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badgersprite · 6 years

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Fic: Desiderata (2/?)

Chapter Title: Aftermath

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: Some graphic imagery people may find disturbing, allusions to past child abuse, references to character death.

Chapter Summary: In 2185, Samara joins the crew of the Normandy, and Miranda doesn’t waste time in evaluating her new squadmate. However, Samara soon picks up on the fact that Miranda is distracted by more personal concerns. In 2186, Miranda wakes up to confront the stark reality that awaits her after the war, including the extent of the injuries she suffered in the shuttle crash, and the question of whether anyone else from the Normandy survived.

Author’s Note: From this point on, the story is essentially going to alternate between the present (post-ME3) and ME2, with a few other flashbacks to various relevant points in Miranda’s life interspersed for good measure. Just to clear up any possible confusion, every single Miranda/Samara flashback is taking place in chronological order. All good? No worries!

* * *

A day never went by that Miranda didn’t update The Illusive Man on their status. It was essential that he was kept informed of all material facts at all times. That included any weaknesses Miranda observed in Shepard’s team.

Stopping the Collectors was paramount. Preventing more humans from disappearing was too important to be compromised by anyone. They had to remain on track no matter the cost. Hence, it fell to Miranda to identify whether the very individuals they were recruiting could potentially imperil that.

Fortunately, it seemed their latest acquisition’s integration with the crew was progressing smoothly so far. But that didn’t make her exempt from scrutiny.

Miranda distractedly typed on her datapad as she entered the Starboard Observation Deck, scarcely taking notice of Samara, who sat in the centre of the room with her legs folded beneath her, bathed in a blue biotic glow.

“Jacob told me you’d requested a room with a view,” Miranda said as the doors closed behind her, without raising her head. No thought was spared for whether she might be interrupting Samara’s meditation. That didn’t matter, and it wasn’t her job to care. “I assume this will suffice.”

“Yes,” Samara answered, content. “It is peaceful here.”

“Soundproof walls, for the library,” Miranda offhandedly explained, wishing her room shared the same insulation. Being right next to the mess hall meant she was frequently disturbed by chatter and ambient noise. Genetically enhanced hearing had its drawbacks. “But that’s not pertinent to why I’m here; I’ve nearly finished my mission report to The Illusive Man.”

“You work quickly,” Samara noted, her radiant aura flickering under the light. A shade over three hours had passed since they brought her aboard.

“I work to my ability,” Miranda brushed her comment aside.

In truth, she was running later than she would have liked. Her ordinary routine had been disrupted when she was ordered to sickbay to ensure she wasn’t suffering side-effects from Minagen X3 exposure at the Eclipse hideout.

“I just have a few questions to ask you,” Miranda continued, intent on making up lost time. “Have you seen Kelly Chambers and Doctor Chakwas?”

“Yes, both of them, separately,” said Samara.

“Good.” Miranda checked that off. She would chase them up for their preliminary assessments shortly. By now, they both knew the tight schedule Miranda preferred to operate under, so she didn’t expect they would keep her waiting long. “Do you have any issues working with Cerberus?”

“No,” Samara replied, as still as a statue

“You’re sure?” Miranda pressed, her tone conveying her mild scepticism. Cerberus had been branded a terrorist organisation. She wasn’t familiar with the Justicars and their beliefs but she doubted they looked fondly upon such things.

“I am aware that Cerberus is reputed to have engaged in criminal activity. However, rumours are not evidence. I intend to judge your organisation for myself, not based upon the word of others,” was Samara’s serene response.

“That makes you more reasonable than most,” Miranda remarked. Finally, someone who talked sense.

“Even if I do observe such accounts to be true, it will not interfere. Defending humanity from the Collectors is a noble cause. I could not have allowed myself to join you if my presence could place your mission in jeopardy,” Samara assured her, electing to address Miranda’s justifiable misgivings in their entirety. “I have sworn an oath to Commander Shepard. I am bound to her decisions, and must carry out her orders until I am released from her service.”

“Even if her orders violate your Code?” Miranda queried with an astute quirk of her brow, suspecting that risk factor couldn’t be dismissed out of hand.

“…Yes,” Samara answered without inflection, though her hesitation did not evade Miranda’s shrewd perception. She left that item unmarked, not convinced that she could rely on Samara to remain loyal if such circumstances arose.

“You’re aware that the team we’ve assembled consists of several criminals – assassins, mercenaries, thieves, whatever Jack is,” Miranda commented with casual disregard. She’d long since grown accustomed to the fact that criminal background was one area in which Cerberus didn’t discriminate, though she certainly wouldn’t have complained if they chose to be a little more discerning in future. “If you’re going to work with us, we can’t have any problems.”

“You are asking whether I might pose a danger to those persons, or if I would be tempted to kill them if provoked,” Samara inferred, having anticipated that inquiry. Miranda’s silence confirmed her intent. “I will not.”

“That makes one of us,” Miranda muttered under her breath. They tested her patience sometimes. Samara did not react, maintaining her perfect posture. “Unless you have anything to disclose, that’s all I had to cover.”

“Not at this time. If I become aware of any matter that may affect the mission, you have my word that I will inform you at once,” Samara vowed.

“Glad to hear it,” Miranda approved, holding her to that.

For a woman who had been willing to massacre her way out of a police station a few hours ago, Miranda had to admit Samara was surprisingly easy to deal with. She’d displaced Thane as the quickest, most painless interview to date.

“Do not hesitate to come to me if there is anything else you require,” Samara cordially continued, never changing her tranquil tone of voice. “You will not be imposing. It has been many years since I have worked in concert with others. I would be pleased to lend my assistance wherever I can.”

“I...appreciate that,” Miranda thanked her, an act that did not come naturally to her. She was not in the habit of expressing gratitude; it was a rarity aboard this ship that anyone warranted it. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll leave you to it,” said Miranda, her focus already shifting to the dozen other tasks she had on her plate that she planned on finishing by the end of the day.

“I beg your pardon,” Samara spoke up when Miranda turned to exit, prompting her to pause and glance over her shoulder. “I do not believe you ever told me your name,” Samara pointed out, unoffended by the oversight.

Miranda blinked, quickly scouring her memory before realising that Samara wasn’t lying; she couldn’t remember introducing herself at any point. “Miranda Lawson. Operator of the Lazarus Cell,” she remedied her omission.

“Miranda,” Samara gave a respectful nod of her head, bidding her farewell.

Sensing the conversation was at an end, Miranda returned to her office, paying no attention to anyone else as she passed through the crew deck. She sat down at her desk, transferring her draft report from her datapad to her laptop.

Only one section remained to be finished: Miranda’s personal evaluation of Samara. That involved recording her overall opinion of Samara as a prospective teammate, and disclosing to The Illusive Man whether she perceived any risk factors that might make her a liability in certain circumstances.

Miranda revisited their short conversation, replaying it in her mind as she pondered her analysis. Her fingers rapped rhythmically on the desk, contemplating the sole unresolved question on her checklist.

Could she count on Samara not to stab them all in the back if they failed to adhere to her Code, even if violating it was necessary to save human lives? Nobody else on the ship knew what her Code entailed. It was entirely possible they could break it unwittingly, and that Samara might be compelled to take action against them for even the most innocuous of breaches.

However, Miranda wasn’t about to waste The Illusive Man’s time with baseless speculation. It didn’t assist him to be told of a hypothetical scenario which he had surely already foreseen. That wasn’t why he sought Miranda’s judgement.

Anyone could threaten the mission in theory. What he needed to know was whether that danger existed in reality. And did it? For the first time, Miranda wasn’t sure one way or the other. All she had to go on was Samara’s word, given her own observations of the woman were limited up to that point.

Samara had said that Shepard’s orders took priority over her Code when it came to stopping the Collectors. Normally, Miranda was predisposed towards caution, since it was better to be safe than wind up dead, but, in this case, she didn’t detect any deceit in Samara’s assurances of fealty. She didn’t strike her as a liar, nor as someone who lacked the insight to predict her own behaviour.

After a brief pause, Miranda reached her conclusion: ‘There is no indication that Samara’s subservience to the Justicar Code places our operations in jeopardy or compromises her in the field. I have no concerns about working with her.’

Comfortable with that answer, Miranda allowed her mind to wander as she jotted down a concise closing paragraph. It wasn’t often that she gave her companions aboard the Normandy a second thought, beyond their contributions to the mission. Not even Shepard. But Miranda had to admit, having someone like Samara aboard the ship was a refreshing change of pace.

Frankly Miranda wasn’t used to people being so cooperative with her. It was rare that her instructions weren’t met with some form of antagonism. And, unlike Thane, who was equally polite, Samara didn’t ask irrelevant questions or provide ambiguous answers when a simple yes or no would have sufficed.

Needless to say, Miranda was an excellent judge of character. She trusted her instincts. And, when it came to Samara, her first impressions were largely positive. And why wouldn’t they have been?

Samara was intelligent, composed and rational. Focused. Disciplined. Humble. Courteous. Restrained. Temperate. Dedicated, self-sufficient and competent, with nearly a millennia from which to draw wisdom and insight. And, unlike some asari, she didn’t come off as smug or condescending when interacting with other species. Nothing about her demeanour struck Miranda as false or insincere.

Miranda could respect a woman like that. Those were the sorts of qualities she would have liked to have seen in more of her teammates, given the option.

As if to drive home the point, her reflections were immediately shattered by raucous laughter outside her door. Miranda’s jaw tensed at the nuisance, the latest in a long line of repeated incidents. Her tolerance wore thin. She got up and stepped out into the mess hall to see what the fuss was about.

Several crew were hanging around the table, including Garrus, Donnelly and Joker. Judging from one of the gestures she saw, they seemed to be trading raunchy anecdotes. Miranda folded her arms across her chest, annoyed.

“Am I the only one who does any work around here?” she asked, cutting through the conversation like a knife, attracting several stares. “What are you doing? Why are you all sitting around making arses of yourselves like human colonists aren’t being abducted as we speak?”

“It’s called dinner, Miranda. Have you heard of it?” Garrus wryly remarked. It was hard to tell with turians, but he seemed to be smirking. “Some of us even require it to live. Maybe you don’t.”

“You can’t eat while you work?” said Miranda, ignoring his jibes. That was what she did, and she didn’t make a commotion doing it.

“Actually, no, I can’t,” Joker replied, gingerly adjusting himself in his chair to sit more casually. “EDI would lock me out of flight controls if I worked through a mandatory break. She says it ‘affects my performance.’”

“I just worked my third eighteen hour shift this week,” Donnelly pointed out, mildly intimidated though he was by Miranda. “Err, not that I’m complaining.”

Miranda rolled her eyes, recognising that she couldn’t kick them out, even if they were being disruptive. “Fine. Take your break. But if any of you are still here at one minute past the hour, I’m writing you up,” she warned them, making certain they knew she was serious before returning to her office.

“You know, she’s been on so many field missions lately, I almost forgot what a massive bitch she is,” Joker muttered in an aside.

“Did you also forget water is wet?” was Garrus’s reply, eliciting chuckles.

Miranda didn’t care, sighing in irritation and running a hand through her hair when the door closed. Why couldn’t everyone on this ship do her a favour and collectively agree to never talk again? It wasn’t like it would be any great loss.

Come to think of it, maybe Miranda did have good cause to go back to the Starboard Observation Deck sooner rather than later. If nothing else, at least it was quiet there, and she could probably rely on Samara to keep it that way.

Besides, anything Samara had to say would surely be vastly more interesting than the drivel that most people on this ship had to offer, even if that wasn’t a particularly high threshold to exceed.

* * *

“There's no time! We have to get her to the OR!”

Movement.

Miranda's head spun. Groggy. Flat on her back. Racing. Surrounded. People.

She couldn't open her eyes. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely hear. She tried to tell them, but her lips didn't move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn't ask for help.

Or, maybe she did, but the ringing blocked it out.

“We need intravenous antibiotics, stat. And someone get the ultrasound. We've got to get this medi-gel off.”

Where was she? What was happening?

Confusion clouded her thoughts, faint echoes of memory stirring to the surface. Desperation. Desolation. A crash. A crater. A glow. A glimmer of hope.

