#I think it’s also the instinct to protect versus the instinct to attack

[applesfrombanora]

I know it’s a little thing but I’ve always both adored and been fascinated by the fact that Angeal and Zack wear the Buster sword on their back with the blade facing down while Cloud wears it with the blade facing up

It’s just a perfect little detail that I think plays a big role in the visual storytelling that defines their three characters and what they stand for

[pendragon-of-chaos]

If requests are open can i request NNT Arthur and a vigilante (I believe is the word not sure) s/o who helps protect the town people secretly and maybe one night they randomly bump into each other on the way home and Arthur’s starts getting suspicious on what’s going on thank you and have a nice day!

I started this as a small scenario but it ended up being a little longer than the usual ones. I also thought I wouldn't be able to write something that pleased me, but I think it ended being better than what I thought. Hope you like it!

Small scenario: Arthur Pendragon with a fem!secret vigilante S/O:

"Have you heard the rumours about that one vigilante??? Who do you think they are? I wish I could talk to them some day, they seem soooo cool! Maybe I should be a vigilante too... Well, I am already a knight, but having a secret identity sounds fun too! What do you think??"

It was a sunny morning. Arthur and Y/N were enjoying a break eating some sweets, sitting on a table while talking about the latest news.

"I've heard about it. Seems like they are already quite popular within Camelot, aren't they?"

"Indeed! Specially within the knights. I've heard they are placing bets on who is the one behind that mask"

"Really? And who do they think is the responsible of all this?"

"There are different opinions, no one seems to agree with just one, so I can't really speak for them." Arthur shrugged his shoulders while taking one of the freshly baked buns on the table in front of him. "As for me, I don't agree with them either. I don't know, but my instinct says that the responsible isn't one of the knights... It's just a feeling". He took a bite and smiled at (Y/N) "If you ever have any clue you must tell me, ok?"

"Of course, I'll do my best to help you discover the secret identity of that vigilante, don't worry"

----

"His instincts sure are good" - (Y/N) sighed deeply, looking at the dark streets from the top of a poorly illuminated roof, making sure no one could see her - "I'm careful enough to not leave behind any sort of information that could uncover me and he still reaches that conclusion; guess I'll need to be even more cautious just in case..."

She looked back to the streets for a couple minutes, until a suspicious acting shadow figure entered an alley in between some houses. It emerged from time to time, looking to both sides of the street, and hiding again; until a pair of drunk men made their way past the entrance

"What a good night huh?" - The shadow appeared behind them. It looked like a big strong man by his silhouette. Not that his strength mattered versus those two people which weren't even able to mantain their balance, even less when he pulled out of his coat a bright dagger - "Now, give me all you got in your pockets if you don't want to end up worse than you already are"

Overcome by panic, the two men leaned on each other trying to not fall down, clumsily looking for their pockets and throwing everything their hands touched in them

"Y-Yeah sir, just leave us alone damn it! We didn't do anything"

"Just make sure to shut your mouth about this. You went home with no money because you spent it all on drinking, right?" Laughing, the robber walked towards them in an intimidating way - "Get out of my sight, scumb-AGH"

He turned around quickly, hand in his nape, rubbing to ease the pain of the sudden hit which came out of nowhere. In front of him, another figure covered in black stood still

"Going for the easy targets I see. Such a shame that you wasted your time waiting for them to pass by, I've seen it all". A pair of hands appeared under the cloack, ready to take care of the criminal in front of them

He wasted no time and, knife in hand, lunged towards (Y/N), who didn't move an inch. She was ready to counter attack, until a few feet away from her he appeared, behind the criminal, in less than the blink of an eye.

"I got him!"

A familiar orange-haired boy stopped the attack by skillfully positioning his sword blade near the criminal's neck in one second, and then disarmed him in the next one, sheathing his sword and laying him on the ground

"Arthur! I can-!!!" (Y/N) shut her mouth while everything happened. If she talked more than neccesary Arthur would discover her. She was also impressed with his abilities. She had seen him training but never using his skills in a real situation. The king looked back at her, still restraining his hands behind his back

"We'll take him to the castle's dungeons for the night and tomorrow morning the knights will take care of him. I'll gladly accept yor help with this task"

(Y/N) nodded in afirmation, and with a simple hand movement a pair of handcuffs appeared on the criminal's wrists.

"Much better!" - Smiling, Arthur got up from him, helping him to stand up - "Now let's head to the castle"

He looked back to were (Y/N) was standing, inviting her to come with him, but there was nobody to be seen there.

----

It was morning once again. (Y/N) was sitting at the table as she always does, having breakfast, when she heard the doors opening

"Hey hey, I've got something to tell you!"

Arthur took a sit next to her quickly, smiling excited to talk with her.

"Hmm? What is it Arthur?"

"I crossed paths yesterday night with the vigilante!"

"Oh really?" - (Y/N) put on her best confused face to not arouse any more suspicions - "How did you even manage to find them? What did exactly happen?"

"I went outside the kingdom yesterday, searching for some materials that Merlin asked me to find. It was more difficult than what I thought so I returned to Camelot late at night. While I was walking down the street I saw how a man tried to rob other two, and then the vigilante appeared to help them. But as a King I can't stand idly by when something like this happens, that's why I went to help them too! It was pretty easy, and I hoped I could talk to them after having the situation controlled, but they disappeared when I wasn't looking"

"Wow... I'm happy for you, but it sounds like in the end you didn't get to know who was behind the mask"

"I guess so, but at least now I have new clues. Listen, I think that the secret vigilante must be near our age judging by its appearance and movements, and they also know how to use magic. That reduces the number of potential people by a lot... Oh! And by their voice I think it might be a woman? But everything happened so fast, I'm not even sure. If I had a few more minutes I'm sure I could have gotten more information"

"Just a few seconds and he got all of that from me" (Y/N) thought to herself - "That's a lot considering you said everything happened fast"

"Right..." - Arthur looked directly at (Y/N) for a few seconds - "one more thing, didn't Merlin show you some time ago those magical spheres that makes you disappear if you use them?"

"...Are you insinuating that I am the vigilante?"

"Just a possibility, my instinct tells me you might know more than you tell me"

[k-s-morgan]

Hi! I've been in the Hannibal fandom for two years now. Rewatched the show many times and yet Will Graham still confuses me like no one else. Hannibal's design is complex but somewhat understandable after watching the show again again. But Will's design is like a loophole. He can empathise with the killers. That means he can understand them. If he can understand them then why does it feel good for him to kill them? How does it work for him exactly. Does he feel for the killers? If he felt for the killers then what about his violent tendencies towards them?

I've always thought that he is like a God. A God of the killers. The killers offer him their design and he takes sacrifice in return of understanding. But how does his psyche work exactly?

Hello! Oh yes, Will is a very confusing character - it’s his defining trait, and I think that’s because he lies to himself, to others, and to us as an audience. He wants one thing, wants to want another thing, does the third thing, and making sense of it is a complex process.

I think Will’s empathy is a big red herring. I agree with Freddie here: he understands killers because he’s one. He has an almost supernatural gift that helps him recreate the situations almost exactly as they happened. He understands what motivates killers, he might sympathize with them, but I think he might also envy them their freedom to be what they are. They are a reminder of what he is and what he can’t allow himself to have. But most importantly, they are a way for Will to find a compromise with himself and feel better about his true self. Killing bad people is an excuse to justify his darkness, but I don’t think it’s a part of his design per se. 

I agree with you that Will is like a God - he and Hannibal both are. That’s one of the things that separates them from others and elevates them above everyone else. Let’s make an overview of Will’s victims.

1) Hobbs. Hobbs was a monster and Will killed him. But it wasn’t about justice and righteousness, not according to him. Killing a person and feeling pleased that you saved someone versus liking the act of killing itself are drastically different things. Many police officers have to kill in their line of duty. Very few of them get off on the act of murder. Those who do are killers, and they are especially dangerous if they immediately try to follow it up with another murder. Will never once says he liked killing Hobbs because he made this world better. When asked, he says that he felt a sense of power. This is a motivation of many actual serial killers. If Will was just glad that he saved Abigail, he would know it's normal. He wouldn't have been almost on the verge of a break-down and haunted by Hobbs. So it’s not about helping others, it's about murder, even if the victim was a monster.

2) Stammets. Will had no reason to try to kill him (which he admits to doing). Based on his and Hannibal’s talk, he understands that he just wanted to feel what he felt after killing Hobbs, and this makes him panic. So again, no someone. He’s chasing the high of killing someone, and Stammets is the most appropriate victim. 

3) Ingram. On the surface, it looks like Will wanted to avenge Peter and himself by proxy, hence pulling the trigger on Ingram. However, after Hannibal manages to stop him, days later, Will complains about losing a chance to feel how he felt when killing Hobbs. Murder high is his main motivation again - everything else is background or an excuse, depending on your reading.    

4) Randall. Will threw away the gun on purpose to make the murder more intimate. This is not about justice and this is not about protecting himself because by doing this, he reduced his chances. Will also beat Randall up until he wasn't moving. There was no reason to snap his neck. Mutilation, cannibalism that followed, keeping his suit, admitting he enjoyed the murder and calling it his design - this is about murder and WIll’s love for it primarily. The design part is especially important: based on it, we can conclude that Will loves a performance just like Hannibal.  

4) Chiyoh and her prisoner who Will set up. Chiyoh was innocent and didn't deserve to die. Her prisoner might not have been guilty - in fact, Will was the one to suggest that, and yet Will still set him up. It was a game and he was an observer - he lied in waiting for Chiyoh’s scream. He then turned the body of a losing party into art. Very creepy and very like Hannibal.

5) Chilton. Will clearly explained his motivation: he wanted Chilton to pay just because he wanted to be famous and messed with Hannibal by writing his ridiculous book. Will showed no remorse and admitted he did it on purpose.

6) Police officers he set up to be killed by cooperating with Francis. The ones he stepped over without a second look. They were innocent and they were a collateral damage. Will is a cruel God who doesn’t bother with mere mortals as long as it fits his purpose. In this case, his purpose was freeing Hannibal. Everything else was still a blur in his mind. 

7) Francis. Enjoyed the murder, admired the blood, called the situation beautiful.

8) Bedelia. She's innocent in comparison to Will and his body count. If Will faced no repercussions and continued getting more and more people killed, she had every right to go free. But God doesn’t have to be fair, and Will proves it by targeting her. 

What does it all say about Will’s design and philosophy? Apart from Godlike attributes and indifference toward collateral damage, I think Will is led by his bloodlust - he just tends to control it and direct it at specific targets. 

Will might prefer to kill “bad people” in the first two seasons, but it’s the process of murder that excites him. So I see his righteous choices as a preference that helps him justify his dark nature partly, not the core reason for his violence. Hannibal seems to be moved by his interest in human nature and his hunter instinct, but Will, I think, is a truer killer because he actually feels drunk on murder. Unlike Hannibal, he looks downright euphoric when/after he kills Randall and Francis. In TWOTL, Hannibal is more focused on the fact that his dream came true and he and Will killed someone together, but Will seems primarily caught up in the murder after-shocks themselves. Hannibal thinks about Will, Will thinks about how beautiful blood looks under the moonlight.

So, post Fall, I believe that at first, Will will stick to killing bad people like murderers, but once some times passes, his need for justifications will fade. He’ll move on to rude people, only his rude will differ from Hannibal’s. Hannibal doesn’t differentiate between genders and ages, but I think Will will. He’s interested in a feeling of power, like he himself says, in a sense of dominance, so he’ll look forward to a fight. He won’t be interested in attacking a teenager like Cassie, for instance, because the power imbalance is too prominent. But as soon as someone more equal does something Will heavily dislikes, something that wakes his bloodlust (a personal insult, physical or verbal abuse toward other people/animals, etc.), he’ll attack. He’ll be careful - he knows how to avoid being caught, but it will still be unpredictable and passionate. Will is a storm to Hannibal’s calm.

Then there is unpredictability. Hannibal tends to plan everything methodically. The only times we see him being impulsive is in Europe, where he’s descending into self-destructive mode, so it’s not a norm for him. For Will, though? Will consists of unpredictability, and Hannibal is fascinated by it.I think Will is going to kill when an impulse strikes. For example, he might go shopping, without having any dark plans, and end up murdering someone because the circumstances pushed some unfortunate soul onto his path. Will might or might not display the body depending on his mood. Today he can be in an artistic mood, but tomorrow he’ll be in a violent and impatient one, wanting to destroy the body entirely and leaving a total mess behind.

How Will would prefer to kill? In my opinion, in an intimate way. It doesn’t mean he’ll be weaponless, but something like a knife would fit his tastes well. He’d be able to feel it plunge into his victim’s body, tearing through skin and muscles, etc. - personal and intimate. Akin to what he did with Francis - his feral half-snarl, the way he paused after stabbing him before opening him up - it was dark and mesmerizing. Will might get into strangling, too, because it takes a lot of time and it is even more intimate. It might end up being his favorite. So, I can see him using his hands or small weapons to fully sense what he’s doing to a victim. This is something that he has in common with Hannibal because from what we saw, Hannibal also enjoys more intimate and prolonged murders that give him a glimpse into a person’s pain and struggle for life.

[kicktwine]

do you have more thoughts on keyblade fighting that you need to put somewhere, because i have two hands ready to catch Should The Need Arise

anon: hey I heard you mention you’d analysed the combat styles in KH and what you said in the tags was already alluding to really neat stuff, but I for one would love to hear more of what you came up with!! so if you ever wanted to share any of your analysis then the floor is yours

aHAH, MY EXCUSE!!

Okay, so first some words on “standardized wielding styles”. These are styles shared by Terra, Aqua, Vanitas, Riku, and Xehanort and every other scala and daybreak kid. I will make the argument that the red style is the fanciest standard style, while the purple is seen often to make it easier on the little chibi sprites. BUT, I cannot discredit Eraqus, who uses the purple variant in bbs, nor can I discredit half of the Foretellers (Gula and Ava, at least, use this. Invi and Aced use the first type). So, two standard styles. For simplicity, let’s say one for primary offense, one for primary defense. The standard offensive style really wasn’t popular before Scala-era society.

check this difference out, specifically between ava invi and gula:

then between eraqus, hermod, and xehanort, and eraqus and terra.

These two were likely popularized and standardized for education in Scala ad Caelum for their predominant lack of obvious weak spots.

After this, we have unique styles. Those include Sora Kairi and Xion’s (similar to standard defense, but more mobile at the expense of form — Kairi takes after Sora but less confident, she hasn’t been hit that heavily yet), Ven’s (backhand, heavy range and mobility), Roxas’ (modified for two keyblades, but takes after Sora), and Axel’s (taught himself, comfortable with chakrams).

So! Let’s go.

.

Standard (offensive)

All styles have sub-variations, of a sense. Different wielders can choose where their keyblade points, and how they hold it exactly, based on what makes them most comfortable. Terra and Aqua point theirs downward, while Vanitas and Riku hold theirs above their head. What is recognizeable to this style is a hand for the sword, and a hand for guarding/blocking/items/magic.

It’s incredibly efficient. With only one hand on the weapon, you not only free up a hand for other things, but increase your range of movement with said weapon. Test it out yourself! The keyblade hand is always your dominant hand, held behind you for increased power when attacking (since you lose a significant amount of it by choosing not to grip with both hands). This style also decreases the speed of the defense you have, but with that increased mobility and swing power, along with a hand free to brace against the keyblade (defense strength up!), it makes up for it. Many people who use this also have strong barrier spells — both a testament to their preference for coverage and an acknowledgement that any directional block will take a little longer and be weaker if they try it with one hand.

The pointy end, though. What difference does it actually make, the height it’s at?

I think it’s half a matter of attack style preference and half intention. Riku, Vanitas, and Xehanort stab quite a bit. Aqua and Terra slice more. Not that they don’t do both, but it’s the first instinct. Aqua and Terra are also likely taught to hold their keyblade neutrally, in a safe position, until someone starts attacking. It’s polite! Eraqus also holds his one-handed, neutrally, until he gets into position. Riku and Vanitas learned to fight assuming everyone was out to fight them. Invi and Aced may like this style because of range (i hc she’s blind and strikes very very quickly, and he’s already very powerful with just the one arm and wants better motion).

and on character specifics: Terra often switches to two-handed, to copy his dad and add extra power to his hits without always sacrificing the empty hand. Vanitas likely was forced to relearn how to fight, as instead of solely being trained to be better at withstanding, he was constantly being made to better his own attacks. The moves Xehanort uses would best be replicated in the same style. Vanitas is wild for holding the massive spiky x-blade like that.

Now, what‘s good on this style does not correlate to what’s bad in the other. The two standard styles simply have different ways of dealing with each con they create or taking advantage of each pro.

(Here’s an interesting side note — Gula uses standard defensive, but in this instance, swaps. One hand… likely to display confidence! Wrong move, but hey. He got cocky. He’s also doing it wrong, and swaps back to two-handed to take Aced’s attack.)

.

Standard (defensive)

The main detriment of this style is the lack of ease of long range movement. Hold a wrapping paper tube out in front of you with both hands, then run. It goes to the side, or tucks in to your stomach, right? Dodge. Your legs will get in the way unless you know where to move that sword. It requires, interestingly, a little more discipline. You’d think Aqua would like that, but no, she wants movement and practicality, and she loves magic, and remember that you must take a hand off this style to grab a potion. You’d think young Eraqus wouldn’t, but remember that he’s a fancy royal lad.

The main draw, though, is tankiness, readiness, and power. You don’t need to move as much if nothing dares hit you! Ava and Gula might be attracted to this style because they’re not as physically strong, but want protection in close-quarters fighting. Using this style when your muscles aren’t as big but you still want to Hit Things Good, or when you want to be a boy you can’t knock over with a pail of water (horse stance rules), is probably solid advice.

Traditionally, this is a lot less like fencing, and a lot more like a samurai sword or kendo. Your blade is held in front of you, giving you very easy access to blocks and frontal attack/defense. In losing some twirly spinniness, you gain power and minimize your opponent’s ability to parry and block.

you gotta dodge master Eraqus so mcuh

All styles will swap between one and two hands for different moves. Eraqus, notably, swaps to a stance very similar to Xehanort when channeling a metric ton of magic.

Both of these styles require a degree of upper body/core strength, as does all swordfighting. I would be interested to see someone whose keyblade style relies on leg strength.

.

Sora, Xion, and Kairi

please look at the difference between the foretellers’ or eraqus’ two-handed grip and Sora’s. Do this with your shoulders and a top-heavy object.

They’re both in a hard stance, but hon. What are you, a gremlin? Anyways, a traditionally taught master would have… better form, even if it’s harder to learn at first. It’s habitual. Sora nearly crouches, and holds his keyblade back-pointed with two hands, which makes it easier for him to dodge roll, push off his feet quickly, and pull off those spinning combos he loves. It‘s really gonna hurt his muscles, in the future, though, since he’s doing a squat for like…. hours. Pulling on those shoulderblades and neck. Xion, too. Replicas had better have correct muscle dynamics. Kairi is brand new, so… maybe Aqua can teach her how to hold a sword so it doesnt hurt you.

Okay, now look at the grip itself. Held in front versus held to the side-back. They’re really attempting to combine both standard styles subconsciously, giving themselves more attack power while really wanting to keep that hard defensive parry, wanting to prevent all attacks to the front while also wanting mobility. It’s working for them really well, they fight like an anime character, and manage to get the best of both, with a minor sacrifice of length range that they don’t care about. We’re flexible and full of magic, baby! Holding the blade like this makes it pretty easy to let go with one hand without sacrificing that crouched defense position.

Now, Sora, specifically, is very adaptive. He’s had two keyblades, claws, guns, yo-yos, and a giant shield, to name a couple. He retains a bit of that alert crouch no matter where he goes, but Sora knows how he wants to attack and how to balance that with the most effective way to use his current weapon. He’s a smart kid! Sora has the most ridiculous shotlocks, which are also probably due to not always wanting to go standard for it. He also prefers to keep his focus on the enemy, which is evident in his reprisals and lack of very many effective “escape” moves.

Xion is very similar to Sora, but she does have some moves that are all movement. She switches to one handed for strikes a lot — using two for defending, one for smacking. In her data battle I’d swear some of those heavy hits are claymore-like. But anyways, since we’re magic, Xion cares not for the laws of exhaustion, and will ping about as a ball of light everywhere. Short range? Up in your business. Mid-range? In your business with one hand. Long range? Throws a boomerang. Hit her? No you dont. Ball of light. She’s above you and wants to bash your head in. (Vanitas also does this! A lot. It’s an easy way to catch someone off-guard. I’ll argue that the soras are very tough and strong, but not tanky. they want to avoid being hit a lot)

Another interesting note about Kairi. I say “unconfident” not because she doesn’t hit hard, but because her stance is also often tilted back, ready to dodge. It’s two handed, but almost all her moves are one. She does love spinning and throwing the thing! It looks like she’s been taking notes from the wielders she knows. It would be easy to teach her a standard style, I think. See here, she lets go on the strike, and by trying to do both, actually ends up with an advantage (being confusing) and disadvantage (losing both the power of two handed and versatility of one handed).

A counter to Sora and Xion is difficult to pin down. Time? Probably. Lack of heating pads. Something that takes all their attention is about the only way to get a sneak attack in, and then you have to hit hard. A counter to Kairi would be anyone who can knock her off balance. She needs a sturdier stance. .

Roxas

Roxas is interesting. He takes after Sora for the one blade. Wielding two, however, nets him a totally different way of fighting. Roxas’ clavicle muscles n… deltoids and stuff must be Ironclad. Also, two handed means you are very fast and sharp all the time. He has the advantage of standard defense (horse stance), and the advantage of offense (range of one sword, but twice).

Roxas generally attacks in two ways — simultaneous hits, and follow-up hits. Either he hits with both at once, or hits hard with the first one, and adds the second one as a bonus smack. He can attack by hitting in opposite directions with the two, like a drum, but that will be a little awkward and leave him prone to being tangled. That established, the follow-up hit method means he spins a bunch. As do we all.

Roxas gets a little complicated because we are not in the real world. We have magic and turning into light and physics that let you become a circular saw. So, typically, disadvantages would include: being unable to let go of a weapon to grab something or use an item, having just a very big silhouette to attack on, having difficulty with close-range attacks because Oathkeeper and Oblivion are kinda long, and convenience. Roxas gets to dodge #1 (keyblades can be unsummoned) and #4 (keyblades can be unsummoned). Speaking of dodging, he also gets to skirt the difficulty of dodging and rolling with two swords because he turns into a beam of light. But he can’t dodge how difficult it is to use two swords effectively — he needs to concentrate on fighting, and nothing else, or he risks messing up. He has to be very, very coordinated, and undistracted. Luckily he’s pretty good at making his opponents shut up, most of the time. Blocking is another thing — theoretically his blocks could be strong, but Roxas has no real brace: crossing your blades and taking a hefty stab might smack one of them back into your face. He mostly uses reversals and dodges, because of this.

The takeaway to this is Roxas is built for speed and power, and he is very strong. He’s a mid- to far- range fighter who if you’re not careful can snap you in half if you’re too close (be SO careful of that cross blade scissor).

A perfect counter to Roxas would be a tank that can grapple, and also be very distracting. If you can take hits, be talkative, and get close enough to stop his blades, you have a chance.

.

Ventus

This is a bizarre choice, my guy, but I get it.

Backhanded weapons are very impractical for a lot of... attacking, mainly in mid-range combat, and Ven likes to either fight very close or throw the keyblade like a boomerang (and hey, backhand gives it a good whip for throwing). His attacks aren’t meant to one hit KO, but they do come with a bit of power to them, especially on the backslash. Like holding a knife for gouging. It’s for very close defense — pretty good when Wayward Wind and Missing Ache have hooks.

Backhand also, while retaining that empty hand for potions and guarding, gives you an extreme coverage boost. By which I mean Ven’s sword hand now has a nearly 270 degree sweep of “I see you, don’t touch me”, very quickly, based on just flicking his wrist. It sacrifices a ton of strength/sturdiness, but you don’t need that if you’re dodging. You also don’t really need to block, which is slower, but relatively sturdy when Ven does it, as he blocks with mostly the chunky hilt between crossed arms. He sacrifices (again) a bit of strength for coverage — an attack would hurt his arms, not his chest, if he were hit head-on.

