trachea. Might make him bleed all over the damn place, and at the very least you could damage his vocal chords."

"Jesus, Miranda! Anything else? All of these little side effects makes it seem like I'm gonna accidentally kill him."

"God, I hope not. I might have to murder you to break even."

"You're hilarious," he muttered glumly, propping up Shepard's limp, shaven head and dragging the slimy endotracheal from its cavernous home.

"I like to think so."

Then we waited, listening, ready to jump at a moment's notice. Somewhere not too far from me a responding round of gunfire shattered any hopes of survivors. Through my comm I could hear the explosion that shook the med bay and knocked Jacob slightly off balance. Red lights flashed evacuation warnings on my terminal, and I bounced back and forth on the soles of my combat boots in anticipation. The same echoing tremor near the med lab put Jacob's temporarily unnecessary detail on edge as screeching klaxons washed away the sound of music and jump started Shepard's return to awareness.

For the first time- without risk of neurological failure or hemorrhage- I watched the commander's eyes open. My brows rose in interest. He cried with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come forth!"

He stared, silent and unflinching at the ceiling for a long moment. Only when another rumble of the floor tilted his head to the side did he take note of Jacob's presence. Before I could make any suggestions, my comrade had patched me into his omni-tool's speaker and rattled off an introduction.

"Commander Shepard," he said, making a soothing gesture to the disoriented man on the table. "My name is Jacob Taylor. My friend over the radio is Miranda Lawson. We're going to get you out of here to some place safe."

"How are his vitals? Is he alright?"

"Looks okay to me. His blood pressure and pulse seem kind of fast. Normal, though." Jacob asked, "How are you feeling, Shepard?"

Shepard moved not a muscle. His dull stare so absent I was half sure he would begin to drool or mess himself. I had nearly convinced myself Lazarus had caused him permanent brain damage when he suddenly blinked and a hoarse, unused voice muttered, "I feel like I'm falling." Then with slightly stiff movements he grimaced, sat up unsteadily, reached for the uppermost point of his practically hairless cranium and asked, "Where's my helmet?"

Jacob looked baffled. "Uh, your helmet? Commander, you're in a med bay."

"I won't be able to breathe without my helmet. Might crack my head open," Shepard protested.

I was so shocked to hear him speak for the first time, I wasn't sure if I should have laughed with the relief bubbling in my chest or offered him some sort of disillusioned reassurance. But when I noticed the commander begin to absentmindedly toy with his tongue and mutter something about it feeling like cotton, I settled for practicalities with the only alert individual in the immediate vicinity. "Jacob, this is a result of the medication. Shepard is about as concerned with our current situation as a vorcha in an opera house. He'll see and hear everything happening, might even ask a few questions, but just won't be able to fully comprehend the magnitude. Try to orient him a little bit. And keep him safe."

Startled by my voice, Shepard's eyes widened and darted back and forth- albeit rather unfocusedly. Far more sinister than any krogan warlord I'd met before, his face fell grim and he released his tongue. "Who was that? How's she talking to us?"

Poor Jacob looked incredibly put off by the hero he had so admired- had practically gushed over. "Miranda, Shepard. She's helping us. Could you, uh, tell me your name?"

The invalid's features scrunched together in frustration. "I'm, uh… I, um… What's your name again?"

I huffed in partial amusement, partial annoyance. "We're running out of time. I can't keep the mechs distracted forever. You need to head to the shuttles."

Shepard threw his rescuer a horrifically patronizing expression and rolled his crimson-diluted eyes. His voice was slow. "You still want to tell me that's not a ghost?"

"No, that's just Miranda." Jacob actually spent the time to release a strangled laugh before offering the commander his hands. "Can you stand?"

Shepard blinked. "So… Miranda… is a ghost?"

The moment a round of bullets collided with my door outside, my patience evaporated. "Never mind, Jacob. No time for a proper orientation. Get him out of there and to the shuttle bay!" My breath hitched as my quarters suddenly lurched beneath me feet. "Immediately!"

"What was… Miranda?" Jacob's voice and visual hissed and popped like an angry klixen. "I… catch…"

Then the feed fizzled out and I lost all auditory and visual contact. I might have attempted to reestablish contact had the inside of my door not suddenly buckled under the intruding, clawed fist of YMIR. Never one without a contingency plan, I decided to circumvent the horde of lethal machines attempting to barge into my room via a padlocked trapdoor beside my bed, which dropped directly into the station's main ventilation ducts. And sealed myself inside- undetectable to any sensory output device- just before the heat of the explosive used to split a hole in my wall could singe my scalp.

Narrow, hardly shallow enough to crouch in, running- or, rather scurrying- proved more lackluster than difficult. Deprived of a physical map in hand, I drew up a mental image in my head. Lazarus was a labyrinth. Gangways, staircases, and elevators lead out of one room and into the next only to end in a completely obscure destination. One service tunnel alone could lead technicians from their base of operations on B wing to the housing units on D wing, up to C wing's bio center, then to the shuttle bay on A wing, back to an airlock on E wing. Switchbacks and ventilation ducts outlined the entire complex. Not that I'd ever had the pleasure.