Samara. Where was Samara?

“Shit. Her pulse is dropping. We're losing her again.”

The world was creeping further and further into darkness. Slipping away. Diminishing. Fading. Waxing and waning like the phases of the moon, or the ebb and flow of the tide. Threatening to surrender her to eternal silence.

Kuh-hhhhh.

What was that noise?

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her ear was still ringing. Loud. So loud that what little else she could hear sounded like it had been crushed beneath the deepest trenches of the ocean.

But she detected speech. Muffled. Scarcely intelligible.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“We may have been too late. Her system is on the verge of shutting down. Even with a full course of antibiotics, I can't promise her body can fight it off.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“You don't know her. She’s no ordinary person.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

That voice. Who was he?

Kuh-hhhhh.

“You’ve seen the state we’re in. We don’t have enough resources to spare. We have to make the hard choices. Even if we do keep treating her, her chances of survival are...maybe ten percent, at best. Think of how many other lives—”

“Don’t you dare talk about other lives like they’re already worth more than hers! She’s alive right now, and you’re willing to write her off like she’s as good as dead over a one in ten? No way. You can’t give up on her like that!”

Kuh-hhhhh.

Recognition seemed to dance past the edges of her fingertips. Miranda tried to reach for it, but it eluded her grasp. She fell under the waves, swallowed beneath the surface, adrift, stranded on the sea of shadow.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. Everything faded in and out like half-remembered dreams. A million faint drops would coalesce into one constant stream of noise, rushing by so fast that she couldn’t keep up, and yet it seemed to be frozen in place, making it appear as though no time was passing at all.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her mind filled with fragmented visions that just as swiftly scattered into dust and vanished into thin air. Collectors. Cerberus. The Normandy. The Citadel. Shepard. Her father. Oriana. Niket. Jacob. Samara. The war.

Her entire life. Her past. Her future. Everything she ever could have been.

Memories. Fantasies. Reality. She couldn't distinguish one from the other.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Faces leered at her in the mists. Her team. The ghosts of their demise.

She relived it all in gruesome detail, watching the people she’d led to Earth perish under her command. Unable to intervene. Cursed to lament everything she could have done differently. Powerless to put right her mistakes.

Bright eyes turned to ash, incinerated in flames. Skulls exploded under sniper fire. Flesh and bone burst like grapes beneath rampaging brutes. Viscera poured from gaping holes where banshees impaled their victims, lifting them off the ground, ripping their jaws clean off their skulls while they screamed.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Ms Lawson! Stop! Don’t leave me!”

She turned and looked back, realising a member of her crew had fallen behind, tripped up by the debris, but it was too late. Husks descended on her like a pack of wild dogs, clawing her limb from limb. They literally tore her apart.

Her harrowing howls marred Miranda’s very soul, emblazoned on her conscience like a branding iron. The ringing in her ear grew louder.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Help me...” the wounded soldier begged her, clutching at her with the last of his strength, strapped into his seat. “Please. Please help me. Please.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” she told him, knowing it was futile.

“You could have saved me,” he mumbled, his throat gurgling as his hand clamped down on her wrist. His skin began to rot, every inch of his tissue withering and decomposing. Maggots crawled from his eye sockets, wriggling down to his thin, desiccated lips. “You just left me there. Why didn’t you help?”

Miranda had no answer for him.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Goddess, heed my prayer.” Miranda emerged from her daze, roused by a familiar presence. “Do not call her to your embrace. Not yet. Not now.”

Miranda felt a tender touch on her left arm, below her shoulder. She tried to stir by flexing the tips of her fingers but to no avail. She couldn't move her hand.

Was this real?

Why couldn't she feel her fingers?

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I came to Earth expecting that you had chosen this to be where I met my end, as the rest of my order met theirs on Thessia. Yet here I stand, unscathed, while Miranda...” Samara’s breath faltered, unable to say it. “I do not understand.”

Kuh-hhhhh.

Miranda heard her speak, yet she could barely comprehend the words that left Samara’s lips. It was as if language held no meaning, or she had forgotten how to make sense of it. Her mind felt so heavy inside her head.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I beseech you: if you must take a life, take mine. I offer it freely, if it would spare hers. My life for her life. My years for her years. Please. For my many sins, I deserve none of your mercy. But...Goddess, if you would grant me any wish, I beg of you, do not take her. She is young, and has so much...”

Samara's voice faltered. Her words failed her. Her hand was trembling.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Miranda tried to take a breath to tell her it was okay, but couldn’t. She couldn’t even swallow. Her throat hurt. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“Why do you do this? For centuries, I have asked you, and yet you never answer my prayers. Why am I spared? Why do you punish those who least deserve it when I am right here? Why do I survive while all around me perish?”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“My daughters. My bondmate. My Order. My friends. So many innocents. They all suffered for my failure. Yet I linger on. Weak. Weary. And for what purpose?”

Kuh-hhhhh.

“It should have been me...It always should have been me...”

Miranda didn’t hear Samara utter anything more.

Her awareness dissipated into the aether, until it was altogether gone. And yet, when it returned, it felt like only the merest blip of a moment had passed.

Kuh-hhhhh.

That strange sound stirred at the fringes of her consciousness.

Kuh-hhhhh.

What on Earth was that? And why wouldn’t it go away?

Kuh-hhhhh.

No. No, this wasn’t right. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t lie there like this.

Kuh-hhhhh.

It all came back to her at once. The shuttle crash. The pilot. The wasteland that stretched on forever, toying with her like a predator toyed with its prey.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Hopelessness. Despair. Death loomed over her, an ever-present spectre, taunting her with the imminence of her own impending doom.

Kuh-hhhhh.

There was no escape. No food. No water. No rest. No relief from the pain.

She wouldn’t last another day. Not like this.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, compelling her not to submit. Not yet. Not now. Not after she had come so far in her desperate fight for survival.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She had to find help. Fast. She would die if she didn’t keep moving. Enough bodies littered the streets to emblazon that harsh fact on her nightmares.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She tried to raise her arm, to no avail. Her cheek twitched, contorting in discomfort. “Nnngh.” Her throat tightened on an obstruction. Was she choking?

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

Instinctively, she resisted, aching to remove the blockage from her windpipe, but her body wouldn’t respond. When her head shifted, it felt like the whole planet collided with the moon, sending her equilibrium spiralling into orbit, unable to gain a sense of balance, of which way was up and which was down.

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

Panic mounted in her chest, her heart rate spiking, immobilised, paralysed, unable to break free from what felt like a ten tonne weight on top of her.

Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

“Easy, Miranda,” a voice came to her. A man’s voice. Familiar. Comforting. Someone gently gripped her right hand, as if in a promise that she wasn’t alone. “Take your time. You don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Mmnh....” Her fingers tensed. She couldn’t open her eyelids.

Kuh-hhhhh. Kuh-hhhhh.

“It’s alright,” her nameless vigilant assured her, sensing her distress. “Don’t worry about anything. You’re safe now. And you’re going to be okay.”

Strangely, when he said it with such softness, she believed him.

Kuh-hhhhh.

“I’m right here,” he whispered to her, almost too quiet to hear beneath the ringing that lingered unrelenting in her ear. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “And I’ll be by your side when you wake up later. I promise.”

Tentative though she was, she allowed her body to relax and sink into the clouds, trusting that someone was watching over her, and wouldn’t let her go.

Kuh-hhhhh.

A sense of peace emanated from her core, chasing away the restlessness.

And then all was still.

Until...

Kuh-hhhhh.

Light.

White light.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Why was it so bright?

Kuh-hhhhh.

That noise was back, but it was fainter now.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Her right eye fluttered open. An indistinguishable haze filled her sight.

Kuh-hhhhh.

She blinked, and blinked again, the blur above her gradually coming into focus.

Kuh-hhhhh.

A ceiling. White walls chipped and degraded, but intact. Beams of sunlight filtered in though a window, maybe ten feet away. It was dim and dull, but it hurt to be met with the rays. Miranda groaned and avoided looking that way until her vision adjusted, keeping her head squarely tilted to the right.

After being on the run from Cerberus, assessing her surroundings was an instinct. It didn't matter that Miranda's skull was pounding; her addled mind figured out exactly where she was almost as soon as she took it in.

She was in a hospital. That didn't take a genius to deduce. A quick glance confirmed that other patients shared this makeshift medical ward. There were eight, including her, crammed into the one room.

There was a drip hooked into her arm, and something was covering her left eye.

Kuh-hhhhh.

Ah. That explained the sound. Three patients had ventilators beside their beds.

Not everyone was comatose, though. She made eye-contact with the patient directly across from her, but he rolled onto his side and went back to sleep, ignoring her. Apparently he wasn’t in the mood to answer her queries.

Miranda wasn't intubated, but there was something attached to her nose. A nasal cannula? A quick touch confirmed her suspicion as correct. Why did she need one of those? She wasn't having any trouble breathing.

She winced, cobwebs and a pulsing headache preventing her mind from operating at full speed as she tried to piece together what had happened. She couldn't remember, or differentiate the memories from the dreams.

Ugh. What time was it? And what day? She couldn't see a clock anywhere.

Miranda attempted to get up, but the only response from her nervous system was pain, which forced her to abandon that idea before she had moved more than a few muscles. Every bone in her body hurt. Some worse than others.

Then it dawned on her.

Visions returned to her in a flood. Her last waking moments emerged from the fog. She remembered Samara gathering her in her arms, rescuing her, like something out of a fantasy.

Miranda inhaled sharply. There was no way that could have been real. The odds of Samara finding her were a million to one. Smaller, actually. But there Miranda lay, in a hospital bed. How could she explain that, if not by Samara’s intervention? By all rights, she should have been dead.

Come to think of it, how was she alive?

Miranda glanced down, keen to evaluate her condition. She hadn't been able to properly examine any of her injuries after the crash, much less tend to them. Still, she was under no illusions about how serious her wounds had been. She didn't imagine the damage to her limbs had miraculously healed overnight.

Her right arm was fine, hooked into a drip and a heart monitor. She couldn't see either of her legs well enough for her liking, what with both of them covered by the blanket, which was a little frustrating. But they seemed okay.

Her left arm was...

Miranda’s eye widened, and her mouth went dry.

She didn't have a left arm. Not anymore. It was cut off above the elbow.

...Oh.

Shaking off her shock, Miranda tried to inspect the amputation site, but her shoulder ached too much to raise even that reduced weight off the bed. The stump at the end of her bicep was wrapped up in a dressing. There were some slight blood stains on the bandages. Leakage. Seepage, from the stitches.

Huh. Well...this was new.

Once she got over her initial stunned reaction, Miranda had to confess that this outcome wasn’t unexpected, given the mangled state her arm had been in before she lost consciousness. It had gone too many days without treatment. For the rest of her injures, it was much harder to predict how bad they might be.

She couldn't hear out of her left ear, or see out of her left eye. A definitive diagnosis as to why would have been preferable. In light of her missing limb, Miranda was braced for the worst. God, her face stung on that side, though.

She reached up to touch her brow, wincing when her fingers met gauze. It covered her eye, her ear, her cheek down to her mouth. That was discouraging.

If there was one thing Miranda detested, it was feeling powerless – like she wasn't in control, and couldn’t do anything to seize it. Being in the dark about the status of her own body? Yeah, that amounted to being out of her comfort zone.

She didn't know a damn thing about where she was or how she'd gotten there or how many days had passed. All she could remember was Samara's voice, and the shape of her silhouette above her as she lifted Miranda up out of the crater.

Was it true? Had Samara really discovered Miranda's broken body? Or was that encounter nothing more than a figment of her imagination as she lay exhausted, on the verge of death? They’d spent a lot of time together on the Normandy, more than any of the others knew. If Miranda was going to conjure up false visions of a saviour, Samara would have been a leading candidate.

Either way, the only thing Miranda was sure of was that she had to get out of that bed as fast as possible. Other mysteries could wait. She had to get back out there. She had to know what kind of world she'd awoken to, and find out if anyone else from the Normandy had escaped the battle with their lives.