His attacks often have him flip the blade around in his hand, too. Quick swaps between standard moves and backhand ones. Basically, Ventus is built for moving, protecting himself, and quick attacks that wear down the enemy, not outclass it. Likely because he’s good at fighting, but everyone he’s fought hits harder than he can! It doesn’t matter how he holds it, getting hit will hurt. So he just. Doesn’t. He’s not a buff little guy — but he is a persistent one. Ven very likely made this up on his own, in Daybreak, and it was too hard to fix his whole style, but it was enough to correct most of his form so he doesn’t hurt himself too much. He is going to have to really stretch that shoulder and wrist (maybe get a brace), though. At least his neck is ok. … not sure about his knees tho dang boy that crouch

A perfect counter to Ven would be someone big and fast, who hits hard mid-range. He’s already been sparring with Terra, though, so when in doubt, try scruffing him?

.

Axel

Theres not a ton to say about him — he‘s not a swordfighter. He uses his keyblade like it’s a frisbee. Because that’s what he’s used to! His neutral is behind his back on his shoulder, which is terrible for readiness, but okay for chucking the thing. It’s good it has a sort of… ripstik like… boomerang quality.

Axel’s fighting style is completely made up, like most of the self-taught wielders’. His strengths lie in some of the benefits of standard offensive style (one-handed), and some of the same coverage stuff as Ven, having a cocked wrist most of the time so no one can sneak up around him without risking getting whacked very quickly, and having an interesting range due to the pointy end being basically on a spinny swivel wherever his hand moves. He’s not going to be good at close-range and he knows it — his attacks are mostly distance. And the guy has ZERO defense, combined with zero coverage when idle, so it’s for the better.

Distance-wise, though, he rocks. Treating the blade like it’s a flaming throwing weapon means his idle is actually great for sudden flick-tossing and attention-guiding for sneakier attacks, and his stance itself (…nonexistent) serves a different purpose: bait. Basically a big "come hit me". Fun, when you have a lot of fire magic and two friends who are beasts and love to take advantage of a distracted enemy — distance on the blade, proximity on the burning.

A perfect counter to Axel would be someone pinging around very close <—> very far and circling him incessantly. Like, data Xion could wreck him, as he has to wait for the boomerang to come back -- he no longer has two spinny wheels. Also someone with water magic.

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SO! In conclusion! Having a teacher who teaches you correct sword usage rather than instinct may detract from overspecific styles that benefit you most but leave weak spots, but your muscles and your oversights will thank you. Everyone is glad we have the power of the Mouse and anime on our side.

Keep in mind again that I have done cursory research, and have had minimal actual sword instruction, I am not an expert and this is all for fun anyways :]

[amarriageoftrueminds]

Just thinking about that dumb ‘Bucky’s serum is weaker than Steve’s because it’s based on the serum Redskull took’ chestnut and I realised: 

We never actually saw Bucky fight Steve properly?? 

Fight 1: on the bridge. 

Steve versus TWS. Steve has the shield to equal the arm, a visible weight advantage (not to mention quality-of-life/health advantage), and (until he recognises Bucky) no reason to hold back, but Bucky still fights him to a standstill. I mean, a literal standstill, they literally stand still, staring at each other. Natasha Romanoff did not crack out a rocket launcher for people to argue that Steve won this fight! Inconclusive. 

Fight 2: the Helicarrier. 

Steve chokes TWS and dislocates his arm but it appears TWS is only playing possum so he can shoot Steve in the back and smirk about it (what a bitch.) Steve’s previous advantages still apply, however, he’s maybe  probably(?) pulling his punches to save Bucky pain. Bucky, between fights, has been electrocuted again. Is it a fair fight? Is it really a victory if you end up riddled with bullet holes and the other guy doesn’t?? Inconclusive.

Fight 3: the Helicarrier 2 - Romance Edition. 

Arguably this is the only time Steve and Bucky actually fight. BUT. Inconclusive because 1) they’re both gravely injured before they even start, the fools, and 2) Steve announces he’s giving up halfway through, the romantic bastard. Is it a victory if you pass out, nearly drown, need to be rescued by your opponent and then wake up in hospital while the other guy walks away?? Obviously Bucky cannot actually win and kill Steve because he’s Bucky and also Cevans’ contract hadn’t expired. I cannot call it a victory for either one of them since Steve gave up, so: Inconclusive. 

Fight 4: Civil War 1, post Zemo. 

Due to The Beef, TWS is now in Steve’s weight class! But, Steve doesn’t have the shield! AND, he knows the Soldier is Bucky so would be reluctant to hurt him and would be pulling his punches again (or he would’ve been if he had managed to throw any, which he didn’t). Steve ends up at the bottom of an elevator shaft! But, is it a fair fight if Bucky has a vibranium arm and Steve has no shield?? Inconclusive.

Fight 5: On the roof. 

I’m sorry Steve but distracting someone with your biceps while they choke you may be kinky and hilarious, but does not count as winning a fight. Also, if your opponent is so attracted to you that he accidentally knocks himself out (Bucky you useless bisexual), that is likewise not winning a fight. Inconclusive! 

So what other supersoldier fights do we have to measure Bucky with?

Isaiah: 

claims to have whupped him as TWS. Both suffering abuse at the time tho Bucky arguably more (Isaiah wasn’t tortured to the point of insanity, after all). Problem is, we only have Isaiah’s word for it that he won (Bucky does not confirm). Neither Ice nor TWS would have had any reason to hold back from a killing stroke and yet both of them walked away from the fight (and seem to regard each other with a healthy respect). Can we say for certain that Ice won? TWS definitely would have killed if he could, but would Isaiah? Could it be that he did have a chance to kill Bucky but some sort of compassionate instinct stayed his hand? We have no way to know, and either way we still only have his word for it that he won. Could be old guy bravado? Inconclusive.

T’Challa: 

since we know he can run as fast as Steve, and apparently caused Steve some difficulty when he was trying to protect Bucky from him, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suppose that TBP is Steve’s physical equal. But, he attacks Bucky on several occasions; once TWS, and does not decisively beat him at any point, despite being crazy-motivated and wearing a full vibranium suit for all but one. But, their fights are interrupted by other people, and TWS walks away halfway through. Cannot decisively claim victory for either one of them. So: Inconclusive?

OG Winter Soldiers: 

Bucky loses to one specific Winter Soldier, but then has no apparent difficulty deflecting the others and getting his handler to safety, he swats them away like flies?? Arguably the others are not trying to fight Bucky because they’re busy fighting the other handlers. Call it a loss/draw? Bucky Loses? Inconclusive? 

FATWS Super Soldiers: 

In their first appearance Bucky fights a group of super soldiers and loses but in later eps fights the same people as individuals and wins, despite pulling his punches/not using knives. But, again: he has a vibranium arm, not a fair fight. Bucky also fights Walker while Walker has the shield, gets knocked down, gets back up (sorry, I’m not crying) and wins while his vibranium arm is damaged. BUT, he has Sam’s help? And most significantly, (as better minds than mine have meta’d) this series deliberately shunts Bucky out of the way when a fight is on, or makes him Suddenly Rubbish, because that’s an easy, lazy way of making non-superpowered Sam look competent and the new villains look dangerous. (AKA, the Worf Effect.) So: Inconfuckinclusive??? 

.

Seriously, if you look at it, every supersoldier fight Bucky’s been in, there’s either been other stuff going on, other people interfering, some ambushing, or some other factor at play that queers the result. 

(Heh.) 

People use the helicarrier fight as proof that Steve could easily beat Bucky, but Bucky is underweight (compared to him), and has just been electrocuted, and has his arm dislocated, and yet: he walks away and Steve still wakes up in a friggin hospital, guys. 

If you look at Steve’s fights with Redskull, he doesn’t decisively beat him either because the tesseract melts his face off before Steve has the chance. If Bucky can outrun Steve (which he does twice; both as TWS and as himself), and T’Challa, and all the fight results are questionable because of mitigating factors... 

what other actual evidence is there that Bucky’s serum is somehow weaker or lesser than his?? 

.

And in the words of the CATWS directors commentary:

“We were thinking what the reality of a character like this was. He would have every weapon in the book, he doesn’t lose. When he’s sent to kill you, you’re dead. And the only one who can barely escape is Captain America. If Captain America is the world’s greatest soldier, he is the world’s greatest assassin. He’s a doppelganger. These guys are equally as potent. Cap has a shield, he has a bionic arm. And they’re equally matched.”

[hatterstan-shameblog]

Okay so Aguni is sound asleep, just enjoying the few hours of peace he has, when there's a knock on the door. He ignores it, but the person just keeps knocking and knocking.

"Morizono, open the goddamn door!" he hears Takeru call, "This is an emergency!"

He groans to himself before standing up and opening the door.

"What?"

"So, remember that weird chonky cat Niragi found?"

"Yeah... what about it?"

"It's not fat... and is not a cat."

Where Hatter and apparently every other idiot at the Beach mistake a domesticated pregnant genet for a fat exotic cat. And it just gave birth on Hatter's bed.

I have no idea in what direction this is supposed to go lol but hopefully something chaotic.

alright I had to look up what a genet is and DAMN they are CUTE AS HELL and I’m love them v much

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Terminator

Rating: PG-13 for dialogue and like one drug reference

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Aguni Morizono is a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures.

He enjoys a healthy slathering of grape jelly on his toast. He enjoys watching the sunset reflect over the ocean. He enjoys watering his garden and reading the newspaper and taking naps on the sofa on Sunday afternoons after he’s finished his grocery shopping for the week.

What he does not particularly enjoy is being shaken awake by a borderline-frantic Takeru in the middle of the night.

Takeru insists that he has a good reason; that this is an emergency. Aguni reminds him that running out of marijuana does not qualify as an emergency, and pulls the blanket over his head in an attempt to shut the very exuberant man out.

But the aforementioned exuberant man refuses to be shut out, and he references the aforementioned emergency again—this time insisting that it is an actual real emergency and requires immediate attention. Aguni sincerely doubts this and tries his damnedest to fall back to sleep—a truly Herculean task, given Takeru’s incessant talking and the way he’s bouncing on the other side of the mattress like some kind of weird large puppy. Aguni is just about to enter the first misty moments of dozing off as Takeru says words like ‘Niragi’ and ‘cat’ and ‘bed’ and it’s all somewhat possible to ignore until he utters one word that makes Aguni sit straight up.

‘Babies.’

Now, ‘babies’ as a concept does not bother Aguni. He’s actually somewhat fond of them, the way they unabashedly stare at him on the train or in the park, eyes wide and fat little hands waving a clumsy ‘hello’ in his general direction. And if he waves back sometimes, well...that’s his business. (It’s only polite, after all.)

No, the issue here is that ‘babies’ and ‘the Borderlands’ sounds like a terrible, terrible mix. What’s worse is that said babies have, for some reason, been left in Takeru’s care. And, judging from Takeru’s presence in his room, the babies have been left alone.

It takes no time at all for Aguni to throw on a pair of pants and slip into his boots. It takes even less time for him to grab Takeru by the collar of his robe and physically drag him down the hall, the other man switching between heartfelt thank-you’s and desperate pleas for Aguni to be gentle when handling the raw silk of his ensemble.

Now, to those of us on the outside of Aguni’s brain, it may seem like he hasn’t thought this through; that he has tunnel-vision’d his way through the last two paragraphs without a logical thought as to how and why ‘babies’ may be present. That is simply not true. Aguni has considered that ‘babies’ could actually mean a number of things aside from ‘human infants’ and has thus compiled a short list of the three most likely candidates:

The spider plant he had placed on Takeru’s windowsill has propagated—or, as some would call it, ‘had babies.’ This is Aguni’s favorite option of the bunch. It is also the least likely.

Something about the cards. Although Aguni has never Takeru refer to them as ‘his babies,’ it is no secret that he is very protective of his prized collection. Seeing as this may or may not affect the entire Beach, it’s important for him to be aware of the situation.

Takeru is high as a goddamn kite and hallucinating. This is, unfortunately, the most likely scenario.

It is also important to mention that Aguni has taken a good look at his life and his choices throughout this ordeal, particularly when Takeru commented on the state of his biceps and made an off-color insinuation about the right one looking slightly more defined than the left—and then asked if he would like to discuss his love life, with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows. Aguni chose not to comment. He also chose to push Takeru into the doorframe on the way into his suite, and took a smidge of pleasure when his head collided with the wood with a satisfying clunk-ing sound.

“Look,” Takeru says proudly, pointing a finger at the bed, “babies!”

Nestled in what a bulging nest of fluffy white blankets are...things. Fuzzy things. One big fuzzy thing, with sleepy eyes and what looks to be a long spotted tail wrapped around one, two, three tiny fuzzy things. When Aguni leans in to get a closer look, the big one quirks a corn-chip-shaped ear and gives him a wary glare.

“What,” Aguni asks, “in the goddamn—“

But before Aguni is able to finish his sentence, Takeru is giving him a stinging slap on the arm.

“Aguni Morizono,” he hisses, hands balled into fists and perched on his hips like a mother hen, “I will not have my children exposed to that kind of language.”

There are plenty of things wrong with what Takeru just said, but Aguni is having trouble getting past the idea that these...creatures have somehow been claimed by his very silly friend.

“Think about it,” Takeru continues, swanning his way past a very confused (and tired) Aguni to sit on the edge of the bed just behind the brood of fluffy individuals, “This lovely lady could have given birth on anyone’s bed...but she chose mine.  Why do you think that is?”

“Because you leave the sheets all balled up in the middle and it’s the perfect place for an animal to make a nest?”

“Wrong, but I like how confident you sounded when you said it!”

With his hands pressed together and held in front of his lips, Takeru looks almost prayerful as he very seriously explains his theory.

“A woman alone-- heavily pregnant, scared, and lost in these cold and cruel Borderlands.  Her thoughts shift to her young.  Who will keep them safe?  Who will help take care of them?  That’s when her instincts took over,” Takeru opens his arms, the silken cuffs of his robe pooling around his elbows, “and, using her superior sense of smell, followed her nose to the den of the nearest alpha male for protection.”

Aguni wishes he could say that this is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. He also wishes he had a cup of coffee (with a healthy glug of Bailey’s in there for good measure) before this whole event took place.

Takeru has since busied himself with the tiny new mother and her young, watching with gentle fascination as the newborns snuffle and snooze against her with unopened eyes and clumsy paws. When he reaches out a ring-bedecked hand to stroke along the bigger one’s head, she gives him a small growl and a pointed glare—to which he laughs and withdraws his touch, saying something cheeky about “the last time she let a man get too close” and quickly following it up with a promise to talk about it “after the kids are asleep.”

Takeru has just held up his hand for a high-five (which Aguni has decided to not reciprocate) when they hear a crash and then a bang and then the thundering thumpthumpthump of angry booted footsteps rapidly approaching their position in the bedroom. For some reason—a reason he’s not very keen to dwell upon at the current moment—Aguni instantly snaps into defense mode, hands curling into fists and shoulders squaring themselves in anticipation of a coming attack.

“WHERE. IS. TERMINATOR!?”

Niragi bursts into the room like a firework, all noise and flash and fire in his eyes. His knuckles strain around the dark of his rifle, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. Of course, Aguni knows (hopes) he won’t actually resort to filling Takeru full of bullets, but he keeps a close eye on his trigger finger, anyways.

“Ah! There’s my co-parent,” Hatter says with a measure of glee, gesturing with a flourish of his hand towards the cute, hairy pile on his bed, “As you can see, our lovely Terminator is doing very well and—“

“Our? She’s not fucking ours, she’s fucking mine,” Niragi snaps, “and I’m gonna fucking kill you for stealing my cat.”

“Not a cat,” a calm voice says, and Aguni turns to see Last Boss lurking in the doorway, katana sheathed and arms crossed, “She’s a common genet, native to the savanna’s of Africa.”

“Ooh, does that mean the babies have dual citizenship? No, wait,” Hatter claps his hands together with glee, “triple citizenship? Africa, Japan, and the Borderlands?!”

“Africa’s not a country, it’s a continent, dumbass,” Niragi retorts, “and I think we have bigger problems than what’s going to be on their fucking passports.”

It’s probably not the best thing in the world for Aguni to let Takeru and Niragi descend into heated bickering—a back-and-forth of ‘you stole her’ versus ‘no, she chose me’—but Aguni is simply not interested in breaking up their squabbling. Instead he goes to stand by Last Boss, who’s watching the two long-haired men argue like it’s a mildly interesting tennis match.

“So,” Aguni says, “you, uh, seem to know a lot about those things.”

“I did my research when Niragi first brought her back,” Last Boss says calmly, “He’s good with her, but I wanted to make sure we were taking care of her correctly.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“I had my suspicions. Niragi wouldn’t listen, though. Kept telling me she was just fat.”

“Yeah, I thought she was ‘just fat,’” Niragi interjects, his gun no longer pointed at Takeru but a murderous gleam still in his eye, “because this fucking asshole kept feeding her potato chips!”

“Because she loves them,” Takeru shouts back, throwing his arms up in the air, “So shoot me for being a nice guy and sharing my snacks with your weird cat!”

“Don’t,” both Last Boss and Aguni say in unison—which is very uncomfortable for the both of them, but at least it has the desired effect of keeping Niragi from blasting a few dozen holes through Takeru’s person.

With the two of them quickly getting back into their heated back-and-forth, Aguni turns his attention to the creatures on the bed. Somehow, despite all of the noise and excitement, the mother and her babies have curled up and fallen asleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of their bellies a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around them. Aguni feels jealous, but also, feels bad about feeling jealous because this...Terminator thing has undoubtedly had a rough night, too.

“Luckily,” Last Boss says, “genets are pretty independent creatures. She’ll be fine to take care of the kits on her own, provided that she has access to food and water.”

“So we should just...leave her alone?”

Last Boss shrugs.

“More or less.”

Aguni sighs internally. He sighs externally, too, but the internal sigh is the one that really sums up his thoughts on the whole situation. Just getting one of those hot-headed men to leave those poor animals alone is challenging enough, but both of them? That’s bordering on ‘damn near impossible.’

But, for the sake of those weird fuzzy babies, he has to try.

Takeru jumps when he feels Aguni’s hand on his elbow. He also manages to shut up for a moment, which is a nice bonus. Last Boss has also sprung into action and seems to be talking to Niragi in hushed tones, a hesitant but friendly hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon,” Aguni says, gentle-firm as he guides Takeru into a standing position—much to the other man’s confusion.

“Mori, what—?”

“You’ve had a big night. I’ve had a big night. But do you know whose had the biggest night of us all?” Aguni gestures to the snoozing creatures in front of them, “Terminator. She’s exhausted, and the last thing she needs is the four of us keeping her up. You can stay with me tonight, and we’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

“But,” Takeru protests—an iota quieter, now that he’s realized that the pipe on the bed is now a sleeping pile, “we can’t just leave them alone, can we?”

“You’re right. Which is why,” Aguni says, “Last Boss is going to stay with her and keep an eye on things. If he’s okay with that, of course?”

Last Boss offers a solemn nod. Aguni makes a mental note to thank him for this later—maybe he’ll let him pick the music on their next supply run (provided it’s from Aguni’s list of pre-approved artists, of course...)

“You know what? Fucking fine,” Niragi spits, flicking his hair back with a quick jerk of his hand, “it’s too goddamn late to deal with you fucking losers, anyways. I’ll come back to collect my cat and her kittens in the morning.”

Aguni does not risk correcting Niragi on his incorrect terminology regarding his pets—frankly, he’s a little too busy being amazed at how suspiciously easy it was to get him to leave. With a sharp pivot, Niragi is exiting the room in what could be called a ‘brisk saunter,’ no doubt wanting to put as much distance between himself and whatever-the-hell just happened in this room as possible.

Aguni, for once, can relate to Niragi quite well.

With Last Boss keeping vigil over the new little family, Aguni is able to wrangle Takeru away from his room with minimal fuss. It’s probably because the man is very tired—despite multiple claims that he ‘isn’t sleepy yet’ and ‘can stay up for hours.’ This theory is proven when, within a grand total of seven seconds of Takeru flopping face-first onto the middle of Aguni’s bed, he’s managed to slip into what only can be described as a ‘light coma.’

Aguni manages to wrestle a stray pillow away from his sleeping friend’s grasp (he’s a notoriously cuddly sleeper, which has led to some...interesting situations over the course of their friendship) and settles his weary self onto the couch. It’s not quite long enough to accommodate his height, but it’s good enough for what will most likely end up being an extended nap before the sun comes up and he needs to solve whatever other issues have popped up at the Beach overnight.

...But, at least those problems won’t involve babies.

Probably.

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Also here is a common genet and DAMN SIS U CUTE AS HELL

[unmaskedagain]

Marinette Vs Santa

A quick Christmas drabble.

  How did Marinette find out she was adopted? Well… her little half-brother tried to kill her.

           Also, that’s how she found out her biological dad was Batman. Because… why not. As if her life wasn’t weird enough already.

           And to think Marinette had been secretly writing Santa every year since she was three to like nine asking for a sibling of her own. She didn’t think it would ever happen

           Then one day, on a cold December night, as Ladybug ran across rooftops to see as many of the Christmas decorations as possible. Suddenly every instinct she had told her to duck. And she did just narrowly avoided a sword to the throat.

           Marinette readied herself to fight an Akuma, only to see an angry ten-year-old with a sword and a mask. He was dressed in green, red, and gold.

“Die, usurper!” He roared and attacked her again.

           Ladybug dodged and jumped every attempt to kill her and tried to resist the urge to punch a child.

           Eventually she got the better of the kid, and ended up hog tying him.

           Marinette put her hands on her knees as she struggled to catch her breath, “Who. Are. You. Nightmare. Child?” She asked in between breaths. Ladybug picked up the fallen sword and pointed at him. “And what is your problem? What did I even do to you?”

“You are Marinette Dupain-Cheng, first born blood child of our father.” He hissed at her, “I am our father’s rightful heir; not you.”

           Our father?  Did her dad have a lovechild? Did he cheat on her mom? No, Tom Dupain would never.

“What?” Marinette pinched her nose. “You want to be head baker?”

“Fool!” He tsk’d at her. “I’ve no interest in your adoptive parents’ holdings. I will follow Father’s footsteps and rule the night. I will be Batman. Not you, sister. Kneel before me and renounce your heirship, and I will spare your life.”

           …Wait Adoptive? Batman? Sister?

           Marinette just stared at him. Not saying a word. For a while. Awhile he insulted her.

           She looked out at the colorful lights that glowed against the freshly fallen snow and sense of peace that filled the air, and Marinette whispered the only thing on her mind…

“Fuck Santa.”

           The boy stopped struggled and gave her a perplexed look, “What? What does the jolly fat man have to do with anything? Why has he made you angry, sister? I will avenge you.”

You just tried to kill me, she wanted to say.

           Marinette just rolled her eyes, “Never mind. We need to talk.” She picked him and tossed him over her shoulder. “In my room.”

           Running across Paris with a struggling kid on your shoulder and a sword in your hand wasn’t easy.

            When she got to her room, she dropped the kid on her bed as gently as possible. “Do not escape,” She ordered. “If you do, do not destroy my room. I’m going to ask my parents if…” If they’re really her parents. Why didn’t they tell her?  Why? Just Why? “What you say is true. I won’t mention Batman.”

           Or the psychotic ten-year-old she had tied up in her room. Who may or may not be her brother.

           Marinette de-transformed. Tikki hid in her hair before anyone could see her.

           She came back to her room half an hour later with a cheese plate, full of veggies, fruits and crackers. And a tray full of chocolate chip Christmas cookies and two glasses of milk. She sat them down at the desk.

           The boy glared at her.

“You were right,” Marinette sighed. “I was adopted. My birth mom was just nineteen when she had me. The sister of one of my mom’s friends.”

           The news had been a blow. Her parents had kept repeating how much they loved her and how they had been planning on telling her when she was older. Older than fourteen. They wanted to know how she found out. She said her little brother had gotten in contact with her.

           Marinette eyed the still tied up boy… her brother. He no longer struggled against his bonds, just stared with an angry expression on his face. “I don’t want to be Batman,” She told him. “The title is all yours. I like being Ladybug. It’s a name I earned, worked hard for. A name I’m proud of and will not part with easily. Is that something you can understand?”

           He stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly, “You created your own hero persona to find the terror entrapping your city; all by yourself. …Father did the same.”

           He said the last part with a sad tone that Marinette’s new found big sisterly instincts go haywire. “And you think just because you’re his… partner,” She said, instead of sidekick because she was sure that word would get her killed. “And not a solo hero, that he will find you unworthy of being his heir.” Marinette sat down next to him, and patted his hair softly. “Did you ever think that because he is the one who’s training you, that because you fight by his side, that he’d trust you more? Trust you to take up his mantle in the way he can’t trust me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of entirely. But he knows exactly what you can do because he taught you.”

           Her brother scoffed but his face lost some of its anger and he seemed to relax.

“I’m going to untie you now,” She told him. “Do not attack me.”

           When he was untied and given back his sword, which he sheathed, Marinette brought over the food. “You know my name,” She said after he took a bite a cookie and seemed pleased with it. “What’s yours?”