Nearly overwhelming concern for the wellbeing of my project subsisting, I needed to remain almost certain in Jacob's abilities to pull Shepard through. Because in all honesty, I had two viable options: Hunt down Jacob and Shepard with the risk of never rendezvousing, or punch a hole on my way to the shuttles and secure transport for us. And I still had to finish Wilson's wasteful excuse for a life.

In hindsight I should have fired him the first day he decided to jeopardize the commander's life. It might have saved me the trouble of nearly suffocating on ashes or practically burning to death, dropping out of a grate into the center of a pack of mechs somewhere around Server Room B, being shot at every several seconds on my way to the hangar bay, and straining my amp during an indirect confrontation with a YMIR I barely managed to elude. Not to mention witnessing the brutal murders of my staff murdered over the vid cams, and the ultimate waste of Cerberus resources and technology.

Heaving for breath, but focused and alert, I jostled my way onto the closest operating shuttle's platform mere seconds before the opposite door's red-lit lock flashed green. Instinctively drawing Petrovsky's Predator, I felt a twinge of satisfaction when I was met with Wilson's shocked, beady blue eyes. He gasped almost audibly, "Miranda? You... you're alive? But, I-"

"Sent a bunch of mechs after me? Not what you were expecting, I bet. I think I would have preferred your formal resignation, but I can understand the pressure of the job. Simultaneously working for the Shadow Broker." And then he reached for his gun, and I pulled the trigger, splattering his brains across the wall behind him. "It could really make you lose your mind."

I wasn't sure if the resounding noise I heard was a strangled laugh, or a sharp inhale of sheer horror. But, I knew it wasn't from Jacob. Jacob's almond eyes were wide with shock, gaping down at the body of his former coworker as he berated my actions. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I thought I'd end things here with a bang, Jacob! Why else?" I snapped in dire frustration, desiring nothing more than to unload my thermal clip into Wilson's body. Dignity be damned. He had cost the lives of my staff. Granted a few of them had been cowardly squeamish in the beginning, but they'd all been proficient and relatively integral to the success of the project. The project the Illusive Man had so carefully delegated to me. My project that Wilson had nearly squandered out of selfishness. I very nearly fired off another round when I heard the sound repeat, and recalled my company. Breathing in, I sheathed my weapon and launched a withering glare at Jacob. "My job, of course. Wilson was a treacherous little snake."

No, the snigger erupted from the smocked, rather lanky figure leaning heavily against him. It's strange to think that so many probably fall under the false impression the Mighty Savior of the Citadel was just as powerful, dashing, and lethal during his showdown with Saren as he was on the day he awoke on my station. Those tropes of Shepard perfectly healthy, gun in hand, biotics blazing, well-armored, battling his way off the station to come to Mr. Taylor's aide, and finding me with the resounding voice of Etta James playing over the loud speaker are little more than fallacies. Quite the opposite actually.

Former Lieutenant-Commander Ernest Shepard was nowhere near his prime. His iconic, perpetually restyled, carmine red locks truant; the only scarlet thing about him were the shimmering nexus of unhealed tissue and implants souring across his bare arms, legs, and face, diluting the true color of his eyes and adding an eerie glow to his flushed, olive skin. A cold sweat accrued at his primary endocrine glands and drenched his hospital gown. Weak and struggling for air his entire body quivered, unsteadying his shorter base of support. According to the immediate scans I ran with my omni-tool, he was also running a mild fever, hyperventilating, and was severely tachycardic.

And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with grave clothes, and his face was wrapped with a cloth.

Full peach lips twitched into the first lopsided smile Shepard would ever throw me. Whether the expression was genuine, amused, wry and resentful, or merely absent-minded was difficult to decipher. And I only had a second's guess before he grimaced and slowly clutched his chest with a knobby free hand. His startling eyes became pleading. "My heart hurts."

And then he swan-dived headfirst into a dead faint.

We caught him, of course. Barely. A concussion thrown into the equation of Shepard's medical mix-up would have been rather undesirable.

One arm around each of our shoulders, we hauled him onto the shuttle's bench and jammed the antiarrhythmic into his system to prevent any further damage. Jacob mashed away at the spacecraft's console, punching in coordinates to desert the burning station and all of its chaos as I expertly maneuvered the onboard crash cart- reinstating wires to stabilize Shepard, patches to monitor his pulse and blood pressure, and a reduced dosage of an opiate through a new IV to prevent any major withdrawal symptoms.

Only when my own palpitations simmered down did I acknowledge the death grip my fingers had formed around Shepard's wrist, and the fact that I had sunk to my knees under the fortitude of shock, anger, and the impending weight of my near failure. I immediately withdrew, noticing the feint, red silhouettes of my impression. Embarrassed to realize we had been in flight long enough to reach FTL, I stood, draped a fleece blanket over him and slumped into the copilot's seat beside my lieutenant with a hand pressed to my forehead.