Shepard. Jacob. Samara. Everyone. Anyone.

Miranda tensed, her throat tightening on mounting bile and dread.

When they stood together for that photo in Shepard’s apartment, Miranda knew chances were slim that she would live to take another. At most, only a scant few of those faces would remain after the dust settled. It was simple maths.

Miranda had come to Earth certain that she wouldn’t be counted among the lucky ones. It was too much to expect that they’d win, let alone survive. She’d accepted her death long before she ever set foot on the battlefield.

Yet there she was, on the other side of the vanishing point. So many things that should have killed her...somehow hadn’t. She was still here.

But what about the others?

If Miranda was alive, despite the odds, did that mean...?

No. She couldn’t be the only one left. She’d already lost her whole team. She couldn’t go through that again. Not with them. She just...She just couldn’t.

Suddenly, a shadow at the foot of her bed caught her attention.

Miranda turned her head, causing the figure to jump, startled by her movement. A medic stood there, a hand to her heart. Miranda hadn’t heard her enter, thanks to the constant piercing tinnitus that resonated in her right ear.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were awake,” said the woman, calming her nerves after that surprise. Miranda scanned the stranger, gauging her. She didn't look like a doctor or nurse, nor a member of the military. A volunteer? “Can you hear me?” the medic asked. A fair question, if she’d been out for a while.

“Yes,” Miranda answered, trailing into a cough. Her voice sounded different, unfamiliar to her. Raspy. Scratchy. Her throat was sore, which indicated a tube must have been inserted recently. It wasn't pleasant. She cleared away the discomfort before continuing. “But you’ll have to speak up. My ear’s ringing.”

It was good to hear herself say that, even if her left side did seem deaf as a post. At least her mental faculties were more intact than her body.

“Wonderful. I'll go and fetch the—“

“Before you say anything else, I need information. Don't interrupt me. Just tell me what I want to know. And keep it concise,” Miranda commanded brusquely, despite her fatigue slowing her speech, determined to gain insight into her current circumstances. That was where Miranda was in her element.

“Uh...okay?” the medic stammered, evidently compelled to comply. Even confined to a hospital bed, Miranda possessed that air of authority that prompted obedience. Good to know she hadn't lost that trait.

“We're still in London, correct?” Miranda ventured, believing it safe to assume they wouldn’t have flown her elsewhere.

“Yes. You're in St. Mary's,” the medic confirmed.

“St...What...?” Miranda wondered if she’d misheard. Bloody hell. Just how short of a distance had she covered in her efforts to crawl away from the crash site?

The medic nodded. “Given the high number of casualties, our first step was to occupy the centre of London and reopen as many medical facilities as we could. For the most part our efforts have paid off.”

“The most part?” Miranda sharply echoed. That was a faint endorsement.

The woman sighed. “In truth, most hospitals are in ruins. The majority of people who need help are out on the street in field hospitals because we're short of beds. But you were a high priority patient. So it’s...lucky you were so unlucky.”

Miranda chose not to respond to that. “How long have I been here?”

“A week, I believe,” the young woman replied. “You've made a remarkable recovery. Given how poorly you were when you arrived...well, the average person who came to us in your condition would have been out far longer,” she said, oblivious to the guarded expression her words elicited.

The average person would have been dead. But Miranda wasn’t average.

Her genetic code gave her the edge. It always did. There was no mistaking that it was the sole reason she had withstood her wounds. Her father’s perpetual legacy. It made it hard to process the appropriate reaction. She couldn’t feel proud, since she couldn’t take credit for it. So was she supposed to feel guilty that other people didn’t have the same undeserved advantages? She didn’t.

Perhaps that ambivalence was why Miranda couldn’t find it in her to form any particular emotional response to her survival at all. Not happy. Not sad.

She didn’t feel anything. It just...

It was what it was.

“Yes, that’s right, your chart says you've been here for eight nights, Ms Lawson,” the medic continued. “I remember when they brought you in. Even a few minutes later and you would have...” She trailed off, evidently reconsidering whether it was wise to disclose that to a patient who might find that news distressing. “All I can say is thank God Justicar Samara found you when she did.”

At her name, Miranda froze.

“What?” she spoke breathlessly, not daring to believe it.

“Justicar Samara,” the woman eagerly repeated. “She's incredible. Her efforts to look for survivors out beyond where anyone else dares to tread have been tireless. Dozens of people owe their lives to her. Hundreds, even.”

“...Including me,” Miranda quietly acknowledged. The medic didn’t address that, but it was etched on her face that that was beyond dispute. "Where is she?”

“Out there, as always,” the medic told her, gesturing to the window, and the destruction beyond. “She said her Code demands that she must not rest while she is capable of averting the suffering of innocents. Or words to that effect.”

A relieved smile slowly unfurled across Miranda’s lips, all lingering incredulity evaporating. Yep. That was definitely Samara.

Miranda was a woman of facts, not emotions, but words couldn’t describe how she felt then, rendered speechless to realise that it hadn’t been a dream. It was confirmed. Samara was alive. Miranda wasn't alone.

Honestly, that meant far more to her than her own survival ever would. It wasn’t even close. Miranda couldn’t be happy for own sake. But for Samara? For her friend? Bloody oath, she could. And she was. No confusion. No ambivalence.

“Don't feel too bad that she’s not here,” a warm voice followed from the doorway. She recognised it instantly. Miranda would have sworn her heart stopped when she heard him, only to start again when she spied him standing in the corridor, watching her contentedly. “She stayed as long as she could."

The sheer gratitude that coursed through her veins at the sight of him was beyond compare, almost beyond comprehension. “Jacob...”

He flicked his fingers at her, halfway between a wave and a salute. “Hey.”

In that moment, she was glad that she had never been the most expressive individual. Were she any different, Miranda didn't imagine her response to seeing Jacob there unharmed would have been in any way dignified.

“It's okay. You don't have to say anything,” Jacob assured her.

“Right,” Miranda murmured through the gravel in her throat. He didn't need to hear it because Jacob already knew. Everything she felt now was no doubt exactly what he’d experienced when the doctors told him Miranda was going to make it.

Words weren't essential. They couldn't tell each other anything they didn't already understand. And Jacob knew Miranda better than to permit redundancy.

“Ugh. My face hurts,” Miranda half-groaned, recovering the wherewithal to speak, briefly touching her bandage between her cheekbone and her eye.

Jacob snorted as he stepped inside. “Yeah, you think?”

Miranda sent him a feigned glare as he approached. In retrospect, it was probably best to try not to smile until her burns healed a bit. “Could you leave us?” she addressed the medic. She and Jacob had a lot to discuss. Privately.

“Um, now that you're awake, I should call the doctor in to see you.” Aside from getting a full update on her health, waking up likely meant they would be keen to shuttle Miranda out of there as soon as they could manage it. After all, the medic had made it plain that they needed every available bed they could get.

“Don't worry about that,” Jacob said, casually folding his arms across his chest. “I won't be in your way for very long, I promise. Just give us thirty minutes to catch up. That's all we need.” Miranda nodded, silently vouching for that. Perhaps some people would have wanted longer, but half an hour would suffice.

Jacob and Miranda had been friends for...was it coming up on four years now? Perhaps that wasn’t significant to an ordinary person, but that was the longest continuous bond Miranda had formed with anyone, by quite a large margin.

He wouldn't sugarcoat the truth or tiptoe around the facts. Not for Miranda. He understood her like few others did, if any. No matter what she asked him and no matter how hard the reality was to confront, she knew she would get an answer she could trust. For that reason, Jacob was exactly the right person to field her myriad questions, and there was no one she'd rather hear it from.

“Well, alright,” the medic acquiesced, not cruel enough to deprive them of their reunion. Friendly faces were a rare thing following the devastation the Reapers had left in their wake. It was only humane to grant them this small solace.

The medic stepped out into the hallway, leaving the two of them alone. Well, aside from the other patients. But Miranda didn't care if they eavesdropped.

“So what happened to you?” Jacob ventured first, taking up a seat on the right side of Miranda's bed, which was closest to the door. It must have plagued his mind ever since Samara found her out in the wasteland.

“I got caught in a shuttle crash. The Reaper guarding the Conduit shot us out of the sky,” Miranda calmly filled in the blanks, piecing together the seconds before the explosion. “If it had hit us straight on, I doubt I'd be here. Luckily, it just grazed the pilot's side. Her body must have shielded me from the blast.” Miranda paused, glancing down at her left arm. “Well, not all of it, obviously.”

Jacob chose not to indulge that remark. “I'm going to take a wild guess and say your landing didn't go too smoothly either.”

“Can't say. Wasn't conscious,” Miranda spoke frankly, forcing herself to sit partially upright, resting her back against the headboard. Sore as she was, even that minor adjustment hurt. Jacob knew her too well to bother offering assistance, correctly anticipating that she would have refused. “Given how the shuttle looked when I woke up, I'd say that's an understatement.”

“I can imagine,” Jacob mumbled, plainly drawing his own conclusions about the severity of the crash. The proof was permanently scarred into Miranda’s flesh. “How in the hell did you survive out there for days in the state you were in?”

“With great difficulty,” Miranda muttered, gingerly clutching her shoulder.

Jacob shook his head at her in amazement, not quite ready to laugh but managing to summon a small smile. “Somebody should have warned the Reapers it takes more than that to keep Miranda Lawson down.”

“Not much more,” Miranda conceded. This had nearly been enough.

“Yeah, but you made it. Who cares about anything else?” he said, resting his hand on her uninjured shoulder. And he was right, she supposed.

There was nothing to gain from fixating on how close she’d come to death, or on why so many others had been slain while she hadn’t. What mattered was that she'd pulled through. Now, she had to focus on more pressing concerns.

For starters... “...What happened?” Miranda asked him, keen to unravel the many facets of the recent past that remained totally shrouded to her. “How did it end? I was knocked out; I didn't see anything but the aftermath.”

“I don't know for sure. Nobody does. I'll tell you everything I've heard, though.” Jacob leaned forward in his seat, tenting his fingers together. “The Reapers were destroyed, right down to the last husk. I bet you figured that out days ago. But it wasn't without a cost.” He took a deep breath before reluctantly expanding on that ominous statement. “Something went wrong; the Crucible backfired.”

“Backfired?” Miranda repeated, arching the eyebrow that wasn't covered in gauze at his ambiguity. Jacob’s gaze was evasive. “Tell me,” she urged.

He shook his head, his expression grim. He looked tired. Resigned, even.

“There was this...explosion of energy from the Citadel. Pretty much any ships that couldn't get out of Earth's orbit in time got annihilated. And on the ground? I saw entire buildings obliterated, like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate what he’d witnessed. “Hell, people too. When the wave hit, they just...disintegrated. All we find are their shadows. Sometimes not even that.”

“I don't understand,” Miranda interjected, struggling to wrap her head around this. “I wasn’t that far from the Conduit. We were all right below the Crucible. If it caused that level of destruction, how is it that any of us survived?”

“Don't ask me; you're the smart one.” Jacob shrugged.

“I was being rhetorical, but you seriously can’t even volunteer a theory?” Miranda retorted, not particularly impressed by his blase response.

“I don’t know. It only seemed to get people who were out in the open. Maybe it's because you were sheltered by the shuttle, maybe not. But we didn’t...” Jacob hesitated, his posture drooping, staring at his feet. “Nobody thought anyone was left after that. Not where you were. Not when we saw whole buildings fry.”

Miranda regarded him strangely, not sure what he was getting at.

“Samara was the only one who looked for people that close to ground zero. For a while, anyway,” Jacob elaborated, audibly regretting his role in that. “It wasn’t until she started bringing back survivors that our rescue teams joined her.”

A shiver ran down Miranda’s spine. “You mean me?”

“Nah, you weren’t the first she found.” Jacob lifted his head, grateful for Samara’s persistence in the face of scepticism. “But it makes me wonder how many people died because nobody listened to her. Because you could have been one of them,” he finished, remorse glinting in his eyes, blaming himself for having written Miranda off when she was out there on her own that entire time.

Miranda swallowed pensively. So that was why she had crawled for so long without any sign of another living soul. No shuttles. No tanks. No voices.