“Damian,” He answered. “Damian Al-Ghul Wayne. How did you obtained magical powers? And what is the creature that thought it could hide from me?”

           Marinette just blink. Because Dammit Tikki. The pink ball of fluff out with a chastised look on her face. Unfortunately that look meant nothing as all the other Kwami Marinette now protected as Guardian thought that meant they could come out to.

           Plagg straight to Damian and sat on his lap, “Cheese. Now.”

           Marinette face-palmed. The Kwami had taken trying to declare dominance ever since Ladybug took the ring back from Chat Noir.

           Damian could only stare at the being, animal, and sprite as he reached slowly for a piece of cheese from the selection of food and handed it the small creature. That was all the other Kwami needed to rush to him for attention. Damian was easily mesmerized by the little creatures and saw no issue in showing them affection. Apart from the fact that Oracle, and Father, and thus the rest of the family were watching the feed, through the mask, while they attempt to locate him. Damian could only disable their trackers for so long. Annoying as she was, Oracle was a genius.

“Okay, little brother,” Marinette shrugged. “You tell me your story. I’ll tell you mine.”

           And so they did. The two siblings spent the next few hours telling the other all about their history. Neither were happy.

           Marinette was beyond furious that her little brother was raised by ruthless assassins, cast into the role of Robin (though mostly by his own doing), constantly risked his life, and had little no childhood.

           Damian was pissed, which was putting it nicely. His beloved sister had no training when she was charged with the task of defending the city as the hero Ladybug and fight a supernatural terrorist, dealt with sexual harassment from her once trusted partner, then her master died in battle but not before he bestowed one of the most powerful magical artifacts of all time to a teenager. To top it all off, his sweet sister was being bullied by a pathological liar who turned all her friends against her, nearly got her expelled, leaving her with little to no Allies to aid her in her fight against evil. Marinette had cried at the end of her tale.

           …He was going burn Paris to the ground.

           Little did he know, the Batfamily found it hard not to agree as they watched the livestream from the Batplane?

           Dick had gone from jumping up and down at the sight of his adorable new sister, Marinette. She was a hero called Ladybug, how cute was that? To being rather angry at what she had to put up with. It was too much pressure for a kid, superhero, superpowers, or not.

“What do we do?” Tim asked.

           Batman was still having trouble processing. He had another daughter; a beautiful little girl who seemed to have taken after him without ever having known the man. Nature versus Nurture, he supposed; nature won. Marinette who had been fighting to save her city like he fought to save his. Who was her mother? Why didn’t she tell Bruce he had another child? Granted Brucie wasn’t who most people thought would be an ideal father but still… Hadn’t he proved himself?

“Find Hawkmoth,” Jason growled. “Punch a hole through his face. And Send Steph and Cass to have a “Talk”, he air quoted. “With that Lila chick. While we have a little talk of our own with Chat Noir. End of story.”

           Cass nodded, gleefully, that little girl would pay for what she did to Cassandra’s sister. And if she was lucky, Lila would even live to tell the tale.

           Stephanie was wondering if the Batfamily, her sort of-adopted family, could really get away with murder.

           …Who was she kidding? They totally could.

“We don’t… kill?” Batman said as he turned around and stalked away. “I’ll inform Alfred of the development.” Maybe have him prepare a room, he thought with hope. He’d like his daughter to visit and feel at home whenever she could.

           When Batman left the area, Tim looked around at his siblings, “Did that sound like a question to anyone else?”

           Marinette and Damian fell asleep next to each other, with the Kwami cuddled close. The next morning she woke not only to sound to the sound of the Kwami but to the sight of five additional vigilantes heroes, in addition to the one from the night before, hovering around her room.

           Two girls who were discussing with Trixx and long about their abilities. A hero in mostly black and red, who sat on Marinette’s top bunk with Marinette’s laptop on his lap, and Pollen on his shoulder. Damian still had Plagg with him, which Marinette wanted to tsk at because she told him not to play favorites. A blue, clearly the oldest, was laying on the floor playing with the remaining Kwami like they were puppies.

           She sat up in her bed and tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes. She glared at Damian, “Want to explain?”

“Mornin, sunshine,” A guy in a redmask said, with Barkk on his shoulder, as he chopped on a leftover cookie, not noticing the way Tikki glared at him. “Name’s Red Hood. Real name Jason. Dad’s downstairs talking to your parents.”

           Dad?

           She glared even harder at Damian. He shrugged, “Marinette, these are our… brothers and sisters.” He said. “They were adopted.”

“You should get better security on your computer,” The hero on her bed said. “Name’s Tim. I go by Red Robin.”

“Cassandra,” One the girl introduced. “Blackbat.”

“Stephanie. Batgirl,” The other said.

“I’m Dick!” The one on the floor laughed. “Nightwing. Welcome to the family.”

Tim continued, “I’ve located all personal information on Lila Rossi. I believe we can now move forward with the plan.”

Jason clapped his hands together, “Awesome. Operation: Get That Bitch is a go.”

Marinette just started at them. Six. She had six siblings. One for every year ever asked for a sibling for Christmas. She just had one thing to say as she tossed the covers back over her head to hide from the world…

“Fuck. Santa.”

           Finding out Bruce Wayne, cough Batman cough, was her father was one thing. Meeting him in person was another. He stared at her with cool blue eyes that made Marinette realize she probably should’ve questioned where she got her own long before.

           Her parents had been surprised when Bruce Wayne walked into their bakery and asked to speak with them alone. Even more so, when he claimed to be the biological father of their daughter. It had been long conversation between the three. But Bruce made it clear that he had interest of just taking Marinette from them. However, he would like visitations and for her to spend time with him over the summers. And to take her out for the day so she could meet her siblings. Also, about adding Wayne to her last name.

           So that was how Marinette found herself sitting in one of the most expensive restaurants in all of Paris, in the best dress she ever designed herself, with her… family.

           The initial awkwardness was broken up by all her siblings. Though they seemed to know to how to behave in public, they had no problems messing with each other and teasing.

“How long have you been into fashion, Marinette?” Bruce, her Papa, (As her dad would always be her dad).

           She smiled, “Since I was really little. It’s my dream to have my own line.”

           Bruce’s eyes got bright at the chance to help his daughter, “I can help you with that. I can drum up a connect or two, to get you started.”

“He’ll throw money at it until someone cracks,” Jason translated which cause Marinette to laugh and Bruce to glare.

Marinette discovered Damian had snuck Plagg with him to the restaurant.

           Marinette just groaned.

“You brought Tikki!” Damian defended.

“I’m the holder of her Miraculous,” She hissed back as low as she could. “Paris’s main and sometimes only hero. I need her.”

           Damian huffed, “That’s no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to attend as well. He’s with me.”

           Before Marinette could continue the arugment…

“Wayne?” Gabriel Agreste asked, tailed by Natalie, Adrien, Chloe, and Chloe’s parents: Audrey Bourgeois and André Bourgeois. “Bruce Wayne?”

           Bruce put on his most charming smile as he stood up, “Yes and you are?” He put out his hand.

           Gabriel shook it, clearly wondering why the billionaire was there. “Gabriel Agreste.”

           Bruce nodded, “The fashion designer.”

“This is my son Adrien,” Gabriel introduced. “My assistant Nathalie. My longtime friend Audrey Bourgeois, of the Style Queen, and André Bourgeois, mayor of Paris, and their lovely daughter. We’re here for a quick lunch.”

“Same,,” Bruce nodded. “I’m here with my children. My eldest Dick, followed by Jason, Cassandra, Stephanie, Tim, Marinette and my youngest Damian.” He introduced them.

           At the sound her name, all the newcomers eyes went to Marinette. She gave them a small wave, “Good to see you again.”

“Dupain-Cheng!” Chloe gasped.

           Damian growled, “Dupain-Cheng-Wayne.” As he glared passed her at the blond boy, the former Chat Noir.

           The blond girl was stunned, “How could you not tell me?”

           Hadn’t the two moved passed their difference and become friends? The two girls, and Kagami and united together when the liar seemed to take hold of the rest of the class.

“No one knew,” Marinette defended. I didn’t even know, she wanted to add. But they had discussed and agreed on the story that Bruce and an unknown woman gave up Marinette to the Dupain-Chengs when she was born. Nothing scandalous about it.

           Gabriel paused as he tried to think of what to say. How did he not know there was Wayne living in Paris, that his son was classmates with a Wayne. The girl had power in her pinky when she was still in Nappies, then either of the older Bourgeois had currently in their entire bodies. She would’ve been a much better playmate for his son than Chloe; the vapid, girl that she was.

           Audrey was thinking nearly the same thing. “Such a brilliant daughter you have, Brucie,” She smoozed. “I still can’t believe she turned down the internship I offered her. I want her to come to New York with me, you know?”

           Bruce beamed, “I’m glad someone sees her brilliance.”

           This went on for a while as each of the parents tried their hands at flattering the billionaire.  Bruce finally had enough and all but dismissed them

“I’m glad our children our such good friends,” Gabriel said finally as he turned to leave.

           Marinette fought he urge to scoff. Adrien was not her friend.

           The boy in question looked anywhere but at Marinette as he left. He had chosen to side with the other students when the Ice’d out Marinette until the girl stopped being a bully and being mean to Lila. Even if he knew it wasn’t true. Most declared they weren’t her friends anymore. Alya said she’d never be friends with Marinette again.

Coward, Damian nearly hissed. When they were gone, he turned to Marinette, “The blond girl is your alley, correct?” He asked. “Your Queen?”

           Marinette nodded, “There’s Luka and Kagami as well.”

“I will test to ensure they are worthy to fight at her side,” He declared.

           The others nodded. Bruce got a dark look on his face, “We all will.” He would not allow his daughter to suffer another Chat Noir.

           That was it, Marinette thought as she threw down the sliver napkin, she was starting to hate Christmas.

           The end of the weekend the entire world knew that Marinette was Bruce Wayne’s daughter. This made going to school Monday morning a huge spectacle as paparazzi crowded the outside the bakery and outside the school. Each one trying to get the attention of Wayne’s crown jewel, new Princess of Gotham, as the media dubbed her.

           Suffice to say, Bruce had taken her to school that day flagged by Dick and Tim as her other siblings combed the city for traces of Hawkmoth.

           The principle had practically fallen over himself to speak with the Bruce Wayne. But quickly hid in the shadows, when the first thing Bruce said to him was, “Ah, yes, you’re the man who expelled my daughter without a proper investigation. I’ll be talking to you later. So will my lawyers.”

           Marinette tried to hide her blushing face her father walked her to class. Students did everything they could to get a look at her. Chloe and Kagami waited outside her classroom, that was practically bursting with noise.

           However She practically drop dead when Tim complimented Kagami’s sword fighting skill and offered to duel her, and Kagami blushed. Blushed. Kagami?

           Marinette shook her head as she kissed her father and brothers goodbye. This world just didn’t make sense anymore.

           The two other girls flanked Marinette’s side as they walked into class. All noise stopped instantly. Marinette didn’t even bother spare the other kids a glance as the three took a seat in back of the class.

           Chloe quickly pulled her into a conversation of the places she’d see that summer in New York.

“I’ll be spending the end of Christmas break in Gotham too,” Marinette said shyly. “I’ll open my presents there. Papa wants me there for the Wayne Ball was I can be properly introduced to society.”

           And not because Bruce Wayne was scared of what Alfred would do if he didn’t get to mean his new granddaughter before the new year. That and Martha Kent were the ultimate overprotective grandparents.

“A Ball?” Lila squeaked, poorly concealed jealously on her face. She still couldn’t believe the little twit was Wayne. IF she had, Lila would’ve been a hell of a lot nicer. No wonder Marientte always knew when Lila was lying. She probably knew the celebrities through her father. “You’re going to the Waynes’ Annual New Year’s Ball.”

“Everyone goes,” Rose awe’d. “It’s basically a red carpet event. I watch every year. And Selena Gomez had the most beautiful dress on last time.”

           Juleka hummed in agreement, “Clara Nightingale looked like a princess.”

           Marinette just shrugged as each of her classmates offered their input on what the Ball would be like. She wasn’t about to make nice with them. They had turned their backs on her, betrayed her trust. Her brothers and sisters had warned her to be watchful for phony friends.

           Alya, who’s face had been turning steadily more red, as the classmates speculated who Marinette would meet. “Girl!” She burst. “How could not tell me?”

           Marinette raised a thin eyebrow, “We’re not friends, Alya, by your own declaration. I don’t believe I have to tell you anything. And even when we were friends, I only knew you for two years. Why would I tell a journalist anything important about me?”

“She was right not to,” Kagami stated, “With how quickly you all turned on her, I’m surprised she ever told you anything at all.”

           Alya flinched back as if slapped. So did a few other students.

“It’s not fair,” Alya continued as if nothing happened. “I could’ve gotten so many interviews. OH! I could with you to the Ball. It’ll be bomb.”

           The three girls in the backrow just stared at her.

“We. Are. Not. Friends,” Marinette repeated slowly. “Kagami and Chloe, and their families are invited because Kagami. And. Chloe. Are. My. Friends. In fact, my only friends in class. Luka is invited as well as well as his family,” She turned to Juleka who turned bright red. “Luka will receive invite tonight. If you attend with him, I will do my best to be polite. My father allowed me to invite them so I would have additional company if it gets too busy. The Ball is invitation only.”

           Allowed? He insisted. Marinette doesn’t even know how he found out all their names and who their families were. For reason, Marinette had the gut instinct to blame a redhead and Tim. Batman wanted to test his daughter’s team. And if they were lacking… Well, he’d promised to shape them up. Or else.

“I’m going to the Wayne Ball!” Chloe shouted. “And you didn’t tell me. It’s mere weeks away. I need a dress. I need to tell Mother.”

           Kagami had frozen. She knew well that the Wayne Ball wasn’t just any high society event. It was the High society event. Her family had never been elite and rich enough to receive an invitation. “I thank you for the invitation,” She bowed her head. “It will be a pleasure to attend.” She paused as she pulled out her phone and stood up. “I must also tell Mother.” And with, she quickly left the room.

           Which was much more polite than Chloe who called her mom then and there.

“Mama!” Chloe sang, “Marinette invited us to the Wayne Ball this year!”

“WHAT!” Was heard from the receiver.

           Marinette giggled. She ignored the glare Alya sent her.

           Rose grasped Juleka’s arm and jumped up and down. “You’re going to the ball. Ahhhh!” She screamed. “What will you wear? Your hair? You have to take pictures.” Rose suddenly reared back and took a deep breath. “You’re going to walk the red carpet.”

“You know, Marinette,” Lila smiled sweetly. “I would be honored to help you navigate the world of a celebrity. The ball will be so stressful. If you needed me there, I’d be happy to attend.”

“No, thank you,” Marinette said. “My siblings have promised to guide me through. It will be a bonding experience.”

           Lila forced a smile on her face, “Of course.” She fought the desire to scream and throw a tantrum. How could this happen?

           Adrien on the other hand fought to keep the smile on his face. His father would not be pleased. He had instructed Adrien to get close to Marinette, and thus the Wayne family. Adrien hadn’t had the courage to tell his father that they weren’t friends anymore. And that because of the lack of friendship, the Agreste were not invited to the party of the year.

           Marinette went to bed that day with a smile on her face. The Christmas season may have started off rocky but it would get better.

           Suddenly her phone started buzzing like it was on fire.

           The first text she read was from Chloe: You’re dating Roy Queen?!!!!

           Marinette’s entirely body froze. Who?

           Suddenly, she got another text… From Jason: Hey Baby Bats, I need a favor! Can you fake date my friend Roy. I already told everyone you guys were a thing. Bruce is freaking out! Thanks! Love you.

           Her mouth dropped, raged filled her entire body. And then she remembered how she joked with Alya that she wanted a boyfriend last year for Christmas last year.

“FUCK SANTA!”

[petri808]

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30-Epilogue

*TW: cutting, therapy, break down. a little longer then usual at 2500 words

The therapist greeted the couple as they walked in and sat down on the couch. “Thank you for allowing Natsu to sit in today, Lucy. I don’t want you to think of this as a couples counseling per se, because you’re still my primary client. But I feel that him being here to understand your struggles, as well as his, and being able to express them in a safe environment, will help in your healing process. And thank you Natsu for agreeing to this.”

He sat forward a bit, ready to engage. “Anything to help Lucy.”

“I’d like to start with your homework Lucy, has there been any progress in trying to write out your feelings? Remember, it’s okay if you’re still struggling with that, there’s no judgment here.”

“Not... really...” Lucy fidgeted with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Every time I try to, I-I get too... I start to cry, and the panic rises— I fail at it every single damn time and that makes me feel even worse.”

“You’re not failing. Let’s reword that to struggling and recognize that simply making an attempt is the first step, a very important one to be proud of.”

“Maybe I was just kidding myself all along about writing. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t any good in the first place. It was all in my head.” Lucy could see the frown on Natsu’s face from her words, but that’s how she feels now. There was a time she thought she was a decent writer, maybe not publishing quality yet, but she truly enjoyed it regardless and now, a blank page is all she could muster.

“Natsu,” the therapist directs her question to the man. “It seems you’re unhappy with her statement. Would you say that Lucy’s a good writer? Honest answer.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, “I mean I’m no expert, but the stuff I’ve seen is pretty good. I definitely couldn’t pull them off.”

“Lucy would you call Natsu a liar?”

The blonde paused, annoyed and offended. She wanted to say yes, only because she didn’t want to agree, but then it wouldn’t be true. Natsu was giving his honest opinion and she couldn’t deny it. “No,” Lucy breathed out. “Look I get it. You’re trying to tell me it’s all in my head, right? It’s just the pain talking, and I’ll get better, and I’ll get back into writing just like before.” Anger had slowly begun to prickle the hairs on the back of her neck the longer she clung to the dissociation. “I-I’m not an idiot! I know this is all stupid shit in my brain! I just can’t stop it!”

“I’m sorry, I pushed you too hard, let’s go back a step here. No one is saying you’re an idiot. On the contrary, you’re very intelligent. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be recognizing that it’s all in your head, and that recognition is how the healing starts. My role, today with Natsu’s help, is to bring that to the forefront. Bring it out into the open, because sometimes hearing it out loud has a different effect on how we process the information.”

“I don’t get it...”

The woman sat back in her chair in thought for a brief second. “When we think about things just in our head, versus saying it out loud, it triggers different parts of our brain. What studies have found is that talking out loud stimulates... rational... erm, reality I guess is a better term. It becomes more real to us.”

“Huh.” So, what, Lucy rolled her eyes at the suggestion. True or not, she didn’t want to agree, because her mind was still in such a strong state of denial. “I still don’t accept it. It sounds stupid.” Maybe it was just her annoyance talking, but the therapist was getting on her nerves. Lucy knew the woman was just trying to help, but her irrational side didn’t want to deal with any of this. The pain sucked, but so did the treatment. She just wanted to stay in her room, in the dark, away from prying eyes. Surprisingly to Lucy, the therapist didn’t even flinch and the gleam in the woman’s eyes almost looked sadistic in that moment.

“Lucy, I know you know it’s not stupid. That’s just your mind imagining the wrong things, which is why you need to talk about it out loud, so you can hear yourself and how wrong it all sounds.”

Ugh! She was so tired of being told what she is, what she should be thinking, and the condescending tone she wrongly assumed from the therapist triggered an explosion. All the anger she felt about herself was transferred to the therapist in an instant. “I’m wrong?!” Lucy jumped to her feet, her anger crackling through. “No shit! Lady, I’m fucked up!! You want me to talk? Fine! I hate this! I hate everything! It’s all falling the fuck apart and I feel like I’ve been tied to the damn train tracks! Everything I’ve worked so hard for is slipping away! Three years of college being washed down the drain! How the fuck do I catch up now?! I’m so behind! AARRRGHH!!! I-I don’t even wanna get out of bed anymore! I hate myself— hate what I’ve become a-and that makes me even more fucking depressed! And my friends...” Lucy dropped back onto the couch as her shaking hands flew up to cover her face and the dam of tears finally broke loose in a cascade down her cheeks. She cried long, and deep for several minutes, chest heaving and inconsolable.

In that moment, Natsu sat frozen, his eyes swinging back and forth to the therapist and his girlfriend unsure of what to do. Should he move to comfort Lucy? The therapists inaction seemed to suggest the answer was no. It made him furious, yet... she was the professional... before he could make a decision, Lucy finally uncovered her face and look dead at her therapist. Almost forgetting him all together.

“My friends, seeing the looks on their faces...” Lucy dug her fingers into the fabric of her pants in an effort to ground her unraveling mind. “It hurts so fucking much! I must be getting on Levy’s nerves, she didn’t sign up to be my nurse, a-and Natsu, he’ll surely get tired of a basket-case of a girlfriend. I can’t blame him if he left me, I’d leave me too. It’s all just falling apart—” Her chest heaved in a heavy sigh. “I can’t see a way out anymore.”

Seeing the whites of Lucy’s knuckles the harder she clenched onto her leg and seeing the heavy breathing similar to that night in the ambulance. Natsu feared that Lucy was heading towards a panic attack. Wanting to reassure her, Natsu reacted this time and reached up from his seat, quickly grabbing her arm to gain her attention. “Lucy, I’m not—.”

But Lucy screamed and yanked her arm back, face grimacing in pain. “Tsss—Owww!!”

“leavi—” Natsu pulled back immediately. “Oh, shit! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! Did I grab you too hard?!” He didn’t think so, but based on her reaction, maybe he had.

“N-No,” she cradled her arm, turning to shield it from him. “You didn’t, I’m fine, it just caught me by surprise.” Lucy quickly brushed it off for fear of requiring an explanation. “Really. S-Sorry, I-I’m probably just too flustered.”

But that explanation didn’t satisfy Natsu. Lucy’s yelp was clearly pain related if buttressed by the fact she continued to hide it. “You’re lying to me,” he reached out, “I’m not mad, just please tell me the truth because it’s obvious there’s something wrong with your arm.”

“N-No, I’m not,” she tried to act like it was true. “See,” she waved it as if showing it was fine. “Nothing’s wrong...” till she accidentally hit it again and flinched, biting her lip just in time to stifle a scream. But she knew in an instant that she’d been caught.

His eyes and tone softened in an effort to lower her inhibitions. “Yes, there is.” Natsu took her arm and started to pull up on the sleeve of her sweater.

Lucy instinctively turned her head away. She didn’t want to see his reaction to the bandage around her arm. Even when he continued to speak, questioned what was underneath it, she answered in one worded responses without looking. But at his gasping sound, her eyes closed in shame. She could see what he saw all from behind her eyelids, all the horizontal cuts running across her left arm. The red, angry lines in varying stages of healing. She kept most of it grouped around the middle of her arm between the wrist and elbow crook. At first, she’d tried what that EMT had done, merely jabbing her arm with a pen or digging her nails into the skin. But it wasn’t enough, so she’d moved onto cutting. It had started out small, just a couple of lines were enough to silence the horrid voices in her head, but like a junky’s tolerance, Lucy had to keep cutting, more and more, deeper, just to feel the same numbing results.

“Is this what I think it is?” Natsu’s shaky voice questioned with moisture filling his eyes. “Oh, Lucy, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad.” Now he knew why she’d started wearing long sleeves even when the weather was warm.

“I’m sorry... I didn’t want anyone to know... but it was the only thing making the voices stop.”

Without another word, Natsu pulled a surprised Lucy into a tight hug, tears of his own spilling. “No, I’m sorry, it’s my fault this is happening to you. I should have dealt with Touka long ago. I should have protected you better. This is on me, but Lucy I’m never gonna let you go, I won’t ever leave you because of this. We’re gonna get through this together. I swear on my life, we’re gonna get through this together. Do you believe me?? Please, tell me you believe me?”

“I do...” she did. The man wore his heart on his sleeve. It was a trait Lucy found most endearing, so how could her heart not accept his words? They sat there in an embrace while time stood still, and a small measure of relief fell over her. It wasn’t much, but it was a glimmer of hope, an ember, and one she hadn’t felt in a long time. This man who’d caged her on that train and captured her heart, she could easily pin all of her pain onto him, but he could also be her salvation. His strong arms wrapped around her broken frame made the scary world fall away, to remind her how much more she yearned to stay within it.

Once he felt Lucy’s body relax, Natsu pulled back, wiping away her tears as well as his own. “Is this the only area?” He gestured at her arm without judgment. And when she nodded, he let out a sigh of relief.