Silence persisted for nearly half an hour. Apart from the tinkering of consoles to alert Minuteman Station of our intercept trajectory, a quick message to the Illusive Man, and occasional heavy sighs, there was hardly any evidence of coherent personnel aboard. The inky, speckled veil was thick and all encompassing. Mysterious, dangerous in many ways, yet altogether alluring and serene, outer space was a refuge I hardly ever took the time to aesthetically appreciate.

"How is he?" Jacob finally muttered, navigating us through somewhere only glancing the outer edge of the Horsehead Nebula. He had haphazardly strewn away his chest plate and buried the equipment in the corner. Color had begun to return to his complexion, but his expression was guarded, strained.

"Asleep, but okay for now," I responded, not bothering to glance back at the machines. If there were a problem, they would alert me. I decided to unravel the tension enough for the distraction to dissipate. "So, Ms. Garcia…"

"Katie?" His voice was terse. "Yeah. Just when we were headed back over the bridge."

I settled my urge to flinch. Years of masking reflexive emotions rushed to the front of my mind. But, I still let the sympathy seep through the cracks when I tilted my head in his direction. "I'm sorry."

"She was a good friend," he said. "Lost a lot of good friends today."

"I know." I wasn't sure what else to say. I had been very… fond of a few of my staff members, but I had always found the notion of complete attachment rather compromising. Jacob was probably the closest thing to a friend I had during Lazarus.

"At least I've still got you to boss me around. Right?" He smiled at me, actually gazed upon me without any distrust or suspicion for the first time since I'd put Wilson down like the rabid varren he was.

And I was more than happy to return it. "Right."

"Good. So…" he lingered on the word, his grin fading with hesitance. "Wilson?"

"Decided to tip the Shadow Broker off on Shepard's progress. He was planning to sell him. I suppose he operated a bit quicker than I anticipated," I answered bitterly, unbuckling the clamps on my own shoulder pads and neatly dispersing them on the deck.

"Son of a bitch. I never would have guessed," he growled. "What the hell did the Shadow Broker want with the commander?"

"No idea. Whatever his reason, it can't be good." I spared a glance backward, just to be sure Shepard had not suddenly thrown an embolus, and found him exactly how I'd left him- asleep. "Hopefully it has nothing to with the competing party Ms. T'Soni mentioned during her visit a couple years ago. The one the Illusive Man was convinced had hired the Shadow Broker."

"You mean," Jacob choked on his words, startled. His amber eyes shot back from the control panel and back to me. He lowered his voice. "You mean the Collectors? They've been pretty quiet since then, Miranda. There's been no word on them searching for Shepard. Or doing anything else for that matter. Except, the usual slave trade or two."

I shrugged and closed my eyes against the headboard. "I don't know. I'm just throwing around ideas. Like you said, it's been two years, and there's been no scavenging of the galaxy for him."

Jacob whistled, "Two years. Poor guy. Gonna be a lot to take in."

I nodded. "He'll definitely need to reacclimatize. He's maintained a healthy percentage of muscle mass- under the circumstance. Nonetheless, his body mass index is lingering on the verge of underweight, so his physicians are going to assure him high calorie diet once we know he can stand thick liquids or solid foods. Especially with the L5 he's sporting. His cognitive awareness seemed adequate, but again, we'll have to run tests. Speech and occupational therapy probably won't be necessary-"

"Miranda," Jacob murmured. "Do you ever just stop and think about how he'll feel? The man lost two years of his life. He left behind friends and family."

I spouted off my rebuttal almost instinctually. "No records of significant others. Only surviving family member is a mother. No recorded biological father. Stepfather was buried in late March of 2183."

"Jeez, Lawson," he released an almost sympathetic laugh, and rubbed his temples. Albeit, I thought I caught a trace of condescendence, like he were trying to maintain his patience. "Not everything is a logbook. Shepard is a human being. Which means he feels things." I sat up and opened my mouth to protest, but Jacob lifted a hand to stop me. "I get it, okay? You're just giving me the facts. Two years of history, two years of people he loves moving on without him. He's gonna feel like an alien."

"Like he needs a place to fit in the world," I surmised, frustrated. "I understand."

More than you know, I added silently.

Jacob smiled again, flipping on the autopilot and leaning back into his own seat. "He's going to have a ton of questions."

A/N: You guys, I feel terrible. My delay on this is terrible, so I will understand any potential backlash. Heh, sorry. I, um, baked cookies for y'all. Of course, I can't bake, so they essentially taste like bricks. "I just hope it was worth it."

Also, have any of you read Losing Even That by .D? I have to say, it's rather fantastic. It's a great, in character, well thought out depiction of everyone and everything that happens during Mass Effect 2. Not to mention, her Shepard is hilarious. So if any of you are interested in some awesome, quality Shep/Miri reading, head her way. It certainly won't disappoint you.

And V-rcingetorix's Early Discovery is a pretty fascinating spin on how things could pan out for humanity if they discovered the Mass Relays a bit earlier. So check it out.

Adieu until next time, everybody. Hope you enjoyed it. And comments questions or concerns, leave it in a review or PM.