If not for Samara, nobody would have come for her.

Miranda already knew she owed Samara her life, but it made her wonder. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence that she had stumbled upon her. Samara would never have searched for her to the detriment of anyone else, of course, but maybe she had deliberately concentrated on scouring the areas near where Miranda was last seen, committed to either finding her, or else confirming her demise.

That was the sort of thing friends did for one another, wasn’t it?

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Miranda pointed out, staying focused. “A shockwave that powerful should have killed everyone in London. Surely somebody can explain why we aren’t all a pile of ash right now?”

“No, they can’t, and I don’t care,” he countered, his tone taking Miranda aback. “We're stretching ourselves thin enough as it is. We can’t even begin to count the dead, much less figure out why some died and others didn't. Scientists can debate it and get their PhDs off the back of it later, I guess. But I don't give a rat's ass. Not when I'm still pulling the corpses out of the mud.”

“Fair point,” Miranda acknowledged. They were in crisis. Their cycle had nearly ended, and they were all who were left to pick up the pieces. There were crucial priorities to contend with before they could ponder more abstract issues.

“Sorry. You had every right to ask. I'm just...” Jacob trailed off, shaken by the horrific events he'd been exposed to over the past fortnight. He soon elected to get back to business rather than ruminate on it. “Most of our galactic forces were wiped out, but we have a lot of folks stranded here from every species. Well, every species except the geth,” he corrected himself. “There are no geth.”

Miranda’s brow creased. “No geth?” He didn't say, 'All the geth are dead,' or 'We haven't found any geth.' Jacob's exact words were, 'There are no geth.'

No ships. No platforms. No programs. Nothing.

“How does an entire species cease to exist?” Miranda asked, baffled by the sweeping implication. “You're telling me they've been...what, erased?”

“Yeah, that about covers it,” Jacob matter-of-factly confirmed. “Whatever the Crucible did to the Reapers must have taken them out as well,” he reasoned, though it was clearly speculation on his part. “Shame, too. You know I was never the biggest fan of the geth, given my experiences, but we could have used them. I mean, they can work non-stop and they don't tire or get sick or need to eat.”

“But the Reapers are gone,” Miranda pressed.

“All of them. For sure,” he gave his word.

At that, Miranda dared to release some of her tension, relaxing against the wall behind her. Perhaps it was harsh to deem the loss of the geth insignificant but, when it came to stopping the Reapers, no sacrifice was too extreme.

If one species had to die in order to preserve the fate of every other species that would ever come to exist in this galaxy, then that was a price that had to be paid. Even if that meant wiping out humanity, Miranda would have said the same thing. They all knew that peace would come at a grave cost, if it would come at all. What mattered now was protecting those who had prevailed.

“Good,” Miranda said, bolstered by the knowledge that they were safe from any further cosmic threat. “With the Reapers exterminated, we should see an influx of aid from the other homeworlds. Yes, they have their own problems, but they can afford to send it. There are survivors from every Council race here; they have an obligation to provide disaster relief, if not for us then for them.”

“Miranda...” Jacob sombrely cut her off, looking her square in the eye, bearing a heavy burden. “The Crucible didn't just destroy the Reapers and the geth. It also destroyed the mass relays. They have no way of getting to us.”

His answer made Miranda's blood run cold. The mass relays? No. That couldn’t be right. Oriana was on Horizon, thousands of light years from Earth. Without the mass relays, how would Miranda ever get there? How could they...?

Oh, God. If the mass relays had been destroyed, then...

“Jacob. The Alpha relay...” Miranda felt her heart pounding, the most horrible thought imaginable stirring chaos in her mind. “When the asteroid hit it, it took out an entire system. If the Crucible did that to every other relay—“

“No. That didn't happen,” he assured her, firmly quashing her fears.

“How do you know?” she challenged through gritted teeth.

“Because we’ve received messages from other systems through the comm buoys, though the network is shot to shit so bandwidth is extremely limited. By all accounts, only ships that were very close to the mass relays when they blew apart were destroyed. Your sister should be fine,” he told her.

Miranda ran her hand through her hair amid a heavy sigh, willing an unshed tear not to trickle from her eye. If all but a few ships were intact then that meant Oriana shouldn't have been in any danger. For that, she was infinitely thankful.

Nothing was more terrifying to her than the prospect of life without Oriana.

“Hey, it's okay.” Jacob clutched her right arm in reassurance. “I know. Believe me, I do,” he murmured, fully grasping what she was going through.

Of course, Miranda thought. Jacob had a child on the way. A child who, without the mass relays to bridge those colossal distances, Jacob might never get to see, or speak to, or hold in his arms. This must have been killing him.

If only they'd spent more time perfecting the Crucible, gathering more intel—

Miranda stopped, regaining her wits before grief got the better of her composure. Facts first. Feelings could wait. Now was not the time to let paralysis set in.

“What about the others?” Miranda spoke up, her tone professional, endeavouring to leave her fear of being separated from her sister temporarily to one side. “Samara's alive. I know that much.” Miranda counted her blessings on that, thinking back on their conversations on the Normandy, and the rapport that had evolved between them. “How is she? Does she seem alright to you?”

“If I was half as strong as she was, I’d be doing good. Nothing bends her. Nothing breaks her,” Jacob said, admiring her for that. Miranda gave a short nod. It meant a lot to know Samara was okay, not just physically but emotionally, to the extent that anyone could be given what they’d endured.

“Did she say when she’ll be back?” Miranda wondered, eager to see her. Not only was Samara her closest friend from the Normandy apart from Jacob, but she owed Samara her life. That was a debt that could never be repaid.

“No, she never mentioned. Both of us are always coming and going without notice. I haven't bumped into her in a few days, though,” Jacob nonchalantly answered, unable to give specifics. Miranda's features twinged beneath her bandages. “Don't take that as a bad sign. It just means she's busy rescuing people.”

That response wasn't sufficient to dismiss Miranda's apprehension, but she chose not to dwell on it. Maybe Jacob was right; maybe Samara had been visiting her bedside every day, just at times when Jacob wasn’t around.

“Have you found anyone else?” Miranda asked.

“From our crew? No.” He shook his head. “I mean, there's Wrex from the original Normandy. He's keeping the krogan in line. And, uh, you know...I can't confirm anything, because I haven't heard from her, but I have to figure Kasumi's fine. She never got anywhere near the fight. She just worked on the Crucible. Other than that, everyone else we know is MIA for the time being.”

“But no confirmed deaths?” Miranda noted, inferring as much.

“We haven't found any bodies. Or, if we have, we haven't identified them.” Jacob's voice didn't betray it, but Miranda could tell he was keeping the faith that the others would turn up alive. Maybe he hadn't believed it before, but Miranda's survival appeared to have rekindled his hope for the best.

“...Alright, then.” Miranda nodded, not so heartless as to deny him that small mercy, even if she knew it wasn’t realistic. With anyone else, she would have been brutally honest, but she cared about Jacob too much.

Besides, Earth was a big planet, and there were thousands of ships strewn throughout the solar system. Other members of their old crew could be out there, living on stored food and water, too far away to have made contact. Not all of them, of course. But one or two, maybe. That was better than zero.

...Great, now Miranda was starting to fool herself into becoming a bloody blind optimist too. False hope didn't suit her.

“Yeah, well, that's half the story, anyway.” Jacob muttered humourlessly, earning a curious glance from Miranda. “When I say everyone is MIA, that’s...You should know, Admiral Hackett confirmed that Commander Shepard was in the Crucible when it fired. Right at the centre of the blast. Admiral Anderson too.”

“Makes sense,” said Miranda. "I always thought that, if anyone was going to stop the Reapers, Shepard would be the one to do it. That’s what she does.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m telling you.” The sobriety on his face spoke volumes. She hadn't been awake when the wave of destruction devastated the city. She hadn't seen what he had. “Believe me, I don't say this lightly: there is no way anybody could have survived being on the Citadel when it went off.”

“Isn’t that what you thought about me too?” Miranda pointed out. “Shepard has accomplished things nobody thought she could before. She can’t...”

Jacob didn’t argue with her. He didn’t have to. His stark silence said it all.

The gravity of the situation rapidly sank in. Jacob wasn’t lying.

Miranda’s stomach churned, triggering a sharp pain in her chest. So, Shepard was gone. That was...difficult to comprehend, despite the fact that Miranda knew firsthand that Shepard's life could be snuffed out as easily as anyone else's.

Shepard had died once before. So why didn't the possibility of that happening again seem real? It wasn't a surprise. It wasn't unexpected. But it felt wrong.

Shepard was dead. Miranda couldn't help but feel like the universe had been fundamentally and irrevocably diminished. Yet the Earth was spinning normally. Life went on. The sun rose and fell as if nothing had been lost. But it had.

People like Shepard were...

No. There were no other people like Shepard.

“I'm afraid that's not all.” Jacob clasped his hands together, prepared to deliver more bad news. Miranda signalled for him to go on. Things could hardly get any worse than what he’d already told her, could they? “The Normandy is lost.”

Miranda paled. “Lost?” she said, struck to the core by his admission.

Miranda was as far from sentimental as could be, but it didn't seem possible. Miranda had gone into the fight expecting to die, and she had absolutely believed that every last member of the crew would willingly make the same sacrifice if it came to that. But to lose the ship hurt more than she'd anticipated.

And then there was EDI.

People often talked about ships as if they had a mind of their own. The Normandy actually did. Miranda had never previously believed that an AI should be considered a person, but EDI was the counterargument that had altered that view. Irrespective of any abstract concepts of what constituted ‘life’, EDI was unique – an individual unlike anyone else, before or since.

After everything the Normandy had steered them through during the suicide mission, this was how it ended? It wasn’t fair. And what about Joker? What about Garrus? Liara? Tali? Chakwas? Daniels? Donnelly? Adams? Traynor? Vega? Cortez? Losing EDI was bad enough, but everyone stationed aboard—

“Lost as in lost,” Jacob intervened, sensing she had assumed the worst. “We have no idea where it is, and we haven't heard a peep. They've just...vanished,” he said, not sure what to make of that. “No wreckage, no bodies that we know of. But we lost all communication with it after the Crucible fired.”

“What?” Miranda's one-eyed stare narrowed in abject confusion. “They're linked to Hackett’s ship by quantum entanglement. If the Normandy exists at any point in the universe and has power, they should be capable of sending messages.”

“Yeah, but they aren't, though.” Jacob reiterated, stumped for an explanation. “I don't know what else to tell you. Until we hear otherwise, that's the situation.”

That didn’t exactly lend itself to a positive interpretation. Either the Normandy had been destroyed, or it was too damaged to function, which was as good as a death sentence unless they’d landed on Earth. There was nothing to say where they might have ended up, or if anyone would ever discover the wreckage.

“What about me?” Miranda asked at last, unafraid to broach that grisly subject. Gingerly, she pushed herself forward into a proper sitting position, wincing as she did so, adjusting to only having one arm with which to balance her weight.

“Take it easy; you just woke up,” Jacob noted, respecting her space, but keeping watch in case she was expecting too much from herself too fast.

“I can manage,” Miranda assured him somewhat stonily, resenting her frailty. She hated being sidelined, which made being injured an inconvenient state of affairs. The sooner she bounced back and could go contribute something useful, the better. Jacob was glad to see she hadn't changed. “How am I?”

“You weren't doing so hot when Samara brought you in,” Jacob admitted, a shadow momentarily flickering across his features. “Nothing the docs couldn't handle, though. They patched you up nicely.”

Miranda fixed him with a stern look. “Jacob, you do realise that I have, in fact, noticed my arm is missing?” she deadpanned, unimpressed by his efforts to soften the blow. “I have tinnitus in one ear, I'm deaf in the other, and half my face hurts like hell. Don’t coddle me; save your understatement for someone else.”

Jacob chuckled at her scolding. Of course Miranda didn't need to be comforted. She wanted to hear the full extent of the damage she'd sustained in the crash, and her prognosis for how quickly she would recuperate.