Now that the moment was waning, the therapist who’d been waiting patiently and observing spoke up. She offered the anxiety medications again to Lucy and with Natsu’s gentle coaxing, the blonde finally agreed to it. It couldn’t hurt right? If they didn’t work, she’ll just stop taking them. She didn’t want to see the anguish in Natsu’s eyes anymore, especially now that she realized how much he was internalizing and struggling alone with. He was in just as much pain as she was, so it was time they both do what they could to heal, together.

As they were about to leave, Natsu paused and questioned the doctor. “I have a question. I just realized, even though today was a big episode... Lucy didn’t have a panic attack. Why is that?”

The blonde looked at her boyfriend before her eyes landed on the therapist with an expectancy of an answer. She hadn’t realized that either. Shouldn’t her outburst have triggered one?

“I’m glad you asked,” the woman smiled. “Panic attacks are often triggered by suppression. When you’re trying to hold in your emotions, refusing to let it go, and not show it, but today Lucy let it out. She didn’t hold back so there was no need for her body to react physiologically.” She reached out and placed a gentle hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Sometimes a good cry and scream goes a long way. Please remember that.”

It was quiet on the taxi ride back to Lucy’s apartment. Not an uncomfortable silence, but maybe just enough had been said in the hour long therapy session that they both still needed time to process it all. Despite her breakthrough, she knew it was still a long battle ahead. The poor coping skills she’d latched onto now needed to be reversed, and frankly she didn’t know if she could do it alone. Of course, she could ask Levy... and the woman did deserve to hear the truth going on... but Lucy really didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on her best friend. Levy had done so much for her already and as much as she appreciated it, it also contributed to her emotional pain. She glanced down at her hand held so tightly by Natsu and wondered... no... The man was struggling as well, so to add hers into his mix, is that really fair? But by that same token, their pain was also a shared one. If there was anything to take away from the session is that perhaps it is together, they’ll better find the end of the rainbow.

Once they arrive at the building and get out of the taxi, Natsu started walking towards it. Lucy tugged back to stop him. “Lucy?”

“Before we go in...” her voice lowers, hesitancy brimming in her tone. “I have a question to ask.”

“Of course, anything.”

“I can’t—, don’t want to do this alone anymore. But I also don’t want to put that kind of burden on Levy.”

“Lucy,” he pulled her hand up, clasped between his palms to his lips where he kissed the fingers gently. “I will do whatever you need me to do.”

She sighed. “Can I move in with you? A-At least until I get control of the panic attacks and the... the thing?” Her eyes flit to her arm rather than say the words aloud. “I know this would intrude on Gray, but I would feel much safer.”

Natsu paused for a second in thought. “I don’t think Gray will mind. I certainly don’t.” He smiled. “We’ll be there for each other.”

“Are you sure? Because there’s still a few things I haven’t mentioned like nightmares. I-I don’t wanna freak you guys out.”

“A promise is a promise, and when I said I’ll do anything, I meant it. Will it be scary, probably, I’m not gonna lie, but I’m willing to do whatever I need to get us through this.”

Lucy’s eyes gloss over, but a tiny smile ticks up at the corners of her lips. “Thank you, Natsu.”

He smiled back, “I’m the one who should be thankful.”

“For what?”

“For not dumping me. As much you’d worried, I’d leave you, I was deathly afraid you’d leave me. I brought this on us, so I wouldn’t blame you from running away.”

“Oh, Natsu.” This time a true smile finally graced Lucy’s face. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

[dearestpartnerofgreatness]

talk to me about the lingering effects of Rapunzel's trauma

I love this question! My answer is longgggg

First of all, I’ve touched on a few elements of Rapunzel’s trauma in my fanfic “Blossoming Jealousy”: 

“Like when the handmaidens had tried to brush her choppy cap of hair for her, and she’d cried because that was supposed to be a mother’s job, but her new mother hadn’t even offered--obviously because her hair wasn’t special anymore, so of course the Queen didn’t love her, because if she did why hadn’t she come to do it herself? Or when she’d tied her bedsheets together and rappelled from her bedroom window, giving them both a heart attack, because she’d wanted to visit her friends at the Snuggly Duckling and hadn’t realized that as long as she brought a chaperone, they would freely give their permission for her to roam the kingdom as she wished. Or the night they had tried to make her feel more comfortable by having her favorite: hazelnut soup. Despite the chef’s attempts to replicate the recipe, Rapunzel had cheerfully remarked, “It tastes so much different than Mother’s!” 

Of course there's the dangers of information and sensory overload and dealing with the pressure of succeeding at everything because she’s desperate to be liked and viewed as a “worthy” queen and daughter, especially because she’s already good at so many things (baking, knitting, sewing, paper mache, music, chess, you name it). After all, it’s hard to unlearn the concept of conditional love that Gothel clearly hammered into her brain. 

Social interaction of course, and not just learning the nuances of love languages and sarcasm and the different ways to show you care (as we see in the show’s plotlines about her & Cassandra or Monty). I think the most egregious lingering effect of her trauma in this case would be understanding the grey areas of what makes people good and bad. Yes, Gothel was lying about a lot of things, and the world/other people aren’t all bad. But then again, some of what Gothel said is true--there are some people who existed in the Tangled universe who, had they heard about Rapunzel’s magic hair, would have tried to kidnap her and sell it--Stabbingtons, anyone? Rapunzel tries to see the good in everyone, so this might be hard for her to comprehend at first. Also, Gothel herself was able to manipulate Rapunzel by appearing loving and caring at times--I think Rapunzel would find it overwhelming to study those nuances of human behavior. While there are bad people in the world, some can look like good people and do things that may seem “good” for bad reasons. Granted, I think she does understand the flip side of this concept (that some people might do bad things that hurt people but not necessarily BE bad people) thanks to Eugene being so open about his past as a thief. I think this confusing concept may have contributed to her troubles with Cass, as Cass is definitely a character whose morality runs more grey than black and white. 

On a different topic, I think a lot about how difficult it must be to unlearn what Gothel taught her a parent-child relationship should be, especially since Rapunzel is technically an adult. Her parents want to establish boundaries and rules because they know what is and isn’t safe and understand how the world works, but they also have to restrain themselves from being too controlling or infantilizing her/underestimating her abilities. On Rapunzel’s part, she has to figure out how + when to stand up for herself versus when it’s important to listen to their advice, even when she doesn't understand it or may even disagree. 

After spending her whole life forced into the submissive role to her mother’s dominant one, I think Rapunzel would have a hard time balancing her newfound independence with the fact that she still has a lot to learn. To me, this might look like vacillating between being reckless--because she’s desperate to prove she can handle things on her own (as expressed in the show)--and then slipping back into a codependent dynamic, only with Eugene or Pascal instead of Gothel because they are the most familiar and “safe” to her. Examples of this could be insisting that Eugene explain everything new to her, or not wanting to go anywhere without Pascal present. It could also mean that she naturally seeks out Pascal or Eugene when she’s frightened, stressed, overwhelmed, or confused. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and I do believe both would be amazing at comforting her and want to do so, but I think one challenge for her might be learning how to self-soothe when they aren’t there (either because they’re not present, they don’t know what is going on, or they don’t have the emotional energy to comfort someone else). She also might struggle more with learning to trust other people, like her parents, with those feelings instead of always running to Eugene or Pascal. 

On the subject of Pascal, having him by her side 24/7 and being the only remnant of her previous life could also create some problems. Pascal will always understand her on a level no one else can because of what they’ve experienced, so finding boundaries and managing a shift in how much time they spend together as both of them form new friendships and hobbies could also be a journey in itself. 

Additionally, I believe Rapunzel would have a rougher time figuring out the dynamic between her and Queen Arianna. She’s never had a father figure before, so she has no preconceived notions of what that relationship is supposed to look like. But Arianna is literally replacing the only person she socially interacted with for 18 years straight, so there's bound to be some awkward moments and mistakes there. As I say in my fic,  for Arianna the struggle would be to accept the fact that “to Rapunzel, she had the potential to be a lot of things: Mom, Ma, Mama. But Mother would always be someone else. Someone who had gotten to see her first steps, teach her her colors and shapes, spend birthday after birthday with her. Someone who had danced with her, wiped away her tears, given her advice. Someone who had seen her grow up.” Because of how Rapunzel grew up, I think her natural instinct would be to resort to a “fawn response” and walk on eggshells around Arianna, and even blame herself for things feeling awkward because Gothel always made her feel like everything was her fault. 

Then we have the ol’ classics: nightmares, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, pushing herself too hard to learn everything perfectly, not wearing shoes even when it would be appropriate. Not having her magic hair might be a trauma in itself too: not only can she actually get hurt now, which definitely takes some getting used to, she also can’t heal anyone she cares about. That sense of helplessness can be quite terrifying, especially for someone as protective and caring as our girl. 

Thanks for the ask! I have a lot of thoughts on Rapunzel and her journey--I would love to expand on it more, so feel free to send more asks if there’s something I didn't touch on! 

[sixx02]

One More

“Arc… Arc… vs Arc… and Nikos… ugh… why are there three of you?”  The combat professor scratched his head as he stared at the names on the board.  “Whatever…”  

Jaune did not like where this was going, they had only been here for a few weeks but he’d seen just how good Pyrrha was.  Okay, well he could tell right away after her first fight with Nora.  He just kind of hoped they’d be together… ‘Not together together!  Just on the same team… right that’s what I meant!’  Yep he definitely didn’t think she was super darn awesome, or really pretty, or super badass or anything like that!  He also didn’t notice her well toned arms and legs when they were training, nope!  He’d never pay attention to things like that.

Of course… he couldn’t help but pass glances to her now and again, she was really awesome.  Though… he doubted he’d have a chance, and honestly he needed to concentrate on himself… right… he didn’t want a repeat of before.  Turning towards the professor he waited for the actual teams. 

“Ugh, whatever, boys versus girls.”

Both Lie and him stopped, “Uh… sir, could we uh… could you reconsider?”  

“No!  Now get your stuff and get up there!”  

Both boys turned towards one another, “Oh no.”  

Lie and him weren’t terrible by any means, heck they were in the upper half of the class!  But, well… Nora and Pyrrha were at the very top constantly competing for first place.  And there was talk about Pyrrha actually competing in the upcoming tournaments!  The trio had opted out of it, they didn’t really want the attention and honestly speaking they didn’t want to be in front of a crowd.  

“Hurry up!”  Both boys sighed, relenting to their future domination. That was till they were both pulled into a powerful hug.

“Yes!  I can’t wait to fight!  It’s going to be a ton of fun!”  

Jaune loved Nora, she was his wonderful sister after all.  But, well… he wasn’t sure he could agree with that last bit.  Though he didn’t really have the heart to deny her answer as she continued to squeeze the two boys together.  

“Nora I think they get the point.”  Pyrrha’s gentle tone caught his ears.

“Okie dokie!”  Nora let them go at the behest of her, in her own words, besty better than the resty forever!  Honestly despite his obvious… not so obvious, crush on her, he was just happy that she got along with Nora.  Like he said he loved Nora, but she had a lot of energy, a lot of energy that caused a lot of people to think she was stupid or dumb, well they always got what was coming to them.  

“Still, this should be a grand fight!”  

“Right right!  Grand.”  

“Yes… Grand.”  Lie’s response was far less enthusiastic than his own.  Both boys however gave way, once they gathered their things adjourning at the arena.  The girls had already been prepared, Pyrrha had her own specially made weapon.  “It seems they’re taking us seriously.”

“Yep… I wish they wouldn’t!”  Jaune didn’t like where this was going!  He had seriously thought about how they’d handle the dynamic duo, but every single idea and thought was always just crushed by overwhelming prowess and might.  “Well nothing left but to do it then ya?”  

Lie simply nodded, they would have to take this one step at a time after all.  

The moment they lined up with the girls the professor started the count down.  

“Alright!  3...2...1… GO!”  

Hopefully this wouldn’t be too terrible.

“This is terrible…”  

A week earlier.

Charles couldn’t believe what they’d run into, he was starting to truly and fully believe that him and his wife were harbingers of doom… or at the very least ones that came in the aftermath of great destruction.

“Who would do this?  This wasn’t a grimm attack… they don’t just set fires to homes!”  Jeanne didn’t like this, not at all… they’d been on a mission when they’d seen the smoke rise into the air.  When they got to the small farm they’d found the home razed to the ground, if only they’d gotten here sooner!  She clenched her fist as the air around her began to warp, her aura flared wildly, the ground cracking beneath her feet.  

“WAAAAAAAAAH!”  

In an instant she cooled off, “Did you hear that?!”  

“Yes!”  Both husband and wife turned towards one another, in an instant they were off, the ground cracking beneath their feet as they made their way towards the sound. 

In an instant they found themselves in front of a Cellar, wasting no time they dug through the debris blocking their way.  

“What…”  Once they’d opened the doors they’d found a young boy who appeared to be the same age as their twins.  “Oh god…”  Jeanne winced at the terrible wounds on his chest rising up to his neck.  

“No… not again.  What do we do?”  Her husband’s words sunk in.

“We...  we have to take him… see if he has family?  Find out who he is…”  

“P...please… help him…”  Their eyes snapped towards a younger woman.  They hadn’t noticed her before, but… but she wasn’t going to make it.  The clear indications of severe wounds present on her body, scars and gnashes… the seasoned hunters almost looked away.  “Please… he has… no one else…”  

“Hold on don’t ta…”  Charles stopped as he drew closer, “...She’s dead.”  

Once more they let the silence seep in, “We… we have to take him.”

Her husband stood there for a moment, “Alright…”  

They would bury the woman, and they would take the young boy home with them.  The young man who they would later learn the name as Oscar Pines, the young man that would later be known as Oscar Pines Arc.

Jaune had been wrong, he had been terribly terribly wrong!  This was worse than terrible!  This had gone downright ugly!  

His legs buckled at Nora’s powerful swing, the arena beneath his feet cracked.  “SERIOUSLY?!”  He knew that these things were supposed to be made of sturdier stuff, and he knew that if he hadn’t been pumping aura into this metal sheet of a shield it would have caved right in.  

“AHAHAHAH!”  Her body was surging with dangerously high levels of electricity.

“Your semblance is so unfair!”  

“Says the walking living aura generator!  Now on your knees my favorite minion!”  

“NOPE NOPE NOPE!  LIE!”  In an instant Lie pulled himself away from trying to defend from Pyrrha, pumping his aura into his legs he dashed over towards his manic sister, his palm colliding with her waist sending her flying.  Unfortunately she was able to stop herself from getting ringed out by smashing her hammer into the ground beneath them.

Jaune’s hand swiped past Lie as he continued after Nora, in a single burst he’d filled his brother’s Aura up once more.  WIth a burst of strength his own Aura began to refill, only to stop a Pyrrha peppered him with dust rounds.  

“Really Pyrrha?!”  

“Sorry!  But I can’t let you do that!”  She was ever the fighter after all, so he knew she wouldn’t just let him recharge.  

“Fine!”  Putting up his shield he dashed forward, allowing the bullets to graze past it or hit less important targets, like not his head.  

Upon reaching her, he did what he did best, he attempted to ram his shield into her face.  Only for her to deftly avoid him, his shield flashed black as she attempted to nudge it away.  

Ever since her fight with Nora, she’d apparently been using her semblance a lot more, taking the time to really practice with it.  Or at least that’s what she’d told them anyways.  Which was great and everything!  But it made her really frustrating to fight, so he did what he knew he could.  Pumping more aura into the shield he was able to overpower her attempt at control.

“You really do have a lot of aura!”  He would have blushed at the comment if not for her shield attempting to ram him into the face.  

He didn’t have many options, he couldn’t really avoid it, he wasn’t exactly the fastest person, so once more he did what he thought he could.  “ACHA!”  With a might slam he hit her shield straight on with his empowered forehead causing her to pull back in surprise.

“Jaune!?”  Her worried tone was apparently warranted as that blow nearly knocked his lights out.  Aura could do a lot of things, but when he messed up, well sometimes his brain couldn’t really handle the rumbling.

“I’m okay!”  Straightening himself he attempted to swipe at her midsection, only for her to parry the blow using her blade.  

“Good!”  In that moment he felt her aura wrap around his blade disarming him as her knee hit him straight in the gut.  Thankfully his Aura protected him, but that hadn’t been her goal.  In the moment that he instinctively buckled over she’d applied her aura instantly onto his shield and pushed him straight out of the ring.  “Sorry!”  

To his surprise Lie had already been there waiting for him.  “Did she golf swing you?”

“She golf swung me…”  

“Nikos and Arc win!”  

The boys could hear the cheering from the crowd, their own egos slightly wounded as no one really had expected them to win, not even themselves!  

But, well that didn’t matter in the end, “YOU GUYS DID AMAZING!”  

Pink and Sapphire eyes glanced upwards, meeting emerald and turquoise.  

“She’s right you know.  You had gotten our aura’s rather low.”  

Both boys turned towards the monitor at the same time, they’d managed to get both Pyrrha and Nora down to about 60 percent.  That may have seemed like nothing, but well, when most people couldn’t drop them even a single percent?  It wasn’t a bad thing.  “Huh!  Hey look at that, we got you guys down another 2 percent this time.”  A part of him did want to have a little snark though.

“That we did.”

“Yeah!  You guys are improving!”  Nora pulled everyone into a tight hug, her arms wrapped affectionately around her family, Pyrrha included.

“I agree you’re both improving at a remarkable rate.”

Neither of the boys could really deny it, while it felt bad to lose, well… well at least they knew they were getting better and that wasn’t a bad thing.

“Alright… well how bout… we go get cleaned up and then we can go to Saph’s house.  We could have a sleep over?”  He turned towards Pyrrha, “If you can come of course!”

“Oh!  Yes, my parents should be fine with it.  They quite like your sister.”  Pyrrha’s warm smile caused his chest to feel oddly pained.  Right, gotta concentrate on getting better.  

Pyrrha parted ways with them wanting to get ready and prepared for the oncoming sleepover.

Once they’d gotten home after getting ready, they’d noticed extra sounds coming from the living room.  “Saph?”

“MY BABIES!”  In an instant the three Arc siblings were pulled into one powerful hug.

“MOM!”  Nora was the only one to return the powerful hug meeting one with equal strength.

“Hey kids… we got something to tell you.”  As their mom dropped them they eyed a small figure behind them.  “Meet Oscar… Oscar Pine Arc, he’s your new little brother.”

[reluctant-mandalore]

Tickle Fights Are Tiring (Din Djarin x fem!Reader)

Word Count: 1,842

Warnings: Fluff, cute family moments. There really isn’t much to warn about with this one. mention of pregnancy

a/n: Thanks for the request! I really appreciate it and I enjoyed writing it. I live for Din having a loving family that supports and adores him.  I tried to leave a lot of the characteristics of the children out so that the reader could imagine what they think their children with Mando would look like. 

  Honestly, I struggled a bit with writing the tickle fight, so I hope it turned out ok. I’m more used to writing angst than fluffy family times so I hope it's to your liking!! Also, I’m sorry it took me so long to get the request done. A lot has happened over the past month. 

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader 

Note: When I say ‘little one’ I’m referring to the child (baby yoda).​

Edits: Some grammar and spelling fixes as per usual

  If someone were to tell you that one day you would marry the mandalorian and have a family with him you’d think they were crazy. The thought of Din Djarin settling down with anyone seemed very jarring, especially if the person he chose to do it with was you. However, fate must have been on your side because Din did in fact choose you to start a family with. 

  The two of you had married some years ago. After being together for so long, it only seemed natural to take the next step of becoming partners for life. For a while, you lived as a clan of three composed of you two and the child, but you could tell that your Mandalorian husband was itching to expand his little family. So, it didn’t take long for you to welcome your first born into the family. The pregnancy of your second child was what had been the catalyst for you guys to actually get a home together. The birth of your second child, meant that now you two were in charge of raising three children. The Razor Crest just wasn’t big enough for your growing family anymore. 

  The home that the two of you chose was on the edge of a town, far from any praying eyes to give your family some privacy, especially for Din’s sake. The creed, after your marriage, allowed him to show his face to you and even your children to a certain age. However, other than your family, no one could see his face. So in order to preserve that, your home stayed out of sight of the town and its people.

 The people in the neighbouring town were surprisingly very open to having a mandalorian live close by with his family. They were even pretty understanding of your circumstances. At times you wondered if that was why Din was so set on this particular town. The community itself was very welcoming and did their best to not overstep any boundaries that may affect your home life. The people here had made it easy for your little family to settle down within the area and you were very grateful for it. That being said, your family was still cautious, making sure to do what you could to preserve your husband's creed.  

  Even though you now lived in your own home, Din still did bounty jobs and still followed the creed to a point. Which you didn’t mind, even if you missed him greatly when he was gone. One of the reasons he had fallen in love with you was because of how accepting you were of his way of life and marriage wouldn’t change that. He always made sure to not be gone for too long anyway, he missed you all too much to stay away for long. Than when he was home all he did was spend time with you and the kids to make up for his time spent being away. He also didn’t take as many jobs as he once did and only took what he felt was needed to support your family. 

“Something smells good.” Din’s voice said tiredly as he circled his arms around your waist, effectively snapping you from your thoughts. His head rested on your shoulder as he began to rock both of you gently, the smell of the stew you were making wafting to both your noses. 

  Currently, you were making dinner and Din had just gotten up from an afternoon nap. It was a common routine now when he was home. After spending some time with the children he would crash on the couch to take a nap for an hour or two, usually waking up in time for dinner. There were the odd times when he wouldn’t wake from his nap, so you would just let him sleep and told the children not to bother him. You knew how he must have been tired between the jobs, helping around the home, and playing with the children. All while also making sure to give you plenty of attention. 

 You had smiled when feeling his body press into yours and you rocked with him for the moment, stirring the stew while humming. No matter how tired or busy Din felt, or what had changed about your lives, he was still the biggest softie you had ever met. 

  Taking a bit of the stew, you tasted it and being satisfied with it, you pulled away from Din who pouted at the separation. “Dinners ready!” You had called out the window to your children playing in the yard. 

“Coming Buir!!” Your eldest replied, picking up the little one and running towards the home with their younger sibling in tow, giggling as they went. 

 You smiled at the sight of your three children, watching them before turning to set the table with the help of Din. The children had come into the home not long after, making sure to wash their hands before sitting at the table to eat. 

 Dinner had occurred as per usual, the children spoke about their day, you and Din had discussed some needed home repairs, and the little one babbled in an attempt to join in on the conversation. 

At one point you had been attempting to feed the little one in between bites of your own food,  your mother having instincts taken over, as you noticed he hadn’t been eating much of tonight's dinner.

“He ate a frog today ya know? ” The oldest of your children remarked to you after noticing you trying to get the child to eat the stew, “he’s probably not hungry after that.”

“Buir, how come he can eat frogs but I can’t?” The younger child pouted in their fathers direction “you get mad anytime I even approach one.” 

 A sigh had escaped Din’s lips at the question, “we’ve been over this, his kind sometimes eats frogs, so it’s only natural for your brother to go after and consume them.” 

“Humans can eat frogs too!!” 

 “That doesn’t mean you should.” He replied, sending you a pleading look to help him. You had just shrugged at him with a small smile and went back to eating as your child began to chatter about wanting to eat a frog too just like their brother always did. 

  After dinner had finished up, you had tasked your oldest child with helping you clean up the dishes and clearing the table. Meanwhile the youngest had started following Din around the home as he did small tasks, asking numerous questions and chattering about. 

“Hey Buir, can you train with me now? Please, I’ve been practicing ever since last time!” Your youngest child had finally asked. 

  Din had been training the children in self defense for some time now. The minute they were old enough he had brought it up to you, wanting for them to know how to fight if they ever needed to protect themselves. You also had the feeling that Din wanted to teach the children the way of the Mandalore, hoping that they would one day follow the Creed just as he had. Whether they chose to walk the way of the Mandalore would be their own choice, but you had agreed to allow for them to begin training in the meantime. You knew how important it was for Din and couldn’t even fathom keeping something like that from him. 

“Ah, how about tomorrow? I’m a bit tired from our games earlier, and your other buir needs some attention too you know?” 

Your child pouted at Din’s response, “You’re always too tired to train with me! It’s unfair.” 

“Buir is old.” Your oldest replied from the kitchen with a roll of their eyes. “He doesn’t have the energy to keep up with you”. 

“Old?” 

“Yeah, just look at your graying hair! Buir you’re an old man now.” Your oldest teased their father as they continued to put away the clean dishes. “It's a wonder you’re even still standing.” Before you could turn to lecture your child on calling their father old, Din had already begun his attack. 

“Old man, huh?” 

 Faster than what you could keep up with, he had already come up behind your child, his hands instantly going for their sides. His fingers went to the quick work of tickling your eldest. Laughter had burst out into the room as your child had started to try and escape from their fathers grasp.  

“Buir stop! Ahaha! Please!” Your child said in between giggles and laughs, continuing their attempt at fleeing. “I c-can’t breath! aha!”

  Din had laughed along, “You should be able to handle me!” he said not relenting on the tickling, “I’m just an old man after all!”

  “I’ll save you!” Your youngest eventually jumped in, attempting to tickle Din in order to save their sibling from their impending doom. 

  Soon an all out tickle war had begun in the kitchen, it was the children versus Din. Even the little one had made grabby hands in the direction of the battle, giggling as he watched the fight unfold. Concern had etched in your mind over the possibility of something breaking, but at the same time your heart had warmed at the sight of the tickle war between your children and husband. Never in your days would you have expected to see such a thing.

 To see one of the strongest warriors in the galaxy laughing and playing with his children would have been an odd sight to many, but to you it was the most beautiful thing you ever set eyes on. 

  Deciding to let them have their moment, you did your best to outmaneuver them from the dishes and finished up with the cleaning. The tickle fight had continued for a while until all parties laid on the floor, breathing heavily and letting out little puffs of dying laughter. Your children had curled up with Din in their tired states, the youngest suited over his chest and the oldest tucked away into his one side. The little one having waddled over by this point, snuggled up to his father and siblings. The four of them began to doze off right in the middle of the kitchen floor without a care in the world.

 Not having the heart to make them get up, you pulled out a thick blanket from the closet and draped it over the tuckered out bunch. Feeling the heavyweight of the blanket, Din’s eyes fluttered open to look at you with a droopy smile crossing his lips. He lifted the one side of the cover, a hint for you to join them in their new napping spot.

 Of course you complied, shuffling over to and joining them in the warmth under the blanket. A chaste kiss from your husband was pressed to your forehead before you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, suddenly feeling just as tired as everyone else. It was here where you all slept that night, bundled together on the kitchen floor, together as a perfect little family. 

--

Buir: Mother or Father

--

Tags: @ah-callie​

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Pairings: Bumblebee (Blake x Yang)

Word Count: 1,923 Words

Summary: Discussion and go time.

Warnings: Fighting Mention, Cursing, Weapon Mention, Death Mention, Blood Mention, Amputation Mention, let me know if I should tag anything else.

Shadows Are Made Of Light: Chapter 5

Dinner was lively to say the least. Terra and Saphron seemingly decided that eating at the table in their kitchen was their best bet while the group was discussing. Terra and Saphron had long since gone up to their bedroom to sleep.

The plans were talked through and they were about to wrap up the conversation when Mercury sighed. Now was a better time than ever for the little plans he'd overheard details from.

"I actually have something to say." Mercury didn't like all this attention once all their eyes were on him.

"What's wrong?" Jaune asked, looking over his tension-filled expression.

"There were some things Salem would relay through Cinder. There was always a plan behind the fall of Beacon. Salem's plans are to create a divide and unrest amongst the people of Remnant and gather the relics so, when the gods come back, they'll destroy Remnant, everyone on it, and she will no longer be immortal. Salem's goal is to free herself from eternity by taking everyone with her." Mercury told them.

"So she'll be looking for the Lamp." Oscar asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

"For all the relics. Last I heard, Emerald told me that Ozpin had apparently hidden the Crown even better than the other three and Cinder still hadn't found it. Now that we have the Lamp, they know they need to get the others before we can so our goal is a ticking clock." Mercury took a deep breath, hoping nobody was disappointed.

"A time crunch isn't anything new. We can still do this." Ruby assured him.

"We should get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be interesting." Maria laughed on her way upstairs. Mercury was going to end up asleep on the couch again because Oscar was half asleep against him again.

"I have a feeling Nora is taking pictures." Mercury told them.

"Good instincts." Nora told him, obviously taking another picture. "I've never passed up an opportunity for Cute Farm Son pictures." Nora alerted him.

"Good to know, crop me out of them." Mercury told her.

"Ehhh, I think I'll leave you in since you're looking particularly Dad-like." Mercury laughed while frowning at her.

"I hate you." Mercury smiled at her.

"Yeah, sure, Dad-cury." Nora snorted.

"Go sleep or something." He laughed, smiling as everyone filed from the room and shut the lights off. Mercury's heart stopped at the darkness. As childish as it may be, the dark was something he couldn't deal with.

"Nora?" He asked, she'd been the last one to go up the stairs due to her need for pictures of Mercury and Oscar.

"What's up Dad-cury?" Nora asked, coming downstairs and turning the lights on.

"Could you leave a light on?" Mercury asked.

"Oh yeah, sure. You scared of the dark too?" She asked.

"More of an instinct. Can't sleep with lights off. My dad told me too many stories of monsters in the dark." Mercury admitted.

"You're good, I'll leave the lamp over here on." She told him and patted the lamp before turning it on and turning the main light off. "Night, Dad-cury." She told him.

"Night, Nora." He called after her as she went upstairs. Mercury sighed at Oscar asleep on him.

"I hope you realize I'm not a pillow." He told the sleeping boy only to receive a small snore. "Fine, but it's because you're a kid and you remind me of Chrome." Mercury grumbled.

He went about pulling Oscar's excess clothing off as well as his own. They didn't need to wake up in puddles of sweat in warm, heavy clothing meant for much colder weather than this.

Then he laid down and then he smiled holding the bear from inside his jacket that he had kept, Chrome's favorite teddy bear. It was the piece of her he had left. He had kept it with him since he left his father's house. He fell asleep holding it close, Oscar deciding to cuddle up against him and he smiled. He guessed he would be a father figure to a pre-teen now too.

In the morning, the plan was running smoothly, Weiss was on the Atlesian aircraft to Atlas with Maria in her luggage as the only small person who could fit who could also fly a plane with Saphron and Adrian as her distraction to get Maria onboard. It was up to him and Blake to turn off the radar for Weiss.

Mercury was sure that three people riding on a two person motorcycle probably wasn't safe, he was aware. He was acutely aware of the conversation Blake and Terra were having about the comms equipment for the city versus the radar box.

"Are you two sure I shouldn't come with?" Yang asked as the bike stopped about a half mile from the tower.

"More intruders means we're more likely to be seen." Blake told her. "Besides, stealth isn't exactly your, um...I mean, you're great and we'll hurry back!" Blake told her.

"Go." Yang smiled at her. They went running off toward the tower together, Mercury feeling that bear close in his jacket, snuggly secured to his front so he couldn't possibly lose it.

"Heading in on foot, won't be long." Blake told the others on the comms.

"You know, you two flirting couldn't be more apparent." He told her.

"Hey!" She snapped.

"I just say what I see." He smirked.

"Sure, 'Dad-cury'." Blake teased.

"I won't deny my fatherly title. And don't make me adopt you all." He taunted back.

Their run to the tower was largely uneventful until they got to the tower itself. When they got there, there was a red-haired man he vaguely recognized as having maybe met once or possibly twice. Adam Taurus, a White Fang operative whom Emerald had informed him about two weeks ago that he'd taken reigns as the head of the organization before its eventual fall at Haven not long after.

"Blake. And you. Salem heard of your betrayal at Beacon, Mercury Black." Mercury felt a rush of both helpless and rage. This guy had the guts to practically threaten him?

"Merc, don't rush him." She warned quietly.

"Protecting your friend? Or are you travelling with an enemy, Belladonna? He could betray any of you at any moment while claiming to be a friend. He's probably not even with you to help, he's just running away like he ran away from his dear old daughter two years ago." Adam taunted.

"Don't you talk about my daughter!" Mercury snapped at him.

"Is Dad mad I brought up his abandoned baby? Mad because I'm right or because you're sad she won't have a Dad after I'm done with you?" Adam asked.

"I'm mad because some asshole is talking shit about me protecting my daughter!" Mercury shot at him with the gun-scythe, which he'd named Caduceus, Qrow got him that morning.

"Merc!" Blake snapped, pulling him away.

"Get to the radar." He whispered to her, rushing into the fight with Adam and distracted him while Blake tried to get up the relay tower. Unfortunately, that fight didn't quite favor Mercury as Adam grabbed his leg during a kick and pulled. Hard, so much Mercury went flying to the ground. The lock popped from the pin and he felt the lock break as the pin wasn't undone properly.

"Looks like Silver Black did a good job making his son easily controlled." Adam snapped. Mercury couldn't move, he knew Adam was looming over him, he knew it was so easy for him to die like this if he didn't attack but he felt a crushing weight of shock hit him that he would never see Chrome again.

She would never have a Dad, at least not one that was him. He'd never see her grow up. It made the breath catch in his lungs and tears build in his eyes. But the strike never came and, when he opened his eyes, Adam was gone, going after Blake.

He had to had to help Blake. He heard them tumbling in the trees, he shoved a twig into the the broken lock and put the pin back in. The stupid thing didn't move his stupid knee. Thankfully, he didn't need the use of it, he had a weapon still and another leg.

He could do this. He wouldn't stop fighting until he at least saw Chrome again. Blake was fighting Adam. He could hear it. he followed them to a waterfall nearby. he could tell by the sound of their swords clashing.

"You're delusional." Blake sounded shaken as he stood hidden in the forest before the opening. He saw their blades clash once more as he ran forward to save her. He wouldn't let him kill her.

Gambol Shroud was broken in half and his ears rang with Blake's scream as Mercury saw the blood on her wrist and was now getting on the ground. Her hand still on the grip of Gambol Shroud as it skittered away from her.

Adam simply shoved Mercury down and went about his bullshit speech about how she hurt him, showing off a brand on his left eye, one of the Schnee Dust Company's for their mineworkers. Blake's ears tuned back.

"I don't fucking care much for your pity me speech." Mercury spat and took him onto the ground, knocking Wilt from his hand and bringing the staff of Caduceus down on the bastard's head to try to just knock him out but he got kicked off and landed on top of Blake.

"Tell me, how does it feel to be alone?" Adam was picking up Wilt. He was holding that blade up, yelling as his intent was to bring it down but the blade didn't come a second time, Blake had taken him as she used her semblance to shadow them a few feet away.

"I'm not alone." She grit out as she held her holster for Gambol Shroud in her left hand.

"Yang." Blake grunted, holding her bleeding right wrist.

"It's okay, Blake, catch your breath for a second. Me and Merc can hold him off." Yang assured her.

"She's right, Blake. It's okay, we have unfinished business." And man if he actually needed to help her, he would have but Yang was amazing fighting him. He aided helping Blake stem the blood flow before she bled out by having grabbed her jacket, which he tied part of around her forearm and made a makeshift tourniquet.

"You'll be okay. Don't let yourself get dizzy and don't fall asleep, it might be severe blood loss." He warned her.

"His semblance is like yours! He absorbs energy through his sword, stores it up, and then sends it back when he's ready." Blake told Yang.

"He gets to dish out damage without having to feel it? That's just cheap." Yang scoffed before going after him again. Before he knew it, Blake was yelling for Yang and he was grabbing for her.

"Leave us alone. This is your last chance." Yang told Adam.

"Do you really believe that? Or are you just trying to scare me away so you won't have to die to protect her? Like your good metal buddy, Mercury over there, tried to." Adam asked.

"She's not protecting me, Adam. Neither is Mercury." He felt Blake's stump in his hand, she put it there. She was holding Yang's hand and trying to hold his in the only way she could with her right hand now gone. "And I'm not protecting them. We're protecting each other."

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (10/?)

Chapter Title: Collide

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara, I told you it was a fucking slow burn 

Story Rating: R

Warnings: I don’t think any specific warnings apply for this chapter. Certainly nothing that doesn’t apply to the fic as a whole. Just assume any past warnings remain relevant.

Chapter Summary: The ‘flashback’ storyline comes to an end at the party on the Citadel. In London, Miranda’s insomnia is affecting her worse than ever before. Then Samara shows up at her door. And everything implodes.

Author’s Note: “If I'd have said I love you, she'd have said it back. And then everything would have been different.” - Sue Trinder, Fingersmith. Featuring Citadel dates that aren’t dates except they’re totally dates part II. I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of proud of myself here with the contrasts and parallels going on between the flashback scenes and present day scenes. People at their best, versus, well, close to their worst. Spotify playlist below the cut again.

(Link to Playlist)

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Miranda had been on the run from Cerberus for so long that it still hadn’t fully sunk in. She wasn’t hiding anymore. Wasn’t looking over her shoulder every waking moment. Didn’t get startled awake by every sound she heard in her sleep.

Somehow, she’d done it. She’d turned against The Illusive Man, and lived to tell the tale. For now, anyway.

The events at Sanctuary were so fresh in her mind that she’d barely had the chance to stop and catch her breath since. The bruises had mostly healed, but she still felt lingering echoes of her fight with Kai Leng, which could have ended a lot worse had she gone in unprepared. Not even ten days had passed since she hugged Oriana on Horizon and said her goodbyes, perhaps for the last time.

And yet she wasn’t thinking about what lay ahead. Not really.

Miranda was here. Living in the now.

For this one night, she was able to just...stand in one place, and enjoy the moment. That was something she had never taken the time to do previously, before all this came to pass. On an unconscious level, she had always taken tomorrows for granted. Never stopped or cared to appreciate today.

Suffice it to say, her head hadn’t quite fully caught up to where her body was, and that this was no mere illusion. It felt like at any second she would wake up and find herself alone in the dark again, scurrying like a rat through the shadows in hidden passages of the Citadel where nobody but the keepers could find her. 

But this wasn’t a dream. It was really happening.

It meant all the more that at this particular moment she was surrounded by familiar faces from The Normandy she hadn’t seen in months, plus a few new ones. For a while there, it had felt like she would never see them again.

It was something to savour. So she did. 

Miranda drew a deep breath and allowed herself to be present. To exist. To not be in her own head. She took in the scene as she made her way through Shepard’s apartment, letting her eyes wander the party going on around her, her gaze landing on each person she could see as she passed them by.

Liara and James Vega had spent a good portion of the evening arguing whether biotics were superior to brawn, or vice versa, with Jacob and Ashley having joined in on the great debate earlier. That still seemed to be ongoing, from what she could tell. The answer should have been eminently obvious to anyone, Miranda thought. Then again, she didn’t feel the need to convince anybody why her own preference was correct when she already knew she was right, as usual.

On a related note, Miranda might not have been the best judge when it came to reading signals between people, but even she was starting to get the sense that James and Ashley might be more than just shipmates by the end of the night, if they weren’t already. Good for them.

Tali, the last time she’d seen her, had been very much enjoying how uncomfortable EDI was making Samantha Traynor, talking openly about the crush Sam had on her voice. Although, come to think of it, Miranda was pretty sure Traynor had at long last managed to escape that awkward conversation and gone to hide under a table somewhere. Or maybe she’d just locked herself in the bathroom until she felt safe to emerge again. Either way, fair.

Speaking of potential couples, it hadn’t eluded Miranda’s attention that EDI and Joker had definitely become, shall it be said, a lot closer ever since EDI got a body. In retrospect, that wasn’t surprising, although the idea of the two of them becoming...entangled in that way had obviously never occurred to her before. Why would it have? But, come to think of it, the two of them had always bickered like an old married couple even when EDI was just a disembodied voice. From that perspective, Miranda supposed it kind of made sense.

And lastly on the list of possible relationships, there was also a...vibe coming off of Tali and Garrus, which was by far the most unexpected. And a little weird. Jacob had picked up on it before Miranda had, and she wished he hadn’t pointed it out. It was like finding out that two people she had thought of as more of a brother and sister might be hooking up. But it was none of Miranda’s business. In any event, the two of them seemed to mostly be avoiding each other. Perhaps they hadn’t confronted whatever this was between them yet.

She’d also caught sight of Zaeed and Samara admiring the artwork adorning Shepard’s new apartment. Miranda had thought about intruding on that, since that duo included the one person at this party she had been hoping to speak to tonight above all others, but she ultimately elected not to disturb them just yet. There would be other opportunities to catch up with her.

Somehow, she got the sense that Zaeed had finally been brave enough to shoot his shot with Samara after all this time. Judging by the expression on his face, and given that he was now drinking alone and very much not with Samara, presumably it had gone exactly as smoothly for him as had been predicted a year ago. She would be lying if she said she felt sorry for him.

A big group that included Joker, Garrus, Wrex, Steve Cortez and Javik had been arguing about guns and target practice or some similar nonsense, which hadn’t sounded particularly riveting to her in all honesty. Boys and their toys. They were still in that discussion from what she could hear. Unfortunately, Shepard seemed to have encouraged that line of thinking, which Miranda wished she hadn’t. Guns and alcohol were not the best mix.

Meanwhile, Kasumi had been popping in between all groups almost as much as Shepard had, like the perpetual snoop she was. She always loved getting up in everybody’s business. Miranda would have been a pretty big hypocrite to take issue with that, though. Although, when Miranda spied on people, it was for entirely professional reasons, not because she liked to gossip.

She had heard Grunt yelling at party crashers over the intercom a while back too. Who better to be a bouncer for a party than a genetically perfect krogan? She didn’t care to interrupt him. He’d done a good job of keeping the riff raff out.

And, honestly, for as much as Jack still grated on her nerves, a small part of Miranda had been somewhat relieved to see her there too, because if nothing else that meant she had survived long enough to attend this reunion. Miranda may not have liked Jack in the slightest, but if anybody thought she was actively rooting for any of her former Normandy comrades not to make it through this conflict, even Jack, then they really didn’t know Miranda at all.

Sure, they had instinctively traded barbs when they unintentionally crossed paths, because god forbid Jack actually behave like a fucking adult for once. But then Shepard had appeared out of nowhere and, for some bizarre reason, suggested that they, quote unquote, ‘work out all that unresolved tension between them’ and go have sex, or words to that effect.

In a weird way, that stupid comment had inadvertently somewhat doused the animosity between herself and Jack because, for once in their lives, they finally agreed on something - being that that would never fucking happen, and they would sooner drink broken glass than even think about it.

Credit to Shepard, though, Miranda and Jack hadn’t fought after that.

Maybe that had been the point.

Unfortunately, not all members of The Normandy had made it this far. There were missing faces. Only a few, but too many. From what she knew, they had all gone out like heroes, whatever that meant, and if it made any difference.

Thane had died giving his life to protect the Council from Kai Leng when Cerberus attacked the Citadel. Mordin had sacrificed himself to end the genophage, undoing what he had in retrospect come to believe was his greatest mistake. And Legion, well, to the extent that Legion could be considered ‘dead’, he had certainly ceased to exist in any recognisable form - giving up his ‘individuality’, for lack of a better word, to achieve peace between the quarians and the geth.

It wasn’t until after being forced to go into hiding for so long, believing some Cerberus agent would find her and put three bullets in her head before she saw any of her Normandy comrades again, that Miranda began to regret that she never took the chance to get to know her shipmates better, especially now that there were some with whom those lost moments could never be reclaimed.

What was that saying - you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone?

Yeah, this was definitely one of those instances.

She’d always liked Thane, come to think of it. There was little to dislike. He had been one of the few on the ship who had never been anything other than extremely civil towards her, even when, admittedly, Miranda hadn’t been particularly courteous in return, misjudging him as a man of tenuous loyalty.

He never complained or questioned any task he was given. He just did it. A consummate professional. Exactly the kind of person she would want on any team.

Mordin, she respected. Hadn’t trusted, no, nor completely understood, but respected. They’d teamed up on a fair few field missions with Shepard early on when they were still studying the Collectors. Between her warps and Mordin’s incineration tech, they could tear through any armour in seconds. And he was undeniably a genius. Back on The Normandy, he was probably the only other person who’d spent as much time hard at work as Miranda. Maybe more.

With the benefit of hindsight, she wished she had taken more of an opportunity to pick his brain, and work with him on his endless list of projects. Even if he did talk at a million miles a minute, it was only because he had so much to do and no time to waste doing it. A sombre smile came to her face as she thought how many of the galaxy’s ills the two of them could have solved given enough all-nighters and enough pots of coffee between them.

And then there was Legion. In truth, she hadn’t had much time to speak to him, much less get to know him. He had been on The Normandy so briefly. Less than a month had elapsed between finding him, and Miranda being forced to leave. He was the one she knew the least. But he was unique.

She had been wrong about Legion, hadn’t she? Miranda still didn’t fully know where she stood on the whole question of whether machines could be considered ‘alive’, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Did it even matter if they weren’t? Either way, it would have been wrong to send him to Cerberus, like Miranda had initially suggested. If that had happened, Rannoch might not be at peace right now. With his final sacrifice to unite the quarians and the geth, Legion had definitively proven himself to be more than the mere sum of his programs.

So the question remained. Why hadn’t Miranda taken the initiative to get to know them? To speak to them? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known that the time Thane and Mordin had was short, irrespective of intervening events. She’d just...not bothered.

It hadn’t occurred to her back then to think that was something she ought to have done. The old Miranda hadn’t cared to do such things. Because other people didn’t really matter to her.

By the time Miranda had started to defrost and emerge as a more tolerable (and, in turn, more tolerant) person to be around, it was already too late. The mission was over. The Alpha Relay was destroyed. And everyone went their separate ways.

But there was no changing the past. Perhaps there was no sense in wondering what could have been, or what she would have done differently if she had known then what she knew now, or if she had been the person back then that she was now, because that just wasn’t possible. And Miranda could do many things, but even she couldn’t make the impossible possible.

Well, not usually.

She couldn’t have those days back. But she still had this day. This one night. Best not to dwell on what was missing or the mistakes of yesterdays gone by when there was so much that she had to be thankful for. And, moreover, so much which she had, for once in her life, finally learned to appreciate.

And it wasn’t lost on her that this one night of joyful reunion was almost certainly the last one they could ever have like this. The last time they would all be together. The last time that all the faces in this room would still be here to celebrate as one. 

Because they wouldn’t be alive much longer.

The reality was, the whole galaxy was at war. And it was a war they were currently losing. Their chances of victory were slim to none. From what Miranda had gathered, all organic life was essentially banking its hopes on some ancient miracle superweapon passed down from previous cycles called The Crucible that they didn’t even fully understand or know how to use yet. And if that failed?

...There wasn’t a plan B. Not yet, at least.

Even if The Crucible worked and they somehow defeated the Reapers, the chance that more than a handful of people in this room would survive the war was infinitesimally small. And, perhaps more than anyone else at that party, Miranda had no expectation that she would be among the living when the dust settled. Because Miranda had never been happier than she was right then. Never had more to live for. And if that wasn’t a curse that put her right at the top of the list of ‘most likely to die’, then she was not only naive, but delusional.

The universe was a cruel place. The people who had the most to live for were always the first to die. There was no way that Miranda could rationally believe that the future she now saw for herself and Ori after the war might ever actually come to fruition. Because, if there was one thing that Miranda’s thirty-six years had taught her, it was that she would never get to be that fucking happy.

Things like that just didn’t happen. Especially not to people like her.

Or, if they did, then they shouldn’t.

Seeing what Cerberus had become, knowing she���d spent just shy of twenty years of her life working for them? No, she didn’t deserve a good ending.

As that thought went through her head, Miranda glanced up, and spotted a singular, solitary figure standing alone by the second floor balcony, watching the scenes playing out below. Samara. Somehow, that she was by herself was the least shocking thing Miranda could have imagined.

Finally sensing her long-awaited chance to catch a private moment with the one person she had been more eager to spend time with than any other, Miranda ascended the stairs, a glass of wine curled in her grasp.

“Not mingling?” Miranda asked as she joined Samara’s side.

“I am content to observe,” Samara replied, maintaining an upright posture with her hands clasped behind her back. She seemed to mean it, preferring to watch and listen from a distance than to be directly involved in the action for the most part. Considering she was about four hundred years out-of-practice when it came to this sort of thing, being a passive onlooker probably genuinely was the most enjoyable way for her to experience this party at her own pace.

“Normally, I would do the same.” Miranda leaned on the railing beside her.

“Yet you appear to be enjoying the festivities,” Samara noted, pleased with that.

“I know. It feels incongruous, doesn’t it? Me, being social? A year ago I would have been telling you all to stop wasting time and focus on the mission,” said Miranda, finding it rather bizarre to consider how far she'd come from the cold, aloof person she was previously. Well, not that she couldn't still be those things. But she was less so now. Especially among this dysfunctional bunch of misfits she had reluctantly become fond of, despite her better judgement.

Being part of The Normandy crew had changed her irrevocably. More than she'd realised at the time. Meeting her sister had done that too. And Samara, of course. And so had losing all those things when she went on the run. It made her appreciate aspects of life she wouldn't have otherwise.

It was almost enough to make her call them all her friends. Even Jack.

...Almost.

“You do not need to deprive yourself for my sake,” Samara assured her, gesturing towards the party going on beneath them, as if believing Miranda was only approaching her out of a sense of obligation to ensure she didn't feel excluded.