“Well, your face hurts because you suffered some nasty burns there, plus minor ones to other parts of your body. But you knew that,” Jacob straightforwardly began, aware that Miranda would rather be slapped hard by reality than patronised. “Could have been a lot worse, but your eye wasn't so lucky.”

“I probably should have mentioned, I think I got shot there at one stage,” Miranda casually chimed in, as if they were discussing the weather.

“That must be why it couldn't be saved. They had to remove it.” Miranda nodded, perfectly fine with that. “You haven't got much of an ear on that side either. A lot of the outer cartilage was burned off, and your eardrum was perforated. I'm guessing that's the ear you meant when you said you're deaf on one side.”

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Miranda facetiously cupped her intact ear.

Jacob snorted, lightly punching her in the arm. “Fuck off. I’m just going to assume I always need to talk to you from the right from now on.”

“At least I finally know what my good side is. It was always a curse being so symmetrical,” Miranda dryly quipped, unfazed. Jacob smirked, glad to see she was taking it in stride. He probably hadn't expected anything different.

“You tore your rotator cuff in your left shoulder. That'll take some healing,” Jacob continued, listing off everything he could remember. “As for the rest of the arm, well...the problem was, by the time they got to it, infection had already set in. Your arm was basically dead below the elbow. Amputation was the only course.”

“I anticipated that,” Miranda acknowledged. "I could have lost a lot more.”

"Yeah, you could. But your forearm got twisted around so much that it had virtually detached from your body. That might have been what saved you,” Jacob postulated. “Anyway, it's not going to hinder you in the long run. You know how far cybernetic limbs have come in the last couple of years.”

“Not by choice, but Kai Leng was quite eager to acquaint me with his enhancements. But prosthetics can wait,” Miranda filled in on his behalf. With Earth in disarray and countless casualties, that wasn't a priority. “Keep going,” Miranda encouraged, not forgetting that there was more. She wanted a full report, from head to toe. “How are my legs?”

“Better than the rest of you,” Jacob summarised. “Your right one is fine, but your left knee is busted – torn ligaments, stuff like that. Problem is, that falls under the 'elective' category. Hopefully, the worst of it will heal up by itself. But, put it this way, I wouldn't make plans to start wearing heels again any time soon.”

“Slap a pair of crutches on me and I'll be right as rain,” Miranda practically scoffed as she spoke. A busted knee barely warranted mentioning after all of that. “Well, one crutch,” Miranda belatedly added.

Jacob’s expression shifted, like he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or bemused. “This isn’t a criticism, but...you’re processing all of this way too well.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can change what happened to me,” Miranda noted with a nonchalant shrug, perplexed by the implication that her reaction ought to be otherwise. “Besides, disability and disfigurement are hardly the end of the world. They’re a fact of life that have formed part of the human experience for as long as there have been humans. There’s no need to be melodramatic.”

“Maybe not, but I think you owe me an apology for snapping at me before. You're the one brushing off these injuries like they're nothing,” Jacob commented, crossing his arms, not that he was shocked by her hypocrisy.

“They are nothing. I’m fine,” Miranda insisted.

“Whatever you say, Two-Face,” Jacob countered.

Miranda dismissively rolled her eye. “Okay, so my left side isn't what it used to be. So what? I'll cope. Other than what you've already told me, what else is there to keep me here? Superficial cuts and burns?”

All levity fell from Jacob's face, his complexion turning pale grey.

“What?” Miranda prompted at his stark silence, beginning to grow annoyed.

“...Miranda, you had sepsis,” Jacob solemnly revealed, his features deadly serious. He swallowed, finding it hard to confront those stomach-churning memories. “You’re recovering, but you...You nearly went into organ failure.”

His words were strikingly bleak, and his directness left Miranda appropriately chastened. She hadn't realised it was that dire. For the first time, Miranda grasped just how terrified Jacob had been that he was going to watch her die.

“Samara told me you’d stopped breathing when she got you to the paramedics,” Jacob went on, dodging her gaze, no longer able to deny how close he’d come to burying his best friend. “Any slower, and it might have been too late to resuscitate you. Hell, even after you got out of surgery, you were so far gone that the doctors were going to take you off life support, until Samara stepped in.”

Miranda creased her brow. “Stepped in how?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, suddenly remembering the bitter taste of ash and dust in her throat.

“She said, if they stopped your treatment, they would be sentencing you to certain death. Her Code would consider that attempted murder, and she would be compelled to prevent it, by any means,” he recounted, oblivious to the bewildered look that befell Miranda. “I made sure they knew she wasn’t joking.”

Miranda glanced aside, troubled. Her insight into Samara’s Code was limited, but...threatening doctors didn’t sound like something she would do. Then again, Samara would never act other than in strict accordance with the Code, much less misrepresent it. Maybe Miranda had misjudged its tenets.

“That’s three,” Miranda softly muttered, prompting Jacob to utter a confused hum, not following her. “Three things Samara did to save my life.”

“Yeah, well, you ever scare me like that again and you’re gonna answer to my left hook,” he warned, with the kind of tone that only came from a genuine bond. “Seriously, the way you stress me out can't be good for my heart.”

“Really? Mine's fine,” Miranda remarked, tilting her head at the monitor as proof.

“One of these days you're going to be the one worrying about me. And when that day comes, you're going to be – what would you call it? – a blubbering wreck,” he playfully teased her, imitating her accent, poorly.

“First off, that was cockney; that’s not even close to how I sound. And, secondly, I don't think 'blubbering' is in my genetic sequence,” she replied.

“Liar.” Jacob wore a knowing smirk, wagging a finger at her. “I was there on Illium, when Shepard talked you into meeting your little sister.”

“Clearly you're an unreliable witness,” Miranda persisted with a mock huff. “I recall being perfectly composed that entire time.”

“Your concussion must have been worse than I thought. Looks like your memory isn't quite as sharp as it used to be,” he joked, tapping her lightly on the head. “Excuse me, nurse, the patient is exhibiting signs of delusional thinking—“

“Get out of it.” Miranda swiftly swatted his hand away. “On second thought, Jacob, I can guarantee that I won't be a blubbering wreck if you end up on an operating table because, at this rate, I'm going to be the one who put you there.”

Jacob snickered. “I’d deserve it, too, but it’d be worth it.”

Miranda tried to feign vexation, but she couldn’t. Having Jacob’s company made a world of difference in these dark times. Their relationship had never been simple, especially after they broke up, but after all they'd been through together they were practically family, with all the ups and downs that entailed.

As a consequence of her upbringing, companionship was exceptionally rare for Miranda. In thirty-six years, there were no more than five people with whom Miranda could say she had formed any kind of intimate personal connection: Niket, Jacob, Shepard, Oriana, and Samara. That two of them were alive and on Earth with her meant far more than she would have thought up until a year ago.

And yet, there was one absence that could not be so easily overcome. The most important person of all. Even the other four combined could never fill that aching hole. Not through any fault of their own, but because they weren't her.

Her sister – her genetic twin.

She couldn't banish the thought of Oriana, stranded out there on Horizon. With the mass relays gone and the comms down, the colony must have descended into total panic. It set her teeth on edge to imagine what she was going through.

Fear. Confusion. Grief. Mourning.

“Jacob...” Miranda sat forward, a horrible heartache swelling inside her, making her nauseous. But she couldn’t let herself faint. “Does Oriana know I’m alive?”

“I sent a message to her as soon as Samara found you, but public email service isn't a priority. Military and diplomatic channels take precedence when it comes to bandwidth. We're trying as hard as we can, but...” He trailed off.

There had been no progress. They were no closer to contacting the people they loved. And he couldn't tell her when that was likely to change.

Suddenly, the vast distances of the galaxy had become so much greater.

It had barely been a month since Miranda had wrapped her arms around Oriana outside the spaceport on Horizon, letting her thumb gently graze across her forehead, brushing stray strands of hair out of her sister’s eyes as she told her that this wasn’t goodbye. Was that the last time she would ever hold her?

With the Extranet crippled, there was no guarantee Miranda could get through to her. Even if she could, who knew how long it would take to reach Oriana?

Until they knew the answer to that question, time would be her prison. Through all her crushing isolation, Oriana could only sit there, held captive by the clock, waiting day after day for a call that may never come. And it was Miranda's fault.

Even if they lived another two hundred years, they might never set foot on the same ground again. If the mass relays couldn't be fixed, then they would never get to start that new life together that Miranda had dreamed of for so long.

“I lied to her, Jacob,” Miranda murmured. Vacant. Distant. “I promised I’d come back to her. But I was lying.” She shook her head, tumultuous emotions stirring inside her. “Our father killed her adoptive family. I'm all she has. I knew that. And I left her. I only just found her, and now it's possible I’ll never see her again.”

Jacob put his arms around her, letting her head fall on his shoulder. Miranda didn't cry. She almost never did, and this was no exception. But she felt a tightening in her chest that wouldn't go away. The guilt was suffocating.

“You aren't the only one breaking promises,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside her. “It's fitting. My father was gone for ten years. Longer, actually. He was never the most present guy, even when he was around. After I saw what he'd become, I swore...Well, no, I didn't swear not to be like him; I knew I wasn't. How could anybody be like that? Except here I am.”

“Jacob, don't say that,” Miranda protested, pulling away. How could he even think that? “You're nothing like your father. Not what he became.”

“Why not? I might be away from Brynn and our child a damn sight more than ten years,” he pointed out, gesturing at his surroundings indicatively. “I'm abandoning them, just like he abandoned me.”

“Your circumstances are somewhat different from his,” Miranda noted. Sympathy wasn't a trait she possessed in any great abundance, but she did demonstrate it occasionally. This was one of those moments. “You’re not your father and I’m not mine. He was a manipulative criminal. You’re not. He could have activated that beacon at any time if he wanted to come home. You can't.”

“Doesn't change the fact that I chose to leave. I knew I was risking a lot coming here to fight the Reapers, but I chose to be here instead of with them. Maybe I shouldn't have,” Jacob confessed his doubts, getting up and moving away from her bedside, his hands perched on his hips as he chastised himself.

“You don't mean that.” Miranda sat forward to try and catch him by the sleeve, but he stepped out of her reach, refusing to be consoled.

“I'm not sure what I mean,” he shot back, unable to distinguish between fleeting manifestations of grief and what he really believed. “You made the same choice. Are you telling me that you're certain it was the right one? If you could rewind time, would you still say that coming here to fight the Reapers was worth leaving Oriana behind? Is that how really you feel?”

“...I can't ask myself that. Not yet,” Miranda quietly conceded, a rare glimmer of vulnerability. “I’ve lost a lot to this battle, Jacob. Not just what you can see.” She glanced aside, not ready to talk about watching her team die. “Call it cowardice, but I'm not keen to examine the issue only to decide it was a mistake.”

“No, you're right.” Jacob sighed, regretting the tone he’d taken with Miranda then. “We are where we are. We're stuck here, and we can't change that. Beating ourselves up won't get us any closer to our families.”

“Would that it could,” said Miranda, her fingers combing through her hair. She and Jacob, they really were in the same boat, weren't they?

She wouldn't wish these regrets upon her worst enemy, much less her best friend, but that was out of their control. Jacob couldn't stem his pain, nor Miranda hers. They had both been separated from their only family, possibly for good.

If their grief was going to consume each of them, at least they could endure it together, sharing the load. Perhaps the despair wouldn't hurt so much if they faced it side by side. Or maybe carrying each other’s burdens on top of their own would make it hurt twice as much. But hey, misery loved company.

* * *

There was a rumour on the Normandy that Miranda never stopped working, but to perform basic necessities like sleeping and showering. Anyone who claimed to have witnessed her out of her office for anything other than a strictly functional purpose was assumed to be lying, or delusional.

While Miranda did nothing to dissuade the myth, there was one person who could have attested to the contrary: Samara.

Apparently nobody else noticed that, over the past several days, it was becoming increasingly common for Miranda to find herself wandering over to the Normandy's Starboard Observation Deck when she was finished for the day, or in the rare moments when she forced herself to take a break, or when she knew intellectually that she needed to sleep but couldn't convince her body to do it.