“I'm not. I enjoy your company. I always have.” Nothing had changed in that respect. No matter how much time had passed, Miranda would never feel any less at ease in Samara’s presence. She just had that effect on her. A vague smirk came to her as she thought back on the last time they spoke, toying with her wine glass. “I was right, you know?” she said, recalling her own words from all those many months ago. “I did miss you more than anyone else.”

“Even Shepard?” Samara inquired, her lip quirking with amusement.

“Even Shepard,” Miranda confirmed, taking a sip. “Don't pass this on, but Shepard was always barging into my office when I had a lot to do. Ask Garrus and he'll tell you the same thing about his calibrations.” She gestured to their comrade, currently setting up a number of glasses on the bar, resembling a firing range. That was going to end badly. “That was something I always liked about you.”

“What was?” asked Samara.

“You might be the only person I've ever met who never wanted anything from me,” Miranda explained, having had plenty of time to think about that in her loneliest moments this past year. “Not to be presumptuous, but it wasn’t because you simply didn't care, or wanted to get rid of me. You just...accepted me, as I was. I never felt as though I had to earn your approval, whether through my usefulness, or my accomplishments, or even through keeping you entertained with conversation. I could just...do nothing around you – literally, just sit there and say nothing in your presence, and that was fine with you.”

That was no exaggeration. They had spent hours together in serene silence, or in meditation. Maybe more than they had spent talking. It never mattered what they chose to do. One was never any more or less welcome than the other.

“It was,” Samara confirmed, her voice soft and reflective. “And, no, you are not being presumptuous. You may be more forthright than I am about such things, but, if I ever desired to be left alone, believe me, I would not have made a secret of it.”

“Ah, good, so you weren’t secretly dreading it whenever I showed up because you were too polite to tell me to bugger off this entire time,” Miranda joked. She already knew that, of course, but it was nice to have it on record.

“I am unfamiliar with that term. But no, I was not,” Samara answered kindly. “I would be a fool not to value your abilities. The things you have accomplished are remarkable, let alone what you have yet to achieve. But such things are only possible because of who you are. That is what is truly important. And I asked nothing of you, because I already enjoyed your companionship.”

Miranda wasn’t prone to blushing like an idiot, but it took an uncharacteristic amount of effort not to glow at such sincere praise. “You aren’t so bad yourself,” Miranda wryly replied, gently nudging Samara with her shoulder. 

“No, I am terribly dull. I assure you, I am aware of this,” Samara replied, a self-effacing smile tugging at the corners of her lips at the misplaced compliment.

Miranda snorted at that assertion. “Are you kidding? You were the only one out of this lot I found even remotely interesting to talk to most days. And, considering the company we keep, that’s saying something,” she said, indicating their cohorts below, who included some of the most famous heroes and infamous outlaws in the galaxy. “You’re one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. Besides, I owe a lot to your wisdom and advice. More than you know.”

“It pleases me that you feel that way. However, if I may, I do not consider myself especially wise,” Samara humbly responded, downplaying her role. “If I appear so, it is only because experience has taught me one lesson that can make even the most dimwitted person appear well-considered in their thoughts, and that is to speak as little as possible, until I have something worthwhile to say.”

“See? That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard all evening,” Miranda pointed out, earning a faint chuckle from Samara. “In all seriousness, though, I really have been looking forward to catching up with you.”

“And I you. Much has come to pass since last we met. For both of us, I suspect,” Samara reflected, as if she had often wondered in her journeys where her friends were, how they were faring, or what they might be doing. Miranda knew, because she had done the exact same thing. “If it would not trouble you to share it--”

“I killed my father,” Miranda nonchalantly answered, filling in the gaps of what had transpired over the past few months before Samara could even ask her to, bringing up the subject about as casually as she might remark on the weather.

“Good,” Samara enthused, without a hint of hesitation. She didn’t even need to ask whether or not he deserved it. She already knew the answer.

That Samara took it so in stride almost made Miranda laugh. That exchange would have sounded so bizarre out of context. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man,” Miranda commented, taking another drink from her glass, nearing half-empty. “So, yeah, I’ve gone from having the absolute worst year of my life so far to feeling pretty bloody wonderful, if I’m being honest.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. However, if I may...are you sure you are alright?” Samara asked with the warmth and gentleness Miranda had come to expect from her. Although her own experiences with Morinth were very different, no doubt they gave her an insight that, irrespective of how much Miranda hated her father or how justified she was in her actions, killing the man who had been her only family for sixteen years of her life might unearth some complicated feelings. “It would be no failure on your part whatsoever if you are not.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Believe me, if there was any small part of me left that might have wanted to let him live, or might have felt something resembling an attachment to him, that part of me died the moment he hurt my sister,” Miranda declared, her voice unwavering. She glanced down. “Unfortunately, I...should have gotten there sooner. Oriana’s adoptive parents weren’t spared. They didn’t make it.”

“I am sorry,” Samara said, her sympathy sincere. “Is there anything you could reasonably have done to prevent this from happening?”

“No, probably not,” Miranda acknowledged. She had been fighting so hard just to survive some days. To stay one step ahead of The Illusive Man and his agents. She’d kept an eye on her as best she could, but it hadn’t been possible to watch over her and protect her the way she used to from such a position of powerlessness. She hadn’t even known she was in danger until it was too late.

“Then you must not blame yourself,” Samara encouraged, ever the voice of compassionate wisdom. “If your actions could not realistically have changed anything that transpired, then you cannot be held responsible.”

“I suppose not,” Miranda conceded, staring down at her glass.

More than anything else, Miranda hated that feeling of helplessness. Knowing that Oriana had suffered and felt pain she never wanted her to experience, and there was nothing she could do to shield her from it. She would have traded her own life in a heartbeat to take it all away and wind back the clock for Ori and her family, if it were within her power. But such things weren’t. It couldn’t be undone. It couldn’t be fixed. They just had to keep moving forward.

“Enough about me. How about you?” Miranda changed the subject. “I tried to keep tabs on everyone but...you are a hard woman to find, Samara.”

“That is my way,” Samara affirmed, calm and quiet. “I have no possessions, but that which you see before you. And I often journey through very remote places.”

“You’re off-the-grid,” Miranda translated. Certainly, Samara was about as disconnected from galactic society and unplugged from the network as it was possible to be in this day and age, short of eschewing those things completely.

“You could say that, yes,” Samara gave a firm nod, accepting that description. She stepped away from the balcony, gesturing with her hand as she spoke. “You may not know this, but there are villages in remote parts of asari space where people have...returned to a simpler way of being, rejecting modernity and embracing tradition in every facet of life. Even though their ancestors may have come to those worlds by spaceflight, they prefer to live as their predecessors did thousands of years ago. It would not be an exaggeration for me to state that several such places I have visited recently would still not currently be aware there is a war going on as we speak, and would never have heard the term ‘Reaper’.”

“Doesn’t sound that strange. There are people and places on Earth that haven’t changed at all in the past two hundred years, if not longer. As long as they aren’t holding back social and scientific progress for anyone else, why force them to adapt?” Miranda shrugged. If people wanted to stay stuck in the past, that was their business. She would happily continue moving forward and enjoy all the trappings and privileges of modern life that they rejected.

“...I have always liked such places, at least since I became a Justicar. They remind me of my temple somewhat,” Samara confessed, her eyes losing focus, drifting into thoughtful contemplation. “Just as there is tranquility in being surrounded by nature, there is truly no wiser woman than she who is content with her life, however humble it may seem. Would that we could all achieve such harmony.”

The hint of sombreness in Samara’s final words wasn’t lost on Miranda.

“Speaking for myself, give me twenty-second century technology any day,” Miranda remarked, both because it was true, but partly in an effort to lighten the atmosphere. It wasn’t clear whether Samara even heard her, in all honesty. “So where did you go after that?” Miranda asked casually. Given that she was here, she must have run into Shepard again somehow.

At those words, a sudden flicker of sorrow passed across her features. Samara turned away, one hand falling across her face, as if struck by a surge of sadness, and needing a moment to collect herself.

Needless to say, that reaction definitely didn’t escape Miranda. She moved closer to Samara, concerned. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Samara summoned a heartbroken smile as she looked up at her once more. “Forgive me. My thoughts turned to the day I encountered Shepard,” she began, a hard story to tell. “I heard that the monastery where my daughters were taken four centuries ago had issued a distress signal, and none who had been sent to investigate had returned. As soon as I knew they were in peril, I did not hesitate. I had to go to them. I feared the worst, and my fears were not misplaced. The Reapers were indoctrinating Ardat-Yakshi, turning them into…” Samara couldn’t even say it. There weren’t words to describe those creatures.

Miranda listened to her recount the events in heavy, dread-filled silence. Nobody had told her that. She had no idea about any of this. 

“Fortunately, both Shepard and I arrived in time to rescue Falere from that fate. However, we were not quick enough. I lost...I lost Rila.” Samara’s voice caught in her throat, choked by a sob as she relived the all-too-raw pain of her death. 

Her oldest daughter. Gone.

Miranda’s heart sank. “Samara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she said with heartfelt remorse. Miranda never would have brought this up if she had suspected anything had happened to what little family Samara still had left. Why hadn’t anybody said anything? Why had no one told her about this?

“No, it is…” Samara shook her head, raising a hand as if to signal that it was not her fault for inadvertently touching upon an open wound. As if she thought the only misstep made was her own for letting grief cloud the moment, when she had so much still to be thankful for. “I should not. Not today.”

Miranda didn’t quite know what to make of that reaction, but if Samara didn’t want to talk about the death of her child, she couldn’t exactly blame her. She certainly wouldn’t force her to.

Their moment of quiet was interrupted by glass shattering somewhere below.

“Oh, God,” Miranda groaned miserably, getting the sense that the boys were in fact about to break out the guns and start shooting after all. She was not particularly keen to be near them when that happened. “Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?” Miranda asked, thinking that would be best.

“As you wish,” Samara replied, gesturing for her to go ahead, composing herself as she followed in Miranda’s footsteps. With that, they retreated into Shepard's bedroom, seeing that it appeared empty.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda glimpsed something. Shepard's closet was open, but the clothes were shifting ever so slightly as they hung there. Hmm. She had a fair idea what was causing that. However, this wasn't the time to address it. Not when this moment with Samara could be one of the last they ever had. She made a mental note to file her theory away for a little later.

Ignoring the disturbance, Miranda stepped inside. She supposed they could have sat on the bed, but, somehow, that just didn't seem fitting. “Here, for old time's sake,” she said, sitting down on the floor, her legs crossed, patting a spot beside her. “I know the view isn't as good, but—“

“I have spent many years gazing out over the stars, and I will see them again before my days are at an end,” Samara interrupted Miranda, joining her by her side, mirroring her posture. “In comparison, I have spent far less time with you. This is more worthy, do you not agree?”

“Definitely.” Miranda glanced down, having reflected on that sort of thing a lot recently. “Cutting myself off from...everything like I did made me appreciate the value of how I spend my limited time in this universe. I’ve come to understand what I want to do with my life, after all this is done. Assuming there is an ‘after’. And it turns out you were right, but you probably already knew that.”

“I...do not,” Samara replied, mildly perplexed. “If I said something in the past that you are referring to, I am afraid that I do not recall it.”

That happened a lot, Miranda thought. She had a near-perfect memory, by human standards. It felt entirely natural to her to harken back to conversations that had taken place long ago as if they’d happened only yesterday when, almost invariably, by that stage, the other party had forgotten them completely.

“You remember how you would encourage me to concentrate less on devoting all my energy to my work and other external achievements and to focus more on my inner development instead? Well, you asked me once which of those two things ultimately has greater meaning to me,” Miranda refreshed her memory.

“That does sound like something I would say,” Samara acknowledged, certainly remembering words to that effect, even if a few more specific details had faded.

“You did. And you were right,” Miranda continued. “I had a lot of time to myself these past several months. Completely to myself. And when that crushing isolation was just starting to tip me over the edge, I thought of you. I thought of us, our time together. And so I tried my hand at meditating again. It succeeded at calming me down and clearing my head but, more importantly, finding that state of tranquility gave me the first chance I’d had since leaving Cerberus to really stop and think about my life, and the direction it was heading, even before this.”

Samara’s expression revealed she knew that epiphany all too well, as if she had undergone something similar in her own life. Possibly more than once. It was no wonder she considered meditation such an essential facet of her existence.

“Serenity is the key to mindfulness. The only key. Even the simplest truths are often lost to us in the noise and chaos of life, or clouded by impenetrable shadows of anger and despair,” Samara spoke sagely, from the benefit of experience. 

That was the truest and most astute thing Miranda had heard anyone say in a long time. And beautifully poetic. And, as she looked at Samara then, Miranda had to once again wonder how she could possibly believe herself to be dull or unwise, even if she had only made those disparaging remarks about herself in jest. 

“What came to you in the silence?” Samara prompted, keen to hear it.

“I thought of the person I was before I met you, and, out of nowhere, it suddenly hit me - really hit me - that all that time I spent working for Cerberus was...wasted. It meant nothing. And I knew it meant nothing because all I could think was that, if Cerberus did catch up to me and kill me, then I would be leaving behind absolutely nothing that I could look back on and say, ‘Yeah, you know what? I’m satisfied with that.’ Not one thing. Except for bringing Shepard back, but any contentment I feel about that has less to do with me, and more to do with Shepard.”

“Because you were never satisfied with anything you produced,” Samara intuited, sensing what Miranda had come to terms with. “Nothing could ever truly meet your own unattainable standards that you set for yourself. And no amount of work could ever fill the void that you felt inside. A void that festered because you were...completely avoiding focusing on your inner life.”

“Yes, I was. And, no, it couldn’t fill it,” Miranda confirmed, seeing now what she had been too distracted to see before. “And, although I didn’t realise it at the time, I really did not like the person I was when I was working for them. I was not happy. I thought I was, compared to the life I had before. But, in actuality, I wasn’t any less trapped with them than I was with my father. I was like Shepard’s stupid hamster, running in a wheel, doing the same things over and over again, thinking I was getting somewhere, but going nowhere. Deep down, I was...I was fucking miserable. And...honestly, I think I was lonely.”

Samara watched on, her eyes glistening with unfeigned sympathy and understanding. “I gathered as much,” Samara admitted, barely above a whisper. Miranda wasn’t surprised to hear her say that. She wasn’t sure at precisely what point it had occurred to her to suspect that Samara’s spiritual intervention in her life might be intentional, but she’d made no secret of her guidance. 

“I’m glad you noticed, because I never would have. It was you who gave me that gentle push that made me re-examine what I was doing with my life, how badly I was treating myself, and reflect on what really mattered to me,” said Miranda. Hell, Samara had known what Miranda was missing better than she knew it herself. “So, as I was having this moment of insight and meditating on all those things you said to me, it made me think, maybe the path I’ve been taking until now isn't what's fulfilling to me. That's why, once the Reapers are defeated, if I make it out alive...I think I'm done,” she stated frankly, shrugging her shoulders.

“Done?” Samara echoed, curious as to her meaning.

“Done being that person,” Miranda clarified. “Done leading my life that way. Or at least I’ll try to be someone different for a while, until I figure out what I really want to do now that there’s nobody controlling me anymore. I'm not planning to be a puppet for another shadowy organisation. I'm not going to go off on some grand mission to save the galaxy. I’m not going to spend sixteen hours a day hunched over my computer screen, stressing over worthless administrative tasks to meet the arbitrary standards of people who don’t care at all if my crippling addiction to perfectionism sends me to an early grave,” Miranda announced, voicing that commitment aloud as though it were a vow. “If I’m finally going to take charge of my own life, then I'm going to focus on what's most important to me.”

“And what is that?” Samara asked, suspecting she already knew.

“My sister,” Miranda answered without hesitation. Oriana was her be all and end all. Whether she knew it or not, she always had been, ever since she was brought into this world. She made Miranda feel complete, or as close to whole as she had ever felt, anyway. “I made a promise to her that, when this is over, we're going to find some nice, quiet place on a colony world and start living our lives together as a family. And that's the only thing I want to do. The only thing I know will make me happy. I don't care about anything else.”

“You are...retiring?” Samara inferred, tilting her head in questioning.

“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say that,” Miranda affirmed. As she glanced over at Samara then, it wasn’t lost on her that, while she was clearly impressed with the level of growth Miranda was demonstrating, suffice it to say that there was a hint of scepticism. “What?” Miranda prompted her, always preferring people to be direct rather than refrain from speaking.

“Forgive me. It delights me to hear that you have chosen a path which you believe will bring you inner fulfilment, but...with greatest respect, after our many conversations, I find it difficult to imagine you content with embracing idleness,” Samara noted with interest, even though she obviously supported her decision. She knew it drove Miranda crazy when she didn’t have enough work to do. She was perpetually busy, by choice. She hated being bored more than anything.

“No, I'm not saying I’ll be idle. I mean, I am only thirty-six, and...well, you've seen what I'm like,” Miranda conceded that fault, aware of her workaholic tendencies. She didn’t expect those qualities to fade, and she wasn’t sure it would be a good thing if they did. They were part of her personality. “But the point is that I’ve been doing the exact same thing for twenty years and getting nothing in return - except money, I guess. Before that, I was my father’s prisoner. I’ve never had the chance to be my own woman. I need a clean break. A hard reset. To steer things in a new direction. I need some time to...do or be something else, for the first time in my life. I need to…” She trailed off, struggling for the right words.

“Find yourself?” Samara suggested.

“Something like that,” Miranda confirmed. She’d never had a chance to discover herself and her identity except insofar as it related to her upbringing, or to her career with Cerberus. What else was there? Who was Miranda Lawson when she wasn’t working? Or wasn’t busy solving all the galaxy’s problems?

She would have loved to know. It was a shame she wouldn’t get to live long enough to meet that person. But, God, did it feel good to live in denial, and allow herself to hope, for just one night.

“I don't know how long this experiment will last, or what this phase of my life will look like,” Miranda continued, “And I'm sure that at some point in time I'm going to find ways to keep myself productive, because I probably can't do otherwise. But, whatever I decide to do with my time and my skills, I'll be doing it of my own volition. Not because I'm tethered to anybody else. Not because somebody else is running my life and telling me what to do. It will be because I took time to think about it, and found a way to devote myself to something that actually makes me feel good when I do it. Whatever that ends up being.”

That was the core of it, when it came down to it. She wanted to be her own master. To have control over her own life. To be her own boss. Wanted the freedom to cut ties with anyone or anything that was toxic to her quest for self-actualisation. 

“Either way, from now on, all those other things are going to be secondary, because my family is my priority. Oriana is,” Miranda professed, and that was immutable. “And, while I already knew that, you helped me realise what that means. So thank you for that.”

“If I was able to be of any assistance, then seeing you embrace your innermost desires is thanks enough. I am glad that you and your sister have found one another,” Samara said, her sincere smile reaching her eyes. “Truly, you have come so far from when I first met you. Wherever your path takes you, I wish you nothing but happiness. And I hope you both lead very long and peaceful lives.”

“Don’t we all?” Miranda remarked. That was the hard part, though. The entire galaxy was under attack by genocidal, unknowable cosmic horrors. But nobody wanted to think about them right now. Not tonight. “What about you and Falere?” Miranda asked, hoping she wasn’t treading on too sensitive ground by asking that question. “Will you do the same with her?”

“...I cannot; my adherence to The Code does not end with the salvation of the galaxy,” said Samara. Though it was clear she accepted that, her response left her visibly conflicted. No doubt, she wished it could have been otherwise. “I am the last of my Order. When I perish, so do the Justicars perish with me. It may seem futile to continue to walk this path when there is no one left to demand it of me, but I must. I must, for those who can no longer walk it with me.”

Samara’s devout pledge carried a hint of sadness, but it was well-camouflaged. What she personally wanted was irrelevant, ever since she'd renounced her former life and sworn her service to the Justicars. Being their sole living legacy only further cemented what had already been true. She wouldn't turn her back on her obligations, no matter how tempting it was to savour every moment she could with her daughter. She could never forgive herself if she did.

“However, I have also promised Falere that I will return, if I survive – when I am able,” Samara continued, though her tone did not change. It remained distant. Almost resigned. Layered in over four hundred years of history between them.

Miranda couldn’t quite make sense of the mixed emotions she sensed in Samara’s voice. Perhaps she was disappointed that they couldn’t be as close as she would like - that there were restrictions standing in the way of them fully reuniting in the same kind of way Miranda and Oriana had. Falere was still an Ardat-Yakshi, after all; she could never live a normal life. It was too dangerous.

“But you will see her? You will have a life together?” Miranda surmised, in a subtle attempt to encourage Samara to think of her circumstances more positively.

“...Yes,” Samara answered hesitantly, deciding that was indeed true, in part.

“Then, if both of us have reasons to survive, I don't like the Reapers' chances,” Miranda spoke with false confidence. If she said it with enough self-assuredness, perhaps she might actually start to believe it. But she wasn’t trying to convince herself. Only Samara. “If we've said we're going to do these things, then we already know what the outcome of this war has to be.”

Samara didn't share in her display of bravado, but she did appreciate her sentiment. “Though I am not afraid of death, I certainly have found a great deal more to live for than I ever thought I would have again...” Samara trailed off at that thought, her eyes briefly drifting out of focus, almost pensive in her reflection.

“Here's to living,” said Miranda, raising her mostly empty glass in a salute, finishing the last of her drink.

At that, Samara shook herself from whatever temporary trance had come over her. “Yes. Indeed. As you once said to me, I will…’see you on the other side’,” Samara echoed Miranda’s words from The Collector Base, nodding her head in agreement. There was nothing more worthy of affirmation than the desire to emerge from the ashes when all this was over. “The hour grows late, and I fear I have kept you too long. Do you wish to return to the festivities?” 

“You go on ahead,” Miranda encouraged. “And don’t just sit in a corner and meditate all night. Go...fucking have fun, Samara. You deserve it.”

Samara uttered a soft chuckle. “I am not entirely sure what that means, but if you are insistent, then...I will try to avail myself. The atmosphere is certainly...energetic,” she commented, as if sounding faintly overwhelmed by the party.

Miranda didn’t need to be a genius to recognise that it had been a long, long, long, long (too many longs to possibly put into a sentence) time since Samara would have experienced anything like this. The young Samara she had heard tales of had definitely been a wild child, but she had ceased to be that person even before her personal tragedy befell her. As a Justicar, she had been travelling alone, in total solitude, for over four hundred years, barely even speaking to anyone for most of that time, except as required to carry out her duties.

How many centuries had it been since she was able to get together like this with a group of friends? Since she even had a group of friends? Since she...relaxed and unwound? It was no wonder that, so far, she seemed content to watch from the sidelines more than actively participate in the unfolding chaos. 

Still a little sad, though. At least from where Miranda was sitting.

“Will you join me?” Samara asked, extending her hand as she got to her feet.

“In a bit,” Miranda declined. “There's something I have to take care of first.”

Samara didn't ask what Miranda meant by that, respecting her decision. “Very well. May we speak again soon,” she said, taking her leave and rejoining the others. 

Once Samara was gone, Miranda uttered a faint disgruntled sigh. “I know you're there, Kasumi,” she said, annoyed. “Samara may not have noticed, but I did.”

“Aw, what gave it away?” Kasumi playfully whined, de-cloaking in front of Shepard's closet.

“The movement as you rifled through those clothes,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Ooh, you're good,” Kasumi acknowledged. Most people wouldn't have seen it.

“Genetic enhancements. Superior vision. You've heard this story,” Miranda explained, waving that nonsense away. She elected not to ask what Kasumi was doing by rifling through Shepard’s clothes. That was the least unusual thing about this. “So, were you riveted by our conversation?” she asked.

“Actually, yes,” Kasumi replied, her answer apparently unfeigned. “Samara wasn’t kidding; you really have changed your perspective for the better. This new you, it's nice. You seem happy. I hope everything works out for you and your sister.”

Miranda couldn't quite manage to be cross with her after that kind response. “Yeah, well...I’ll never hear the end of it if the crew thinks I’ve gone soft and sentimental, so don’t go telling anyone. Besides, I haven't changed so much that I won't be capable of making your life hell if you let word of this spread around,” Miranda idly threatened, not meaning it at all.

Kasumi lost any trace of heartfelt sincerity after that. “On the other hand, I was also enthralled because I thought your little love session was going to end with you and Samara christening Shep's sheets,” she teased.

Miranda arched an eyebrow. Her and Samara? How absurd. “Of all the comebacks you could make...Really? A gay joke? In this day and age? What century are you from?” Honestly, it was the lack of creativity and wit that disappointed her more than anything. Kasumi was normally funnier than this.

“Who’s joking?” Kasumi wryly replied. “I was going to take bets from the others on which one of you topped. I picked you, for the record.”