Why not? Miranda could hardly relax in her office, with her desk right there, judging her for not working while the bustle from the kitchen and mess hall filtered through her walls. She had to do something with her spare time, what little she had of it, and she wasn’t exactly inundated with myriad options.

The ability to be social was one trait her father had not instilled her with. In fact, he’d actively discouraged it. As a consequence, Miranda had grown accustomed to solitude and she never saw the purpose of rectifying that. Most people weren't worth her time, and giving them the benefit of the doubt usually proved that, if flotation devices ran on intelligent thoughts, theirs would sink like lead.

She doubted the Normandy’s crew would be surprised to learn that ‘mingling’ with them was something Miranda would typically only have done if forced at gunpoint – even then giving some weight to the merits of the bullet. She loathed idle chit chat, and almost everyone on this ship got on her nerves. Even the ones who didn’t began to grate if they lingered too long.

But Samara? She was the exception.

Unlike the others, Samara never forced her into a conversation. She was content to meditate undisturbed by Miranda's presence. She never felt obligated to fill the tranquil silence with superfluous small talk. They had spoken when the mood struck, of course, but it was never an essential requirement.

She could drift in and out when she wished. Samara wouldn't question her, or demand a reason. There were no expectations. Miranda could just exist, even more comfortably than in her own quarters, which was a welcome change.

Not to mention that Miranda quickly grew to appreciate why Samara had chosen this room as her sanctuary. She was right; it was peaceful. The view across the vast expanses of the cosmos compelled one to a contemplative mood. It was quite relaxing to sit back on the lounge with a cocktail in her hand and slip into introspection, gazing out at passing stars, planets and nebulae.

On that particular night, sleep eluded Miranda for another reason, and she sought harbour there again. It was late. Much later than any prior visit. Only a skeleton crew was awake to operate the Normandy's basic systems.

Miranda had opted to bring her work with her, burying herself in tasks she ordinarily would have finished hours ago, since she thought the pristine silence might help her concentrate and...distract from other things. Her typing didn’t seem to bother Samara, taking the absence of any objection as tacit consent.

In truth, Miranda was barely paying attention to her screen. Alas, taking refuge there wasn’t calming her nerves. Then again, what would?

She'd heard word that Oriana’s location had been compromised. Her father knew where she was, and he would stop at nothing to recover his lost investment. Luckily, Cerberus caught wind of the breach and had arranged to move Oriana out of harm’s way. But Miranda was tense nevertheless.

How the hell had he managed to track her down? On Illium, of all places? This didn't add up. She'd been so careful. But she supposed it was too late to worry about what she’d done wrong. All that mattered now was keeping him at bay.

That was why she had to be there. She had to ensure the transfer went without incident. She had to oversee it in person to make absolutely sure any risk to Oriana was quashed. She wouldn’t be able to stop fretting about her until she knew her sister was out of her father’s reach.

If her father got his hands on Oriana...No. Miranda would sooner die than let that happen. She would never fail Oriana like that. She would never forgive herself.

That was why nothing could be left to chance.

“Ah, fuck me dead,” Miranda cursed under her breath in frustration, realising she'd made a critical mistake in her work. An uncharacteristic lapse. Again.

Samara blinked. “What?” She turned her head in confusion once her words registered, the first time Miranda had seen her trance involuntarily disrupted.

“It's a...saying where I'm from. Don't worry about it.” Miranda waved her off. She hadn’t thought Samara was listening but evidently that harsh whisper directed at herself had not been so quiet as to escape detection.

Samara's mildly bewildered expression did not fade immediately, but she chose not to question that, regaining her poise and returning to her meditation.

Miranda hastened to proofread her analysis for more errors. It was no mystery why she'd faltered, preoccupied by her fears for Oriana’s safety that dominated her mind. And her mounting stream of mistakes only added to her stress.

This didn't bode well for the mission. Miranda couldn’t afford to be inattentive when Oriana was in imminent danger. If she was missing things now, what chance did she have of being in a better frame of mind tomorrow, operating on no sleep?

It was stupid. She shouldn't have been anxious. It was a simple relocation. Cerberus were already one step ahead of Henry Lawson. They knew he was planning to abduct her, and they would have made the necessary preparations to avoid him and his agents. Everything was going to be fine.

But what if it wasn't?

“Miranda...” At the sound of her name, she glanced up to find that Samara’s glow had faded, her energy dispersed. “Would you care to join me?”

“Join you?” Miranda echoed, unsure what she meant.

“In meditation,” Samara clarified, indicating a spot on the floor next to her. She seemed to have picked up on Miranda's unusually troubled countenance, despite how closely she guarded her thoughts.

“Why?” Miranda arched an eyebrow. “What purpose would that serve?”

“There are several benefits,” Samara calmly replied, unoffended by Miranda's curt response. “It may help you focus, providing you with a means to channel extraneous energy, which will aid in sharpening your mind.”

“Is that why you do it?” Miranda asked. When she wasn’t in the field with Shepard, Samara's entire life aboard the Normandy seemed to revolve around her meditation. It was only sensible to wonder what she gained from it.

“Not primarily, no,” Samara admitted, “But I did not expect you would find spiritual enlightenment to be a compelling motivation.”

“You thought correctly,” Miranda acknowledged. But, despite her misgivings, Samara did have a point; there were practical reasons for attempting it.

Miranda couldn't afford to not be thinking straight tomorrow. Snowing herself in with work was failing horribly, and at this rate she certainly wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night. Perhaps Samara’s meditation exercises would settle her down enough to alter her anxious mental state, like a form of self-hypnosis.

“...Sure, why not?” Miranda unenthusiastically acquiesced, moving to sit beside Samara, who seemed pleasantly surprised by that her suggestion had been heeded. Miranda didn’t think it was polite to announce that she was only giving in because she had no better ideas. “I have to warn you, this probably isn't going to work. The ability to switch off my thoughts was not programmed into me.”

“Thought is distinct from mindfulness,” Samara advised. “The goal of meditation is not to cease the former, but to obtain the clarity that allows the latter to flourish. And, if this does not come naturally to you, perhaps that is an indication that you would benefit more than most from learning the technique.”

Miranda didn't lose her scepticism, but she couldn't argue with that.

“If you're willing to teach me, I'm willing to try.” Miranda straightened her back, emulating Samara's cross-legged position.

Samara re-adopted her perfect posture, enveloped by a luminescent shroud. “Clear your mind and let your biotics flow through you. Sustaining them will assist in ridding you of distractions. I choose to do so by forming a ball of biotic energy, but perhaps you would prefer to levitate a small object to begin.”

“No. I can do it,” Miranda assured her. Her biotics weren't as powerful as Samara's but, in theory, she was capable of all the same feats.

Miranda surrounded herself with a comparatively faint biotic field, enhancing her senses, forming a tight sphere of energy between her palms, confident in her ability to hold it together. She soon understood what Samara meant; it took a great deal of willpower to sit stone still while keeping her biotics simultaneously charged and reined in. She couldn't afford to let her thoughts wander too far.

“Wait until your mind has quietened,” Samara continued when Miranda had stabilised her energies. “Then, you can shift your consciousness away from the physical, and reflect on that which has true meaning to you.”

Miranda's brow subtly twitched. She knew what had meaning to her, because there was only one thing that ever had: protecting Oriana.

She had sacrificed so much to get Oriana far away from her father, and she would do it a million times over in a heartbeat. She pictured Oriana confined to that gilded cage, forced to endure echoes of the same abuse Miranda had suffered at their father’s hands. Emotional. Psychological. Sometimes physical.

Miranda was never allowed to be a child. Not allowed to cry. Not allowed be frightened or angry. Some of her earliest memories involved her father’s endless dissatisfaction that his ideal creation hadn’t been born free of those innate emotional responses. Over the years, he’d set about drilling them out of her with ruthless efficiency, until they almost completely ceased to exist within her.

It wasn't like it was any better if she smiled or laughed. Whenever Miranda found something that brought her a shred of joy, her father would sneer at her, accuse it of being frivolous and take it away, denying her anything that he hadn't granted her or given her his express permission to partake in.

She’d never been held. Never been hugged. Any emotion Miranda expressed, she was punished for and taught to suppress, because it displeased him.

Her father never wanted her to develop her own feelings. She was simply meant to be an obedient machine, with no likes or dislikes that he had not instilled in her. In his twisted view, she was his property, right down to her very thoughts.

Miranda existed solely to be an instrument of his will. His restrictive rules and rigorous training were all designed to mould her into fulfilling his vision of a perfect clone who would parrot his beliefs and perpetuate his legacy. Vanity had compelled him to create her, because it was the closest he could come to influencing the future by ensuring his ambition continued after his death.

That Miranda was not a mindless vessel primed to be filled with her father's beliefs was surely his greatest disappointment. For the longest time, Miranda had thought that must have been why he'd decided Miranda had outlived her usefulness and elected to grow another. But, of course, discovering her infertility made it obvious that discarding her had always been his intention.

A replacement for a failed prototype. That was what Oriana was created to be. That was her purpose in his grand designs. Nothing more, nothing less.

Miranda imagined Oriana following the path their father had planned, being tormented by him until she became what he wanted her to be – exactly what Oriana could have been had Miranda not seen through his deception in time to escape with her. Barely less of a puppet than the Collectors.

Even if he didn't manage to brainwash her to bring her to heel, Miranda knew precisely what living under her father's relentless control could do to a person. He would take everything that was beautiful about Oriana and crush it because, to him, those qualities would be flaws. He would savagely punish failure and never reward success, because perfection was the minimum he expected.

Nothing Oriana did would ever be good enough for him. He would criticise every single thing she did, forcing her to adhere to his strict, often arbitrary demands until he finally erased every shred of her identity.

If she had grown up like that, there was no guarantee Oriana would have survived. Maybe she would have failed even earlier than Miranda. Not that the outcome would have been much better if she managed to achieve her father’s goals.

Instead of the happy, vibrant young woman that Miranda had seen in the limited glimpses she allowed herself from afar, her father would have raised Oriana to be cold, aloof, detached. He would have kept her isolated, friendless, deprived of social bonds, permanently hindering her ability to communicate with others, relate to them, or form normal emotional responses to interpersonal situations.

Just like he’d already done to Miranda.

All of a sudden, Miranda's bubble of energy burst, throwing her off-balance, though she instinctively stuck her arms out behind her and caught herself before she fell. The small blast didn't rouse Samara from her trance. It was almost like she'd expected the premature detonation.

Miranda cleared her throat, trying to regain some dignity. “I did warn you,” she uttered, disgruntled with her ongoing propensity towards failure as of late.

“It is alright. You saw something you do not wish to confront; something you cannot accept,” Samara stated, understanding why Miranda lost focus. “I will not ask you to discuss it. Your thoughts are your own. But learning to meditate on that with which you are not currently at peace rather than resisting it may aid you in attaining harmony. That is, if you choose to pursue it, as I have.”

Miranda sighed. She wasn't so sure she wanted to stare in the proverbial mirror any longer than she had. That part of her life was years ago, and it didn't accomplish anything to dig up the past. She couldn't afford to when such critical tasks were at hand. It would only disrupt the mission

Letting such things run rampant through her psyche when she had long since moved on with her life was irrational and, given her position as second-in-command aboard the ship, irresponsible. There was no sense dwelling on it.

“This isn't the best time,” Miranda declined. She was never going to be able to clear her head while her concern for Oriana dominated her subconscious. “After tomorrow, maybe. I might be in a better place. We'll see.”

Samara considered her response, but took Miranda at her word, believing it wasn't a mere excuse. She gave Miranda too much credit, because it was.

“If it would interest you, perhaps I could instruct you in the use of some of my biotic abilities,” Samara offered, maintaining her field with no strain whatsoever. She made it look effortless. If Miranda were pettier, she might have envied her composure. Instead, she admired it. “I do not know if we will have time to develop them to a combat-effective state. However—”

“I’m not averse to that idea,” said Miranda, “Though I can’t make any solid time commitments.” The jury may have been out on meditation, but taking the opportunity to improve her biotics was an objectively sensible decision.