Miranda snorted, not even humouring this nonsense. “Sure. If you say so.” 

“Be dismissive if you want, but I was right across the hall from Samara. I overheard more than one of your conversations. I know nobody else knows how much time you spent together, but I do. Besides, Shepard has it all wrong; Samara's a much better match for you than Jack would ever be,” Kasumi nonchalantly commented.

Miranda sighed heavily and let her head fall in her hand, massaging her forehead in visible annoyance. “What is it with everyone tonight--”

As soon as Miranda began to utter the question, she found that Kasumi had already cloaked herself and disappeared, leaving her by herself. Miranda rolled her eyes, not even slightly shocked. Kasumi had done that to everyone all night.

Seriously, though, why was everyone suddenly so intent on getting her to sleep with women at this party? They knew she was straight, right?

*     *     *

Drip.

Drip.

She stirred at the disturbance. Her right eye flickered open, but the other didn’t respond. Twisted metal and exposed wires loomed over her against the backdrop of an empty sky.

Drip.

Drip.

A body hung out of the seat above her. Half a body. A cracked ribcage visibly protruded from a burned uniform. Entrails dangled from the open corpse. Droplets of blood ran down a lifeless arm swaying limp in the light breeze.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda had been here before. So many times. But this time, she was frozen in place. Trapped. Stuck. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift her body. Could only feel the blood and the viscera. It surrounded her. She was practically floating in a pool of it beneath her.

It was still warm.

Drip.

Drip.

She could taste copper in her mouth. She was covered in sanguine from head to toe. She wasn’t sure how much was hers, and how much was the pilot’s.

Drip.

Drip.

Her eyelid fluttered as a drop landed directly in her iris. As she blinked, she noticed something she’d never seen before. The pilot’s neck was bent back the wrong way. But there was a head. Half a head. Split clean open. Down the middle.

Her helmet had come off, exposing blonde hair. Stained with a crimson mask.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda’s instincts reacted before she did. Her heart began to race - her pulse quickening with a deep, abiding dread. Adrenaline surged through her veins. And she didn’t know why. Until she saw.

Until she saw the body above her move.

Drip.

Drip.

That bent-backwards broken spine shifted consciously. And, with a wilful snap, suddenly that limp neck was above her. Hanging. That half-skull hovered directly over her. Looking at her. Appraising her.

Drip.

Drip.

Miranda tensed with the urge to fight or flee, but she was frozen in place, as if made of stone. She couldn’t move a single part of her body below her neck.

Drip.

Drip.

That torn face, broken in two, shifted back and forth, as if studying Miranda. Examining her. Asking itself…why did this stranger live, when I died?

Drip.

Drip.

With one click of a button to release her harness, the pilot dropped to the floor, freed from her restraints. Miranda could only watch as that unliving corpse of the woman blasted in half by the Reaper unnaturally positioned itself above her. Then the thing looked over to one side. Its eye was fixed on Miranda’s left arm.

Her wounded limb hung like dead weight from her shoulder. Fractured. Lifeless. Her forearm was twisted around completely the wrong way from the elbow down. Miranda couldn’t so much as twitch her fingers in self-defence.

Drip.

Drip.

Without warning, it seized her left hand.

“Ah!” Miranda gasped in pain, but couldn’t fight her off. Couldn’t move.

All she could do was lie there helplessly and watch as this dead creature lifted her broken, mangled arm. She willed herself not to scream from how much it hurt. Not to give it the satisfaction of breaking her.

Drip.

Drip.

The pilot stared down at her, unmoved by her anguish. It felt nothing.

It never broke eye contact with her as it lifted her backwards-twisted hand towards itself. Until Miranda’s fingers were almost touching that split-open face.

Miranda would have resisted if she could, but it felt like her arm would rip clean in half at the elbow if she pulled back with even the slightest force.

Drip.

Drip.

And then the pilot opened her mouth.

And a river of maggots came pouring out.

Wriggling.

Writhing.

Miranda could do nothing except watch as those horrible, crawling larvae spread from her fingers, down her palm, and to her wrist. And everywhere they touched, her flesh was consumed with rot. Infection. Disease. Death.

She could smell it.

She could fucking smell it.

And they just kept coming.

Drip.

Drip.

Some of the vile things fell onto her abdomen, there were so many of them. And the rot took hold there too. Turning her skin sickly septic. Pestilent. Necrotic. 

The pilot let go of her arm, letting it fall to the floor as the maggots swarmed her.

That half-body reached down and grabbed a fistful of the squirming things that were feasting on her still living corpse. It held that pulsating mass above her.

Drip.

Drip.

“No,” was all Miranda could say, knowing what it intended.

But there was nothing she could say that would stop it.

Drip.

Drip.

It shoved that handful of maggots directly onto her face.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Instinctively, Miranda reached over and slapped the alarm off before anyone else would hear it. The next thing she did was bite down on her pillow to keep from screaming, or vomiting, stifling the lingering echoes of her nightmare.

Once the panic subsided, Miranda flopped onto her back, catching her breath.

Four forty-five in the morning.

This had been her bright idea to get some sorely-needed rest. She’d set her alarm to go off every half hour - to wake her before she could dream. It worked for the first three cycles. That was the fourth. Another failed solution. Another plan that hadn’t helped. Every time she slept, it was hell. It was always hell.

Miranda lay there in darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to her ear ring. At least she’d got two hours before the nightmares struck this time. Thank Christ for that small mercy. But she was still so tired. She was so fucking tired.

Miranda could run on far less sleep than the average human. Persevere longer before frayed edges started to show. But even she had limits on what she could withstand. The longer this went on, the harder it got just to function.

How long did she have before she was physically incapable of staying awake?

Miranda had given up trying to pass time during the night. With anything. Didn’t use her computer. Didn’t read. Didn’t listen to music. Didn’t go out for walks by the river. Didn’t do any of the things she turned to in the past.

It was all so...boring. Everything was. Every single thing in her life that she used to use as a crutch to ward off these dreams had lost its lustre. Nothing was worth the effort of doing anymore. Expending the energy. All she had to keep herself awake anymore were her thoughts. And that sound.

That relentless

Fucking

Sound.

Days bled together in a blur. It almost didn’t feel like the past few hours had even happened. Fresh memories were like watching scenes from someone else’s life. What little release she’d had from getting off with Shiala earlier that night had already worked its way out of her system. It had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction, which offered scant relief from the problems that plagued her. And now she was back to this. A torment she’d been living with for so long that she no longer even remembered how it felt to be rested.

But thinking about literally anything else was preferable to dwelling on the nightmares, and she could only count the same cracks in the ceiling so many times before that would drive her clinically insane. So Miranda replayed the night in her head, trying to make sense of it all, and where it left her.

If sleeping with Shiala had accomplished one thing, it had proven that her feelings for Samara weren’t just in her head. No, the desire she’d felt when she imagined Samara in Shiala’s place, picturing her body beneath her, had not been some mere delusion. Those physical reactions couldn’t be faked or exaggerated. The sheer fucking want. That was real, vivid, stark, and intense.

So that was just great. After all that, not only had she not managed to convince herself that she was any less in love with Samara, she was now painfully conscious that she was sexually attracted to her. Extremely so.

It was the opposite of what she’d hoped to achieve. Fucking Shiala hadn’t been a release for her feelings. If anything, it had only crystalised them.

It was no wonder why Samara was dominating her thoughts. This obsession with her was about the only thing Miranda could feel at all anymore, outside of her nightmares. When it came to everything else in her life - all the death, the destruction, her own survival, her injuries, and the loss of all but a small handful of people she knew - everything else that should have provoked her to feel something, anything...there was nothing there. A hole. A void. An empty space.

She was just so fucking…

Blank.

Neutral.

Numb.

She couldn’t feel anything at all. Just hollowness. Except when Samara was there. And then, when she looked at her, when she felt her standing by her side, everything got so intense and so achingly real and corporeal that it burned. She came so alive in her proximity that she damn near couldn’t stand it.

But Samara wasn’t there.

She had gone again, leaving her to wilt in the dark.

And there Miranda lay. Staring at the ceiling. Avoiding her dreams. Listening to her ear ring. And she felt dead inside. Like every breath she took, she wasn’t getting enough air. Like she was asphyxiating, bit by bit. Suffocating so slowly that nobody would even notice if she simply stopped breathing. Not even herself.

But what the hell did she have to complain about?

She was still here.

Millions of others weren’t so lucky. Hell, billions. 

As her mind began to wander in the way that minds could only wander when they were desperately tired and teetering on the verge of sleep, she thought about The Normandy. About the shockwave that had destroyed the mass relays, and all ships anywhere near them. The faster-than-light blast that killed her friends.

Miranda hadn’t even been conscious when it happened. She’d only heard descriptions of what it looked like when the Crucible fired. It painted a pretty grim picture. Jacob had told her how he’d seen people standing only a few feet in front of him scream as they disintegrated in front of his very eyes. Torn apart on a cellular level, in a single, bright, flash.

Was that what happened to The Normandy? Had it been sudden? Had they been scared, in their last moments? Had they felt pain? Did they even know that they were in danger? That they were going to die? Or did they just...blink out of existence, blissfully quickly?

Did it matter?

People didn’t go anywhere when they died. There was no soul. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. There was just...nothing. People were, and then they weren’t.

They would never even find any trace of them, would they? They would never have anything to bury or lay to rest. Even reading out their names as she had done hadn’t added a sense of catharsis or closure to it. It still didn’t feel entirely real, even though Miranda knew it had to be. The Normandy would have either reported in or been found by now if anyone had survived.

And then she thought of the people who were serving aboard The Normandy when it disappeared. People she had spoken to only a few months ago - a mere matter of days before the battle for Earth. People she would never speak to again. People she probably hadn’t earned the right to call her friends.

Tali, Miranda had never had a problem with. They only talked when it was directly related to the ship or the mission, which had been an ideal working relationship from her perspective. She wasn’t on The Normandy to make friends. That wasn’t something she wanted or thought she needed back then. It was only around the time of Shepard’s party on the Citadel that Miranda had finally begun to twig that Tali actually did not like her at all, and never had. To her credit, she had simply been far too professional to let it show, or interfere with her job.

That was perfectly fine, honestly. And, if Tali really did hate Miranda this whole time, that made her not a bad judge of character, in fairness. She hadn’t realised it about herself when they served together but, in truth, Miranda hadn’t liked herself all that much either. Still didn’t, on some level.

Garrus, by contrast, was notoriously snarky and sarcastic towards her. She’d never thought turians could smirk before, but Garrus had proven they could. He would meet her commands with smart-arse quips and a wry glint in his eye. He never took Miranda’s shit. Needless to say, she hadn’t been his biggest fan because of that but, in retrospect, she couldn’t blame him. With the gift of hindsight, she now recognised she had been pretty intolerable to be around at times. If she’d had a better sense of humour, they could have traded some witty banter. But the old Miranda took herself far too seriously for that.

Liara, Miranda had met earlier than any other member of The Normandy, save Jacob. Miranda had enlisted her help to retrieve Shepard’s body from the Shadow Broker, before it fell into the hands of the Collectors. It was strange to think that that brief crossing of their paths had set all subsequent events in motion.

Miranda had been so focused on her own goals at that time that she never formed particularly strong impressions of Liara, beyond a mixture of respect for her capabilities, tinged with appropriate suspicion and mistrust. That mistrust had mostly faded through a combination of being there when Liara took down the Shadow Broker, and perhaps more importantly from getting to know Shepard well enough to trust her judgement about the company she kept.

She didn’t know Liara well enough to speculate as to whether she shared that sentiment. Miranda rarely cared to ponder others’ opinions of her. Presumably Shepard didn’t have quite as many positive things to say about Miranda as she did about Liara, given their relationship. But they’d never had any issues.

James, Javik and Ashley, Miranda obviously didn’t know. She’d barely been introduced to them, really only meeting them when Shepard threw that party. She hadn’t formed particularly noteworthy opinions of any of them, beyond that James was a bit of a meathead (albeit, a fairly charming one), Ashley was what happened when the quintessential military brat grew up and became a soldier, and Javik was coping with being the loneliest man in the universe by staying alive through the sheer burning willpower to avenge the destruction of his people. 

Then again, maybe she was wrong about them.

Joker and EDI, though, Miranda definitely knew. Joker had never been shy when it came to talking shit about everyone on the ship. Miranda was no exception, although he was more cautious about her than most, given that she scared the crap out of him. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from spending an entire week humming the Wicked Witch of the West theme every time Miranda approached - a reference Miranda hadn’t understood (because of course she didn’t) until Jacob explained it to her, which led to her swiftly putting a stop to that.

And EDI? Well, EDI was The Normandy. The closest thing it had to a soul.

It was difficult to say whether Miranda could truly consider her a ‘person’, but on some level she supposed she did. She did think of her as one. Miranda had always found herself being instinctively polite to EDI, even in moments when she didn’t extend the same politeness to anyone else. But for as calm and helpful as EDI could be, she also had a personality. A sense of humour. Desires. Wants. In some ways, maybe she was more human than Miranda herself.

And then there was Doctor Chakwas, and Gabby and Ken, and Engineer Adams, and Kelly Chambers, and Mess Sergeant Gardener. So many people. So many faces that had become part of her world. She didn’t even like all of them, but they were there. And now they weren’t.

And Shepard.

Where did she even start when it came to Shepard?

Meeting Shepard had changed Miranda’s life on a fundamental level. She’d led by example, and shown her a different way of being. She was the undeniable proof that being kind and empathetic wasn’t a weakness, but a strength. That making friends with the people around her wasn’t a distraction from more important work, but an essential tool she used to build a strong and loyal team.

She was, without exaggeration or qualification, as close to a perfect human being as Miranda had ever met. If humanity strived to be more like Andrea Shepard, then the galaxy would be a better place.

Huh. What would Shepard say if she could see Miranda now?

Do you even miss us?

At all?

Good question, Miranda thought. Was this what it was like? Was this how a normal person was supposed to act when they missed people who had died? Because it didn’t feel that way. If this was a test, she was failing. Despite what Samara had said about there being no correct or incorrect way to grieve, it certainly didn’t feel like she was mourning the right way, whatever that meant.

Do you even care that we’re gone?

You haven’t cried.

Not once.

Not even the faintest sting in your eye.

No, she hadn’t. She’d never really been able to do that. Only Oriana ever brought that out of her. And Miranda wasn’t speaking to her right now. Because she still had nothing positive to say.

At this rate, it wasn’t looking like that was going to change anytime soon.

Miranda lay there in the dark for two more hours, forcing herself not to slip into slumber. It was seven in the morning when she finally willed her weary limbs to get her up and out of bed. She had already heard the pipes going, so she knew some of the kids were awake. Sometimes she got up before them, but she usually waited for them to stir as her signal to stop pretending to sleep. It aroused less suspicion if she wasn’t the first one up every morning. And her ruse must have been working because so far none of them had noticed.

She got up, had her shower, got dressed, and joined the early risers for breakfast.

“Morning, Miss,” Leah Brooks greeted her.

“Morning.” Miranda opened the fridge, her voice slightly hoarse. She stopped, blinking as she glanced back at the students. “...Is that actual fresh milk in the fridge?” she asked, wondering if she was just hallucinating from insomnia.

“Sure is,” Rodriguez confirmed.

“How on Earth do we have that?” said Miranda, on a slight delay.

“Black market,” Rodriguez answered with a shrug.

Miranda gave her a single nod of approval, grabbing the glass bottle. “Good girl.” She was teaching them well. It was worth every credit to have food that didn’t come in powder form whenever they could manage to get their hands on it.

With that, Miranda poured herself a bowl of cereal and joined the kids at the table. They ate in silence for a solid two minutes. Despite not paying the students much mind, she didn’t fail to notice that they were sneaking surreptitious glances at her, and being awkwardly quiet. They were usually chattier. She didn’t ask them what this was about, because she didn’t care. It was always some teenage nonsense with them. As long as it was harmless.

“...Screw it, I’m gonna ask her,” Reiley eventually broke the silence.

“Don’t! Don’t fucking ask her,” Rodriguez warned, hushing her voice as if that would somehow make her imperceptible, even though Miranda was sitting right across the table and could see her and hear every single word uttered between the two of them. “I’ve played this game, it doesn’t go we--”

“Miss…” Reiley began, completely ignoring Rodriguez’s protestations. “Is it true you banged an asari last night?”

Miranda fumbled her spoon.

Fuck.

“First of all, that’s a very inappropriate question,” Miranda responded, not at all impressed with Jack’s students. And she stood by that assessment, even if she knew damn well she was being a giant hypocrite, because she was also prone to asking questions she wanted to know the answers to without caring who she offended in the process. But the key difference there was that she did that to other people, and this was now happening to her. And that was obviously unacceptable. “Secondly, where is this even coming from?”

“I overheard you talking to Mr Taylor last night,” Leah solved that mystery.

At that, Miranda’s normally faultless composure cracked. “You...what?”

“We sleep right there.” Leah pointed at her room. “Voices carry.”

Instead of coming up with some elaborate fiction, which she was far too drained to do, Miranda simply ran her fingers through her hair and uttered a frustrated groan. Damn it, Jacob. She should have guessed at least one of them might be awake and listening through the door when she came home.

“Holy shit. You were right. She did,” said Rodriguez, finding all the proof she needed in Miranda’s reaction, and complete lack of any defence.

Leah made a gesture with her fingers. “I told you. Pay up.”

“You know it's rude to eavesdrop on people,” Miranda pointed out, displeased.

“Pfft. You would do it to us,” Reiley remarked.

“No, I wouldn't. None of you have anything remotely interesting to say,” Miranda countered, going back to her cereal, seeing little point in denying the truth, although there was no way in hell she was going to divulge anything further.

“Yeah, well, if we did, you would,” Reiley replied with a shrug.

Miranda never liked admitting when other people were right so she didn’t respond.

“Was it Samara?” Rodriguez asked, immensely intrigued, or at least pretending to be for the purposes of screwing with her. “I know I sensed a vibe between the two of you. So were you lying when you said she wasn't your girlfriend?”

Miranda rolled her eye. She hated her life. She hated everything.

“You will run out of cereal eventually, and then you’ll have to talk,” Leah teased.

Miranda fixed her with a one-eyed glare as she ate, making it plain that this pestering would get them precisely nowhere but ignored. She really did wish that Jacob hadn’t made her be nice to these teens. Back when they were intimidated by her, they never would have pulled this stunt.

At that instant, Prangley emerged from his room, half-asleep, rubbing his eyes.

“Jason. Good to see you,” Miranda called his attention to her, seeing an opportunity to escape this torment. “Do me a favour. Bring my pistol over here and shoot me with it, would you?” Miranda requested with an entirely straight face.

Prangley blinked blearily, certain he must have misheard. “What?”

“Kill me,” Miranda reiterated, in the same tone. “I don't want to live anymore.”

“What? Why?” asked Jason.

“She boned an asari last night and Leah overheard her and Mr Taylor talking about it,” Rodriguez explained. “It was totally Samara,” she added in an aside.

“Oh. Nice,” said Prangley, continuing his march to the kitchen, unfazed.

Miranda exhaled in annoyance. “Damn it, Jason.” He’d been her best hope of backing her up and putting a stop to this. And he’d failed her. She was disappointed. “You were this close to being my favourite,” she complained in jest, holding her thumb and forefinger a small distance apart.

Jason shrugged. He wasn’t about to interfere with this. She was on her own.

“Samara seems really cool, Miss,” Reiley commented, nodding in approval.

“And also super hot,” Leah chimed in. “And I mean that in both a feminist way and a lesbian way. So, you know...good for you.”

Jason snorted. “Did you just congratulate her on who she had sex with?” 

“Yes. Absolutely,” Leah confirmed. “I mean, have you seen Samara?”

“It wasn't Samara!” Miranda insisted, finally getting fed up with this.

Rodriguez gasped excitedly. “So you're seeing someone else? Who is it? Is she your girlfriend? Is that why you and Samara aren't together? Wait, oh my God, Miss, are you cheating on Samara? Is that why she left London?” 

Miranda let her head fall forward and hit the table with a thud. This was why she normally chose to stay silent when they tried to get a rise out of her like this. Shame she’d forgotten that strategy in her exasperation.

“Wow. You’ve officially done it. You’re all dead to her now,” Jason noted.

“Oh, I crossed that boundary a long time ago,” Rodriguez assured him, evidently proud that she’d finally managed to break Miranda. “I have nothing to lose.”

“How about the roof over your head,” Miranda retorted, picking up her cereal, deciding she would rather starve than continue to be subjected to this.

“Pfft. You don’t mean that,” Rodriguez brushed her off. Miranda just silently arched her eyebrow at her as she limped away. Rodriguez began to sweat, turning to her partners in crime. “She...She doesn’t mean that, right?”

Jason just pulled a face, as if to say he’d warned her.

*     *     *

“I heard a rumour about you,” Shepard began, approaching Miranda near the lounge on the second floor.

The party had gone fairly late into the evening by that point, and the energy was starting to wind down. Miranda hadn’t asked but somehow she got the sense that everyone was planning on crashing at Shepard’s for the night, since nobody had made any motions to leave yet. 

“I’m the subject of many rumours, Shepard,” Miranda dryly replied, sitting back against the armrest. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Although, if it’s the one about the incident with the drop bear, I swear that only happened one time and only three people died.”

“Drop bear?” Shepard echoed curiously, tilting her head, as if trying to work out whether that was Miranda’s serious voice or her sarcastic voice. Miranda just gave an ambiguous shrug. If Shepard couldn’t tell, then she wasn’t going to spoil it. “Nah, it was nothing that exciting. Although remind me to ask you about that later. I’ve been told you’re considering an early retirement?” 

Miranda sighed, not needing to guess where that had come from. “Kasumi...”

“Mhmm,” Shepard confirmed the source of her information. “And, from that look, I'm starting to think it's true. So, this is really it for you, huh? Once we get rid of the Reapers, you're out – you're done.”

“Well, not immediately. I'm not about to leave people dying in the streets. But yes, you heard correctly,” Miranda replied, taking a sip from her freshly refilled glass of wine. It was a relief that not every single bottle or glass had been destroyed when Garrus set up that makeshift shooting gallery. “I’m my own woman now.”

“Really?” Suffice it to say, Shepard didn't seem to be buying it. “Not working for anyone at all, other than yourself. Ever. You're sure?”

“I haven’t made up my mind about ‘ever’, but yes. As of right now, that's the plan,” Miranda answered.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who are you and what have you done with the real Miranda Lawson?” Shepard teasingly remarked, since this was the single most uncharacteristic thing the Miranda she had come to know a year ago could possibly have said or done.

“Oh, she’s dead. I buried her under the floorboards. I probably should have mentioned, I’m also an escaped Cerberus clone. You are the fake Shepard, right? Because if you’re not, then this is a joke and you should forget I said that,” Miranda responded, her tone completely deadpan.

Shepard laughed, moving to sit across from her on the opposite sofa. “Seriously, what brought this on? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

Miranda exhaled, shifting until she was seated on the armrest, deciding to stop being snarky and start being direct. “Being on the run this past year...It's been the worst year of my life. Including all the years I lived with my father. But if nothing else, being on my own for so long made me realise that, for as long as I've been alive, everything about me has always been controlled by other people. In one way or another, I've never been free to make my own choices. Except for a few months with you. I need to take some time away to breathe. Just be me, without anyone expecting anything from me. Figure out how to be...”

“What?” Shepard prompted, when Miranda fell silent.

“I was going to say ‘an actual fucking person’ and then I realised how depressing that was,” Miranda muttered with appropriate self-awareness, earning a light chuckle from Shepard. “I guess that’s the whole point. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not working myself to the bone. I could be anybody under all this.” Miranda vaguely gestured at herself.

“And what if you can’t stand having nothing to do?” asked Shepard. 

“Then I change plans,” Miranda answered plainly. She wasn’t so attached to this idea that she couldn’t be flexible if it didn’t work out, and she wasn't sure why it mattered. As it stood, the chances of any of their dreams for the future coming to fruition were slim at best. “But how can you be so certain that I'll hate it? I'm not; I've never had the freedom to do nothing before. Maybe I'll thrive.”

“But you were always putting yourself under pressure to stay busy, even when you didn’t have to. You love how much of a workaholic you are. Don’t deny it. You were practically begging me to give you more stuff to do towards the end there. What would you even do with your time if you’re no longer devoting yourself to some kind of high-powered career?” Shepard wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. There are a lot of things I’ve never done before, and never thought I’d do.” Miranda shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try being a blonde for a while. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Maybe I’ll become Wiccan. Maybe I’ll get fat.”

Shepard stared at her sceptically, sensing the obvious sarcasm.