The Collectors had nearly killed Miranda on Horizon. Shepard and Mordin too. Given what they were up against, she would have been foolish not to accept. And, considering that Samara was, so far, the only person on this ship whose company never vexed her, spending more time with her to gain the benefit of her biotic expertise wasn’t an unpleasant prospect.

“Very well. I look forward to it,” Samara sincerely replied, leaving it at that.

Miranda didn't realise it at the time, but that was when their friendship truly began.

* * *

“Jacob…” Miranda said warningly, her one-eyed stare unwavering.

“Miranda, no,” he steadfastly refused.

“Hand me the box, Jacob,” she commanded, holding out her arm expectantly.

“Look, I brought you a change of clothes and a crutch like you asked me to because I thought it would make you more comfortable here. But I am not going to help you escape, Miranda,” he told her, keeping a tight grip on the box. “You’re leaving this hospital when you’re good and ready. Not a moment sooner.”

“Good thing I heal fast, then,” Miranda remarked, smirking. “Besides, escape makes it sound like they have the authority to keep me here. I prefer to think of it as discharging myself.” Jacob was unamused. “Come on. This bed is uncomfortable, anyway. And the combination of boredom and tinnitus might actually drive me to strangle someone if I have to stay here another night.”

“Miranda, you can’t even handle food in your stomach yet. The only thing they’ve been able to give you to eat these past two days is…” Jacob trailed off, pointing at the untouched bowl beside her bed. “I mean, I can’t even call that soup. It’s water with flavouring. And you’ve still thrown up every single time you’ve eaten.”

“I’ve been lying here staring at the ceiling for over a week while they pump me full of morphine, sedatives and antibiotics. Lo and behold, they all cause nausea,” Miranda dismissively explained, brushing that off.

“Why do you hate being here so much?” Jacob asked, at a loss.

“Because I have nothing to do except lie here listening to my ear ring!” Miranda snapped, on the verge of losing her mind. “They won’t even let me walk to the bathroom under my own power. It's six metres away! But instead I have to press a button and call a nurse to take me there in a wheelchair like I’m a bloody dementia patient,” she grumbled, detesting that lack of autonomy.

“You don’t understand the concept of being sick, do you?” Jacob commented, unable to fathom that someone so intelligent was so staunchly committed to wilful ignorance when it came to her own limitations. “You’re not over your sepsis yet. If you were well enough to be outside, you wouldn’t be in hospital.”

“I’m more qualified than any of these doctors to declare myself fit,” Miranda retorted with an irritated huff, not at all entertained by his opposition.

“Not from any accredited university,” Jacob pointed out, earning a glare.

“Everyone who brought someone back from the dead raise your hand,” said Miranda, doing exactly that, confidently cocking her head. “How many people with a legitimate medical degree can say that?”

“Alright. Fine. Jesus.” Jacob sighed, reluctantly surrendering the box.

“He didn’t raise the dead; he rose from the dead. But I appreciate the comparison,” said Miranda, incredibly satisfied with herself, examining her fresh clothes. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some black pants, a grey t-shirt and some boots, but she supposed she couldn’t be choosy. Casual would suffice.

“This isn’t funny, and neither are you,” Jacob protested as Miranda carefully shifted her legs over the edge of the bed, removing the cannula from her nose and the sensors from her chest, which wasn’t easy with the drip still hooked into her arm. “You are nowhere near ready to get involved in post-war operations.”

“I’m injured, I’m not bloody useless,” Miranda insisted with an irritable scoff. “You need my help. You know you do. I’m not going to spend all my time confined to a bed like a vegetable just because I have one arm, one eye, one ear and a limp. That’s ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head at the absurdity.

Miranda possessed enough self-awareness to concede her cold-hearted reputation was not wholly undeserved, but she didn't require a great deal of empathy to recognise that there were countless others out there worse off than she was – people whose survival hung by a thread while vital resources, life-saving drugs and medical personnel were far too scarce to cope with demand.

The reality was that Miranda was not at death's door, and that meant she should no longer be a priority patient. Frankly, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Even one-eyed and one-armed, she could make a difference. She didn’t plan on hanging around waiting for non-urgent care before taking action.

Jacob paused, moving over to crouch beside Miranda, his fingers tented together. She peered at him, briefly halting her sensor-removal, annoyed.

“What?” she asked.

“Miranda, you need to admit you have a problem,” Jacob counselled her, putting his hand atop hers. “You are a workaholic; you are addicted to work,” he informed her, staging an intervention. “Seek treatment.”

“Have you ever noticed that it’s only humans who talk about people doing their jobs too well like it’s a problem?” Miranda observed, intrigued by that nonsensical mindset. “That’s what’s holding us back as a species,” she astutely declared, returning to the business of peeling off the last of the nodes.

She couldn’t stand this hospital. Every time Jacob left her alone, she grew restless. She couldn’t relax because there was nothing to distract her from the constant ringing in her ear. It was driving her insane. She needed something to do – something to take her mind off it. Anything. Or at least anything other than the memories of her dead team, or her misery at being separated from Oriana.

If Samara had come and visited her, that might have helped. But she hadn’t. Nobody had seen Samara in nearly two weeks, which was...well, Miranda was sure she’d have a good explanation for that when she ran into her.

Jacob stared at her, evidently realising that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping her. Once Miranda’s mind was set on a particular goal, she was virtually impossible to deter, even when said goal was contrary to reason.

“…You are literally the worst person I’ve ever met. And the only reason I’m still helping you is because I know you’re just going to climb out that window if I don’t, and I refuse to be responsible for you plummeting to your death,” he acquiesced at long last, gently taking hold of her wrist and extracting the drip and cannula from her arm, which she obviously couldn’t do on her own.

“You’re a good friend, Jacob,” said Miranda, her lips curling into a slight smile, glad he’d been persuaded to offer his assistance.

“If by ‘friend’ you mean 'accomplice’,” he remarked disapprovingly.

“Stop whinging and help me get changed,” she instructed.

He handed her some underwear, which she slid on, followed by pants, cautious not to aggravate her knee in the process. After that, she took off her hospital gown and gingerly pulled the t-shirt over her head, cautious of her amputated arm. The last thing she needed was to show Jacob she was in any pain.

“If you get stuck, I’m leaving you that way,” Jacob stated.

“I won’t get stuck,” Miranda insisted, wishing he would stop complaining so much. And, sure enough, she didn’t, guiding her stump through the sleeve while putting as little pressure on her torn rotator cuff as possible. That done, she slipped her right arm through and rolled down the hem of the shirt to cover her torso. A thought occurred to her. “Jacob, hand me your jacket."

“What for?” he asked, suspicious.

“Look, I know I’m not the only amputee walking around at the moment, but I’d rather not attract attention,” Miranda pointed out. On top of the limp and the facial bandage, she didn’t want to make it too obvious she hadn’t been cleared to check out yet. The more she could disguise it, the better.

Jacob cooperated, draping his jacket over her shoulders, concealing her missing arm, and buttoning the collar around her neck to stop it from falling off. Once she zipped up her boots, she was all dressed and good to go. She flexed her fingers on the handle of her crutch, tucking it beneath her shoulder.

“You ready?” Jacob asked, standing back, letting her do this by herself.

“Won’t know until I try,” Miranda said, hiding her hesitancy.

Despite what Jacob may have thought, Miranda wasn’t being rash or foolish. This would be her first attempt to walk in over a fortnight. Neither leg had been able to properly support her weight by the time Samara found her. She could only hope that she had recovered enough to manage this.

She got up, leaning on both her right leg and her crutch for balance. It felt odd, finally standing upright again. But that had been the easy part. Tentatively, she moved her left foot, readying her crutch for the act of taking a step.

Her left knee flared with pain, threatening to buckle. The shock of it prompted her to shift her weight back to her right foot as quickly as possible, overbalancing in the process. Fortunately, Jacob reached out to catch her by the shoulder, allowing her to lean on him as she regained her footing.

“Agh. I think I did that wrong,” Miranda hissed through clenched teeth, willing the ache in her knee to subside before her second attempt.

“This your first time using one of these?” Jacob asked out of curiosity.

“No. I just haven’t walked in over two weeks,” Miranda spoke sharply, frustrated with herself, and running low on patience. “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t suppose this will convince you to change your mind about staying here?” said Jacob, doubtfully. Jacob had seen her get beaten and tortured before. She hadn’t looked vulnerable then. She didn’t look it now.

“Not a chance,” she replied, refusing to be defeated by a god damn sore knee. “My grand escape might just be…slower than I’d planned.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t an escape,” he said, detecting the contradiction.

“Plans change,” Miranda quipped.

Jacob snorted. “Just so we’re clear, you owe me big time on this,” he told her, putting an arm around Miranda’s waist to steady her, although she didn’t require his assistance for more than a few shaky steps before she got the hang of it, after which point he let her carry on unaided. “No, seriously. I’m talking, 'indebted to me for the rest of your life’ kind of big.”

“Yes, extort the disabled woman,” Miranda remarked, rolling her eye as they came to the doorway. “You really want to do that, Jacob?”

“When it’s you, definitely,” he happily confirmed.

Miranda frowned. But, alas, she lacked alternatives. “Alright, fine. I accept your terms,” she surrendered, grimacing slightly as she shuffled forward. “Now show me the quickest way out of here, and fill me in on what I should know.”

“About London?” Jacob asked.

“That’d be a start.”

* * *

The doors to the Observation Deck slid open with a soft hiss. “Miranda,” Samara greeted her arrival, not needing to turn to confirm her identity.

“Good evening, Samara,” Miranda responded, her tone abnormally upbeat.

Evidently, it didn’t go unnoticed. “It would appear that what I have heard is true,” Samara deduced. Miranda tilted her head. “You spoke to your sister.”

Miranda snorted as she stepped inside. “Nothing can stay private on this ship, can it? Let me guess: Kasumi told you?” Samara's silence served as tacit confirmation. Miranda exhaled, unable to be mad about it. “It wasn’t planned. I always thought it would be selfish to interfere in her life. But then Shepard took me aside and said maybe it isn’t so wrong for Oriana to know she has a sister who loves her."

“And was Shepard correct?” Samara asked.

Miranda couldn’t fight off a smirk. “She can be.” The hint of a smile on Samara’s lips betrayed that she was pleased with that news. “Oddly enough, I don't think Oriana was even surprised when I walked up and told her who I was.”

“She shares your intelligence,” Samara noted, not shocked to hear that. “You have watched over her all her life. With such an astute mind, I do not expect she would have failed to perceive the evidence that she was not alone.”

“Nor do I. I don't think much gets past her.” Miranda chuckled under her breath, amused to discover that her sister's cheery demeanour belied a cunning wit no less incisive than her own. “We're alike in many ways. Identical twins often are, I suppose. But, at the same time, she's absolutely nothing like me.”

Miranda approached the window, gazing out at the stars as she replayed her conversation with Oriana in her head. Her skin still tingled, mesmerised by how it had felt to hold Oriana in her embrace for the first time in nineteen years. She could scarcely believe that this wasn’t a dream – that nothing was going to pop her bubble and prove her stolen shard of joy to be ephemeral.

“Oriana's just...she’s an amazing person,” Miranda all but gushed. “She's kind-hearted and funny, and I'm neither of those things. Which is good, because it means everything I did for her was right, despite what Niket said.”

“You mean keeping her away from your father?” Samara surmised.

At the mention of him, Miranda tensed imperceptibly. It was then that she remembered her place, coming to her senses and realising how much she was divulging to a colleague she'd known for less than a month.

“What am I doing?” Miranda shook her head at herself, conscious of how foolish she must have appeared in that moment. “I apologise. I shouldn’t be commandeering your time blathering on about my personal life.”

“You commandeered nothing,” Samara assured her, letting her biotic field fade. “It was freely given.”

Miranda didn't know if that was sincerity or courtesy. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but feel that to behave so casually with a work colleague bordered on inappropriate. Miranda was there to do a job. The Illusive Man expected her to be professional, and, more importantly, she expected it of herself.

“Look, I appreciate you helping me clear my head yesterday, but I'm not here to gain anyone's sympathy with some big sob story about my childhood,” Miranda spoke frankly. “Everyone has problems. I deal with mine on my own.”

“As you should, and as we all must,” Samara affirmed, respecting her independent streak for the admirable quality it was. “However, it is not folly to speak truthfully about oneself, nor is it selfish to accept advice when it is offered voluntarily, though I will refrain from doing so if you do not wish to hear it.”

“I didn't say that.” Miranda frowned, not wishing to create that impression. She enjoyed Samara’s company, and she didn't intend to carelessly toss it aside. “I’m just aware you have better things to do than listen to me talk your ear off. It's not why you're here. I'll go to Kelly Chambers if I want a therapy session.”

“Have you spoken with her about this?” Samara asked, curious.

“No, not yet,” Miranda answered. Frankly, she didn't like going to see Kelly, even though it was compulsory to do so when events warranted it. Events such as reuniting with a long lost sister and watching an old friend die in front of her.

It was hard to trust that a grown adult could be that bubbly and optimistic without hiding some kind of ulterior motive. Her relentless cheerfulness rubbed Miranda the wrong way. But as long as Kelly gave the tick of approval that Miranda was competent to perform her duties then it was fine, she supposed.

“Will you write to The Illusive Man about today’s events?” Samara inquired.

“I always do. I report everything to him,” Miranda confirmed. Up to and including the contents of everyone’s mail. But that wasn’t to be publicised.

“I am aware,” Samara acknowledged, accustomed to Miranda’s routine, given how often she brought her work over. “For reasons that may soon become apparent, I will be speaking with Ms Chambers shortly. Will you be including my subsequent psychological evaluation in your correspondence to The Illusive Man?”

“Yes, and I sent him your first one after you came aboard,” Miranda stated the obvious, seeing no reason to deny that fact. There was no boundary she wouldn’t cross when it came to keeping The Illusive Man informed as to the strengths and weaknesses of his team. “Is that an issue?”

“It is not,” Samara replied, unperturbed. “You are obliged to carry out your duties, and you would fulfil them even were I to object, as I would mine. As you should.”

“Good,” said Miranda, glad to hear Samara appreciated what it meant to have responsibilities, unlike most of the other people Shepard had recruited. Every time Miranda did her job, they seemed to interpret it as an act of malice.

“I do not believe I ever properly thanked you for your assistance, on the day we met,” Samara continued, arising from the floor and moving to stand beside Miranda, her posture tall and upright, hands clasped behind her back.

“For helping you find the name of that ship? I can't claim much credit,” Miranda admitted. It wasn't humility, just reality. “Shepard makes those choices. My role is to ensure her decisions are carried out successfully, and to give counsel that perhaps isn't heeded as often as it ought to be. But I can't complain. Commander Shepard has proven to be an effective leader, by any measure.”

“Indeed. And the information she uncovered with your aid has been invaluable.” Miranda looked at Samara then, but there was no joy or righteous determination in her expression. “I have tracked the Demeter’s course. The criminal I have been hunting for the past four hundred years disembarked on Omega. I intend to inform Ms Chambers of this shortly, and Commander Shepard.”

“But you’re telling me first?” Miranda noted, somewhat surprised by that. Nobody ever told her anything first. Even Jacob didn’t always seem to fully trust what she’d do with the information.

“I gave you my word that I would bring it to your attention immediately if I became aware of any matter that may affect the mission, or my role in it,” Samara reminded her. Needless to say, Miranda remembered that conversation clearly. “I do not give my word without intending to keep it.”

“Huh. I didn’t think you meant that so literally but...thank you. I appreciate it,” said Miranda, impressed. Samara was nothing if not principled. She’d long since proven that Miranda’s initial instinct to show faith in her was well-placed. “I could pass this on, if you wanted,” she offered, since it would save Samara the trouble.

“No,” Samara politely refused, her speech devoid of inflection. Almost...hollow. “This is something I must discuss in person.”

“If you insist,” Miranda accepted that, even if she did find Samara's solemnity incongruous. That being said, Samara’s reasons for taking her pursuit so seriously were none of Miranda's business. She didn't need to interfere.

She was a Justicar, after all. Maybe they were always like this.

“Since we’re on the subject, there’s something I still haven’t managed to figure out about that day: would you really have killed Detective Anaya if we hadn’t secured your release?” Miranda asked, finding it eerie to ponder that the serene woman before her was capable of resorting to such extremes without remorse.

“Yes,” Samara answered plainly, as if that should have been self-evident, making eye-contact with Miranda. “Would you not be compelled to do the same if you were detained, thereby preventing you from obtaining crucial information concerning the Collectors, or from saving your sister from your father?”

Miranda arched an eyebrow. Was that a rhetorical question? “If there was no efficient alternative, yes. I would do whatever was necessary to escape. Of course I would.” Except, unlike Samara, she wouldn't have given them a day.

“Then you understand why I could not have done otherwise, though I would deeply regret each life I was forced to end. In those circumstances, to be merciful would be misguided. To deviate from The Code would tacitly permit a grave injustice,” Samara explained. Rational, not emotional. Much like Miranda.

“I guess that's my next question; what constitutes grave injustice according to your Code?” Miranda inquired, folding her arms across her chest, gauging Samara. Even though they'd spoken several times, she ultimately knew very little about her and the strict way of life she adhered to. “You remember that Eclipse mercenary Shepard let go – against my judgement, I might add. Would you have killed Detective Anaya if you were hunting her?”

“No. In most situations where pursuing a criminal would cause an innocent to come to harm, I would be required to break pursuit to save the innocent,” Samara told her, much to Miranda’s approval. It was a relief to hear that The Code was amenable to reason on that account. “Do not mistake my candour for ease; if ever I must resort to taking an innocent life, know that it is because the consequences of failing to do so would cause many more to be slain.”

“Is one, lone criminal that dangerous?” Miranda wondered aloud, inclined to be sceptical. After all, if she was some sort of terrorist or mass murderer, her reputation would have preceded her.

“Yes. This one is.” A faint shadow of sadness crept into Samara’s tone. Her gaze dipped, her eyes avoiding Miranda's once more. “Had I cowed in the face of my duty, the innumerable deaths that may have followed would be my responsibility, to an even greater extent than they already are.”

“What do you mean?” said Miranda, intrigued by her strange choice of words. What cause did Samara have to blame herself for the actions of another?

Samara remained silent for a long, heavy moment, visibly struggling with her thoughts, and whether or not to speak them. Eventually, she did.

“There is a rare condition, affecting only pure-blooded asari like myself, known as Ardat-Yakshi Syndrome,” Samara began, without facing her. “It manifests at maturity, rendering its sufferers unable to meld without fatally attacking the nervous systems of their partners. This experience is intoxicating – more addictive than any narcotic. Once an Ardat-Yakshi has tasted that euphoria, she inevitably craves it above all else, and will stop at nothing to attain it. She seeks out more victims to mate with, ensnaring their minds, feeding on them like prey.”

“How come I've never heard of this?” Miranda asked, perplexed. Surely this phenomenon would have been well-documented.

“That is no accident. Asari rarely speak of it, even among our own kind. Because of the danger they pose, Ardat-Yakshi are isolated from society. As such, the chances of encountering a rogue are negligible,” Samara replied, her tone unchanging. “Nevertheless, if other species were to become aware that there are even a minute number of asari who will murder any and all who meld with them, one could only begin to imagine the fear and hostility that would engender.”

“That's hardly a consolation for the people who get drained dry. I mean, these asari are sexual predators, in every possible sense. Their potential victims can't protect themselves from something like that without knowing the risk exists. Yet you make it sound like you condone this secrecy,” Miranda inferred, taken aback by that. She would have expected better from Samara.

“What I do or do not condone is irrelevant,” Samara responded, continuing to stare ahead, avoiding Miranda’s direct line of sight. “What I described is merely the prevailing view.”

“I see.” Miranda withdrew her objection, dropping the issue. It wasn't fair to blame Samara for the attitudes of other asari. After all, Samara seemed determined to ensure this wasn't swept under the rug, and that innocent people were protected, regardless of their species or what corner of the galaxy they were in. “So, the criminal you're hunting is an Ardat-Yakshi?”

“Yes,” Samara removed any doubt.

“You said you’ve pursued her for four hundred years. How many people has she killed?” Miranda asked, intrigued to learn more about Samara’s quarry.

“I cannot answer that question. However, if I provided you with a conservative estimate, the number would be so high that you would swear I was deceiving you,” Samara stated, her melancholy eyes remaining firm as she spoke.

Miranda knew better than to suspect Samara of exaggerating. It had already become abundantly clear that speaking falsely was counter to her nature.

“Only pure-blooded asari can have this disease,” Miranda recalled, glancing aside as rather a grim prospect occurred to her, one that might have explained why Samara took this hunt so personally. “Are you an Ardat-Yakshi?”

“No, I am not.” Samara shook her head. Miranda unconsciously relaxed a tiny bit. Not because she would have thought any differently of Samara if she did have such a condition, given that she obviously wasn't a danger to anyone who didn't deserve it, but— “However, I am a carrier of the syndrome.”

“A carrier?” Miranda echoed, blinking as the puzzle pieces swiftly fell into place. “She's your daughter,” Miranda voiced her abrupt realisation aloud.

“That is correct,” Samara regretfully confessed, letting her head dip slightly, her features reflected in the window against the vast, cold void beyond.

“...Oh,” was all Miranda could utter in reply. Not that she was particularly shocked, she was just...blank. She didn't know what to say. How did people normally react to being confronted with a private revelation of that nature?

“You are the first person I have shared this with aboard this ship,” Samara continued, saving Miranda from having to stitch together an appropriate choice of words at that news. “I would prefer that this remain between us, until such time as I can explain my circumstances to Commander Shepard. It is crucial to me that she appreciates why I can not afford to delay.”

“Of course. You don't even need to ask,” Miranda assured her. It went without saying that this story wasn't hers to divulge. “Nobody will hear about this from me without your consent.” Not even The Illusive Man, Miranda added internally.

“I thank you for that, most sincerely,” said Samara, genuinely grateful that Miranda took her confidence seriously. “Take heart in the fact that you will not have to keep your silence for very long. This matter is of the utmost urgency.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Miranda responded, certain Samara would not abide any needless delay. Every moment she waited was giving her daughter another opportunity to snatch an unsuspecting life away. “I still have to finish my report about what happened on Illium today. If you'd rather speak to Yeoman Chambers right away, I can put off my appointment until after you’ve seen her.”

“Very well.” Samara bowed her head, an indication that she would take advantage of that offer. With that, Miranda turned to head towards the door, prepared to leave Samara in peace.

“Miranda?” Samara stopped her, prompting her to glance back over her shoulder. Samara’s upright stance remained unchanged from the first moment she had adopted it. “Do you feel as though I have wasted your time by telling you this?”

“No,” Miranda replied without hesitation, her crinkled brow betraying her confusion that Samara even felt the need to ask that. Of course she didn’t.

“Then I ask you: why would you presume my feelings would be any different when our roles are reversed?” said Samara, a perceptive spark twinkling in the reflection of her sage stare. Maybe that was just a glimmer of starlight.

Miranda blinked, Samara's meaning swiftly sinking in. “...Apparently they're not.”

“Indeed.” Samara elegantly drew back from the window and folded her legs beneath her, resuming her meditation. “Farewell, Miranda. May we speak again.”

Miranda didn't really know what to make of that, departing the room in silence. Suffice it to say, she was still rather stunned to think about how much that conversation challenged her preconceived notions about Samara – notions Miranda hadn’t even known she had, consciously or otherwise.

In truth, she’d never really asked herself those questions about Samara’s past – what her background was, what motivated her to become a Justicar, whether she had a family or children. Miranda hadn’t pondered it because she hadn’t thought the answers were pertinent to the mission. But maybe they were. And, more so, maybe it no longer mattered if they weren’t.

Clearly, there was a hell of a lot more going on beneath Samara's cool exterior than Miranda had previously contemplated. And perhaps Miranda was doing her a disservice by not endeavouring to get to know that side of her better.

* * *

#fic #miranda lawson #samara #mass effect #femslash

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