“What? Don’t think I couldn’t do it if I set my mind to it. I’m secretly a foodie at heart, you know,” Miranda pointed out, her tone drier than her wine.

“And you have a superhuman metabolism,” Shepard countered.

“Ah. Right. Scratch that one off the list then,” said Miranda, taking another sip from her glass. “Blonde, tattooed Wiccan it is.” Shepard laughed, entertained.

“Well, when Hell freezes over a million years from now, I look forward to meeting that version of you. But, until that happens, you know it’s not a two-party system, right? You don’t have to choose between going in a totally new direction forever, or staying exactly as you are right now. There's a lot you can do that isn't either of those things,” Shepard reminded her, gesturing as she spoke. “You'd excel at anything you tried. It doesn't have to involve life or death struggles over the fate of the galaxy. And, if you’re sick of bringing people back to life, you can retire from science and move onto something else. I could definitely see you taking well to life as a lawyer, or a CEO, or even a political leader.”

“Politics?” Miranda snorted, reaching out across the gap with an insincere handshake. “Hi, I’m Miranda Lawson, former terrorist. Vote for me.”

“Point taken,” Shepard conceded.

“You also realise that all the professions you listed have a higher than average ratio of sociopaths compared to the general population,” Miranda noted.

Shepard scratched the back of her head. “Sunday school teacher?” she offered.

“Can’t do that. I’m becoming Wiccan, remember?” Miranda quipped. “Did you really come and find me just to try and talk me out of this?”

“No. No, I didn't. It's...actually the exact opposite,” said Shepard, shaking her head and leaning back against the cushions. “Because the truth is I've been thinking the same thing; that this is the end for me too,” she confessed, piquing Miranda's intrigue. “If I make it through this...I don’t know if I can keep fighting other people’s battles anymore. If I can, I don’t know if I want to.”

“I guess after stopping a galactic genocide, all other conflicts start to look petty in comparison,” Miranda mused, swirling her glass, strangely empathising with that sentiment. What would be the point of Shepard saving the entire goddamn galaxy from the Reapers, only to then continue imperilling her life, risking getting shot and killed day after day over some insignificant political squabble that didn’t matter the slightest bit in the grand scheme of things? 

Shepard had been lucky enough to get a second chance at life. Literally. She had more reason than anyone to realise how precious that was. And also how fragile.

It would have been beyond tragic if Andrea wouldn’t get to savour a calm, peaceful future if the war with the Reapers ever ended - a future that would only be possible because of her. Because she was the one person who saw what truly mattered, and valued collective unity over selfish, shortsighted division.

“Don’t take anything I’ve been saying about you as an attack. It’s not,” Shepard assured her. “I'm just surprised, and maybe projecting a little, because...I have no clue what I'm going to do after this, and it's terrifying to me. I’ve never...I’ve never not been a soldier. I don’t even know how to be an...an ‘actual fucking person’, like you said. And neither do you. And yet here you are, and that doesn't bother you at all. I thought it would have been the other way around.”

“Me too,” Miranda conceded. “But things are different now.”

“You mean you're different now,” Shepard added, impressed by Miranda’s growth.

“You helped,” said Miranda. She crossed the floor and sat down beside Shepard, sinking into the seat, leaning her head back on the lounge to look up at the ceiling. “I’ve been cognisant for a very long time that I’m not a normal person, Shepard. Not only that, but...I don’t have the faintest clue how to pretend to be normal,” Miranda elected to be frank about that flaw. Though she rarely showed weakness, she felt safe sharing that with her. “My whole life, I’ve never seen the point trying to fit in with other people when I know I can’t, and don’t even want to. So, while I might not be showing it...I am more scared than you think. But I’m also just kind of over worrying about anything anymore? Maybe because I’ve spent most of this past year living in constant fear. I think I got sick of it.”

Shepard paused, considering Miranda’s words. “Can I be honest with you?” she began, after several seconds had passed. Miranda gestured for her to go ahead. “I also have no idea how to be a normal person. I think that’s what’s freaking me out about what comes next. What if I’m bad at it?”

“What a horrible thought. Being bad at mundane problems,” Miranda dryly commented, hoping her sarcasm would help Shepard put her anxieties into perspective. “What if you mix up your recyclable plastics with your non-recyclables? Perish the thought. That’s a disaster, right there.”

“I’m being serious,” Shepard insisted, though it was obvious she got the meaning behind Miranda’s comment. “Look, you get what I’m going through better than anyone. You and I, we’re both...not to sound arrogant, but we’re both fuckin’ good at what we do,” Shepard stated plainly. And she wasn’t wrong. They were the best of the best. “What if we suck at everything else?”

Miranda shrugged. “Then it was a fun experiment, both of us trying to be ordinary people for a while. I think it will be worth it.”

Shepard exhaled, and rested her head on her hand. “So...what does being a regular, everyday person look like to Miranda Lawson?” she wondered aloud. “What does a nice, safe, boring future look like to you?”

That was a question Miranda had no problems answering. She had a singular vision. “I’ve promised Oriana that we’re going to find a quiet spot on a colony world. We’ll buy a big plot of land far away from anyone else, and build our dream house. Somewhere with a view, where we can sit out on the deck, watch the sunset, drink wine and eat sashimi while we talk about our day,” Miranda revealed, trusting Andrea enough to tell her what she said to Ori before she left.

“...That sounds pretty great,” Shepard said softly. In that simple description of what life after the war meant to her, and the goal she was fighting for, it had instantly clicked into place why Miranda was so content with the idea of ‘retiring’.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, gently nudging Shepard’s knee with her own. “Where does Andrea Shepard see herself in five years’ time?”

“That’s the million credit question, isn’t it?” Shepard spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. She sat forward, electing to just give voice to what was in her heart. “Honestly, this is going to sound corny as hell, but...when I think of my future, I can’t see anything but Liara. That’s it. Nothing would make me happier than just...I don’t know, having a boring fuckin’ house with a yard and a white picket fence, and lots of little blue children running around.”

“Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age, but that might possibly be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miranda commented, eliciting a sheepish chuckle as Shepard rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh, God, we are getting old, aren’t we? And we’re only in our thirties,” Shepard realised aloud, as if it had hit her that both of them had been through enough to fill several lifetimes. No wonder they both wanted to ‘retire’ so young.

“Mhmm. And I’ve got five years on you, so I can promise you it’s all downhill from here,” Miranda confirmed, taking another sip of wine. “But I meant that, though. Don’t be ashamed of that dream. Lots of people would kill for something like that.” Herself included, she thought. “And you will make an excellent…father? Father’s the correct word in this context, right?” Miranda asked aloud, earning a nod. “Take it from someone who killed hers: you would be the best Dad ever.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Shepard gave her a light knock on the arm.

“I’m not. I’m really not. Okay, I know it sounds like I am, but…” Miranda trailed off for a moment, a thought occurring to her. “Huh. You know what? I just realised something. You and I actually both have the exact same dream,” she pointed out, turning to face Andrea. “We want a family.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, we do, don’t we?” Shepard nodded in agreement, seeing the clarity in Miranda’s words. “Ours just look a little different from each other.”

“So, that settles it. We’re both going to hang up our weapons and retire somewhere nice and dull so we can each have the families we always wanted,” Miranda reiterated. Despite her efforts to be hopeful, at those words, she couldn’t keep a pessimistic sigh from escaping her. “Now, we both just have to convince ourselves that we'll live long enough to do that.”

“I'd bet on you,” Shepard acknowledged, glancing over at her.

“And I’d bet on you,” Miranda replied with a bittersweet smile, but it lacked the conviction to reach her eyes. “Don't get me wrong; I haven't given up, and I'm going to fight for that future as hard as I can. But I can't believe that it's going to happen until I'm standing in the rubble and the Reapers are all gone.”

Shepard exhaled heavily, sinking lower against the couch. “That makes two of us.”

The more Miranda thought about it, the more it became painfully apparent that their odds of getting to lead those lives they were imagining were slim to zero. Even if by some miracle they did find a way to defeat the Reapers, it was virtually impossible that both she and Shepard would survive whatever came next. At best, it seemed like a binary choice. One or the other. And Miranda knew which of the two of them was least likely to endure if push came to shove.

Her body tensed imperceptibly. An apprehensiveness fell over her. A sense of urgency rose in her stomach. Words she couldn't leave unsaid.

“...Shepard,” Miranda began, her tone serious. “If anything happens to me—“

“Miranda,” Andrea attempted to cut her off, but Miranda ignored her interruption. She couldn't forgive herself if she stayed silent about this.

“Just listen, Shepard. If I can’t be there for her, for whatever reason, promise you'll keep an eye on Ori for me?” Miranda persisted, needing to hear Andrea give her word on that, because she understood what this meant to her, and she would absolutely follow through. Even if Andrea had to die to honour her commitment to Miranda, it wouldn’t stop her. “Make sure she's okay.”

“You can do that yourself,” Shepard replied, either refusing to fear the worst, or determined not to let her crew see that she possessed any doubts that they would live to see those tomorrows, come what may.

“Hypothetically, then,” said Miranda, rolling her eyes at Shepard’s reluctance to answer the question. “If something happened to me, whether now or twenty years from now...I need to know: would you look out for Oriana if I couldn't?”

Andrea relented, realising what she was asking, and why. “Of course I would.”

“Do you swear?” Miranda pressed.

Shepard sighed, and held up her pinkie. “I swear.” Eyeing that gesture somewhat peculiarly, Miranda eventually extended her own little finger. However, Andrea pulled away before they could interlock. “Uh uh. But before we do that, I need you to make the same promise to me. So, if--”

“Liara does not need protecting, Shepard,” Miranda reminded her. 

“You had your turn. Let me finish,” said Shepard. Miranda signalled for her to take the floor. “Thank you. Now, if anything ever happens to me...you’re the one person I trust more than anyone else to step in for me when I’m gone. No matter what, you’ll have your shit together, and you’ll do what needs to be done. So, if I can’t be here…” Instead of articulating it all in words, Shepard flicked her gaze out towards the balcony, down to the lower floor, where everyone else was. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but...just do what you can for them. Watch over them for me. Make sure they’re alright. And, if they’re not...do what you think I would do.”

At that request, Miranda softened. It hadn’t been what she’d anticipated Andrea would say, but perhaps she should have seen it coming. Shepard loved her crew like family. She was their North Star. A guiding light who united so many disparate personalities in a common cause, and brought out the best in all of them.

Shepard really was a hero.

A bloody icon.

How could Miranda possibly say no?

“What else is a second-in-command good for if not that?” Miranda extended her hand once more. At that, Shepard finally locked pinkies with her, swearing on it. “You know I’ve never done this before - pinkie promised,” Miranda noted, finding it a bit juvenile. 

“Of course you haven’t.” Shepard shook her head, not at all shocked by that. It was at that particular moment that a certain AI came up the stairs, into view. Shepard called out to her. “Hey, EDI. I have a question for you.”

“What would you like to know?” EDI asked.

“What the hell is a drop bear?” said Shepard.

Miranda arched her brow, and took a long drink, saying nothing.

“One moment.” By the time she finished saying ‘one moment’, EDI had already concluded her search of the Extranet. “Here is what I’ve found: the drop bear is a hoax Australian folklore creature. The origins of the drop bear hoax are unknown, though it appears it may have originated as a campfire story in the early-to-mid-20th century. Australians have been known to pretend the drop bear is a real creature so as to frighten and confuse tourists and non-Australians for their own amusement.” EDI paused for a beat. “It is a joke.”

“Thank you, EDI,” said Miranda, concealing a smirk. Way to ruin the fun. 

Shepard slowly turned to her, eyeing Miranda in quiet bewilderment. “...Did you of all people just prank me with a two-hundred-year-old joke?” 

“Not that I’m that attached to it, but I’m pretty sure I would be stripped of my citizenship if I didn’t do that at least once before I die,” Miranda informed her.

Shepard’s expression didn’t change. “Mhmm.”

*     *     *

“So are you gay now?” was the first thing Jack said to her the next time they saw each other, a week after their last meeting.

Miranda sighed. God damn it. Nobody could keep their mouths shut about anything, could they? “I’m something,” she muttered, taking off her wet jacket. It had been raining all day. And not the usual soft English drizzle that didn’t even warrant mentioning, but actual rain.

“Good for you,” Jack replied, not actually interested. “Let’s play.”

Miranda slumped down into the chair across the table from Jack, the raindrops pittering off the windows behind her. “Your advice was terrible, by the way,” she told her as she moved her first piece.

“Nah, you’re just a shit lay,” Jack countered, making her own opening.

Miranda flicked her eye up at her, unamused, but decided it was best not to validate that comment with a response. 

All of a sudden, Jack started laughing at something unsaid.

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

“...‘Meh’-randa,” Jack remarked, making an appropriately nonchalant gesture.

Miranda exhaled heavily, rubbing her temple in annoyance. “Jack, I need you to understand this,” she began, placing her elbow on the table and leaning forward as she spoke, eerily calm. “One of these days, you will forget that this conversation ever happened. You will go on with your life, and there will come a day when you are blissfully ignorant and happy. And on that day, I will come to wherever you live. And I will break into your room. And I will suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Fair,” Jack conceded. “Worth it, though.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair, oddly relieved to have gotten that off of her chest after biting her tongue for so long. “God, that felt good. Why did I ever stop insulting you?” she wondered aloud, starting to think she should snap back at her more often instead of taking every jibe Jack threw at her in stride. 

“Because you’re a fucking pussy now apparently.” Jack shrugged, focused only on the game. “Shut up and play me.” Miranda didn’t need to be asked twice.

She didn’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe it was the dreary weather, and the sound of the rain making the tinnitus a little less abrasive for once. Maybe it was how long both of them were taking between moves. But, for whatever reason, Miranda found herself stifling yawns as the game went on.

She moved a pawn, and leaned her head against her hand as Jack studied the board, weighing up her strategies, keen to avoid falling into another trap.

God, she was so fucking tired.

It had been three days since she last slept. Or...wait, was it four? She couldn’t remember. Six or seven days seemed to be her absolute limit before she started passing out irrespective of willpower, and that was because she was, quote unquote, a ‘genetic freak’ as Jacob had once put it. She’d only managed two hours of thirty-minute naps the last time she got any rest at all.

Her eyelid felt so heavy. Every single time she blinked, it stayed dark a little longer, and it took a little bit more effort and time to open it again. 

What harm would it do to just rest her eye for a second, she wondered? It wasn’t like she was going to fall asleep, sitting up like she was. Although, leaning on her hand felt so fucking comfortable. She didn’t want to move.

So Miranda let her eyelid drift shut for a moment, listening to the rain.

…

…

...

“Hey, eyepatch.”

…

…

...

“Eyepatch?”

Miranda was vaguely aware that someone was talking, but it didn’t reach her in the darkness. That was, until Jack hit the table, hard, and startled her awake. Miranda’s head slipped off her hand. At that jolt, she panicked and reflexively reared back so hard that she damn near fell out of her chair.

“What? What? What is it?” Miranda took a few moments to blink and remember where she was after being shaken from her stupor. It only clicked when she found Jack sitting across from her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Am I boring you?” Jack remarked, arms folded across her chest impatiently.

Miranda shook her head, trying to save face. “It’s called ‘thinking’, Jack. You should try it sometime,” she retorted, moving a piece quickly as if to prove she hadn’t just blacked out for a couple of minutes.

Jack glanced down at the board. “You can’t do that.”

“What?”

“That’s not a legal move,” Jack pointed out. Miranda checked the board. She honestly didn’t even know what piece she’d just touched. Jack reached across, and dragged her knight back to where it should have been. Jack sat back in her chair and fixed her with a stare.

“...Fuck me dead,” Miranda muttered under her breath, realising she actually had to stop and concentrate to figure out her next move.

“Forget it. I’m out.” Jack pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.

“No, no. I’ve got it,” Miranda insisted.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to beat you when you’re like this. That wouldn’t even count,” said Jack, gesturing listlessly towards her, having lost all interest.

“I’m not ‘like’ anything. I’m just…” Miranda trailed off, staring at the board, stuck for a move. Her head was so full of fog that she couldn’t see any options. The whole table was a blur. A featureless mush. Every piece looked the same. She couldn’t even fucking think. If someone asked her to name a single rule of the game in that instant, she would have drawn a complete blank.

“Go home. Take a fucking nap or whatever. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you look like death, by the way. More even than usual,” Jack casually observed, opening her fridge and pulling out a can of energy drink.

“I’m fine!” Miranda barked, a little too loud, willing that lie to be the truth.

“I honestly don’t care. You could jump off a bridge for all the difference it makes to me. I wouldn’t stop you,” Jack said frankly, nonchalantly gesturing with her drink in her hand. “All that matters to me is making sure you don’t have a fuckin’ excuse when I destroy you. So get the fuck out of my apartment, and don’t come back until you stop sucking at the only reason I keep you around.”

Miranda swallowed a groan, the pain in her head only growing. Jack obviously wasn’t going to change her mind. This game was over. “Alright. Fine. Suit yourself,” she grumbled as she got up, collecting her things. “See you next week.”

“Only if you don’t look like complete shit by then,” Jack commented, prepared to close the door in her face if she wasn’t going to play her at her best.

Miranda left and went out into the cold December rain, which showed no signs of easing. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She couldn’t go home. There was nothing there to keep her awake. And she absolutely was not ready to fall asleep, and contend with the nightmares that awaited her.

She couldn’t go to the bar, because drinking would make her tired. The last time she got drunk, the nightmares were so visceral that she woke up vomiting. 

She thought about it a bit longer, and then one option came to mind. She still had a key to her office. Bailey had banned her from working weekends out of concern for her wellbeing if he didn’t, sure, but he wouldn’t be there. Even if he was, she could avoid him seeing her. Nobody else would question her presence. She ranked above them. They would just assume something had come up, and most of them were too intimidated by her to talk to her anyway.

So Miranda fell back on her one and only crutch. Her only coping mechanism. Her favourite distraction from her problems. She buried herself in her work.

“Director Lawson,” the man at reception greeted her. She glanced at his name tag to remember who the hell he was. “What are you doing here on a weekend?”

“Losing control of my life, Ian,” Miranda remarked as she limped right past him, heading straight for the lift without stopping.

He chuckled at that. “Aren’t we all? You have a good day, now.”

Miranda rolled her eye as soon as he looked away. As predicted, there were no interruptions between her and her office. Nobody thought to question her.

She didn’t even glance at the clock as the hours ticked by, and file after file went across her desk. Task after task got done. When she finished her own matters, she moved onto work delegated to her subordinates, just to stay there longer. Nobody bothered her. Even without distractions, it was hard to concentrate. Her mind was full of fog. Everything she did was lost in a haze, forgotten mere seconds after she did it. But, in the present, it was something to focus on.

It wasn’t easy, though. She had instances where she...lost time. Just drifted into space for a few seconds, here or there. When that happened, she would go and fill up on coffee. She only decided she’d had too much when she started to feel her heart beating a little too fast in her chest, and her fingers got jittery, and she had to flex her hand to keep it from shaking. If she had any more she would probably start hallucinating, as if she wasn’t on the verge of that already.

So maybe she’d hit her limit as far as caffeine toxicity went.

But she was awake.

She was fucking awake.

It was dark out, and still raining by the time she was snapped out of her work-induced daze by a text message alert. She already knew who it was. Miranda squeezed her eye shut, resting the base of her palm against her forehead, fighting off the constant, nagging pain that had become her permanent companion. She knew she shouldn’t look. But she had to. She couldn’t resist hearing from her.

Miranda opened her message tab on her computer, and clicked on Oriana’s name.

“Still not talking, huh?” said the first message. And then a second and third popped up. “Okay. That’s fine. Take your time. I’ve got more jokes.”

Oriana could see that Miranda was reading her messages in realtime. She would know that she was there on the other end at that very moment, not replying back. And yet, in typical Oriana fashion, she wasn’t calling her out on it or judging her for it or demanding a reason for her silence. Just letting her be.

“A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’ And the horse says, ‘I have crippling depression, Steven. I’ll thank you not to mention it’.”

When that joke garnered no response, Oriana sent another.

“A glazier invited me to high tea. It didn’t go well. Turns out people in glasshouses shouldn’t throw scones. Eh? Worked on that one for ages.”

Miranda felt the warmth of a single, stray tear trickling down her cheek. God, she loved Oriana. She loved Oriana so much it physically hurt. No one else could be so...bright, and radiant, and happy, and genuine about it. Her positivity and cheerfulness wasn’t faked, or feigned, or insincere. She was just like this. Just funny, and kind, and...and fucking perfect.

“Why did the funeral director need to go to the doctor?” Oriana asked. “Because he couldn’t stop coffin--okay, no, that one was atrocious even for me. I’m sorry. Please delete that. You deserve better.”

If she were in a better mental and emotional state, all of this would have brought a smile to her face. Of course it would have. Oriana always did. Miranda thought about finally texting her back. Saying something. Anything. Even started to type. Just wanted to let her know she was okay. Just wanted to talk to her. Needed that connection with the person who mattered to her most.

But she stopped herself.

What the fuck did she have to offer Oriana right now? What could she say to her that was worthwhile when she was this dour and miserable?

She could just see how it would play out. She would say something, and then Oriana would eventually start asking questions. She would need, and deserve, some sort of explanation as to why Miranda had been so quiet. So distant. Any half-hearted excuses would be recognised for the lies they were.

Oriana would ask her if she was okay, because of course she would. And, then, if Miranda started telling her the truth, that she really wasn’t, and hadn’t been for a long time, she didn’t see how she could stop the floodgates from opening. Everything she’d been holding back since the shuttle crash, Oriana would bring it out of her, like a torrent after a storm. And she just...refused to be that person. Refused to drown her little sister in her unresolved trauma.

Oriana was the Sun. She was light, and warmth. Basking in her presence for even a few minutes could make even the lowest person feel uplifted, and stronger, and brighter. She was doing just fine without Miranda. She always had.

Why bother her? Why disturb that?

In fact, all the best times in Oriana’s life had been the moments when Miranda had pushed her as far away as possible. When she wasn’t involved. When she kept herself at a distance. Ever since Miranda introduced herself to Oriana on Illium, Ori’s life had only gotten worse. Never better. A downward spiral. 

Perhaps that was a sign.

What did she really think was going to happen when they met up with each other again anyway? That they were going to spend the rest of their lives together? As if. Oriana was twenty. She would be twenty-one before too long. She was only just starting to grow into her own as an independent adult. She would want to go do things normal twenty-one-year-olds did, without anyone cramping her unique personal style, or getting in her way as she formed new connections.

The Reaper Invasion had cut short her degree and compelled her to start work earlier than expected, but she probably planned to finish her education at some point. Chances were she would want to move in with friends her own age. Eventually, of course, she would meet some boy she liked (who Miranda would absolutely hate) and she would want to find a place with him. Statistically speaking, that would happen more than once over the course of her life.

She wasn’t a kid anymore. Oriana was an adult. At exactly the age where families like theirs...tended to drift apart from one another. When young women like Ori wanted to go out into the wider world and discover themselves, and carve out an identity free of any ties to their childhood. And it was at that moment that a thought abruptly struck Miranda that had never connected before.

When she and Oriana had talked about finally getting to be a family, they probably had very different ideas of what that looked like.

And Miranda’s vision of that future was completely fucking delusional.

It always had been.

She wasn’t helping Oriana by being near her. Wasn’t protecting her, because the man who posed a danger to her was dead. With Henry Lawson out of the picture, Ori didn’t need her in her life. In many respects, she never had.

Miranda wasn’t some noble self-sacrificing big sister anymore. She was a fucking leech. Sucking her sister’s energy and her positivity, consuming it for herself. She was a chain holding Oriana down, when what she truly deserved was to spread her wings and fly wherever she wanted like the free spirit she was. 

Wasn’t that precisely why Miranda had denied herself the connection she craved with Ori in the first place? Wasn’t that why she had given her up? Because she knew it was the right thing to do? Because, deep down, she knew that the best thing she could do for Oriana was to ensure that she grew up completely isolated from her - so that she could become as unlike Miranda as possible?

She’d succeeded at that, at least.

Where Miranda was cynical, Oriana was optimistic. Where Miranda was closed-off and antisocial, Oriana was outgoing and friendly. Where Miranda was rigid and concrete, Oriana was creative and open-minded. Where Miranda was bitter and sarcastic, Oriana was lighthearted and funny. Where Miranda was cold, Oriana was warm. Where Miranda was dark, Oriana was light. Where Miranda lacked empathy, Oriana was sensitive, and the kindest person she knew.

They couldn’t have been more different.

And Miranda wanted it to stay that way.

None of her qualities were things she would wish upon Oriana. And, if Oriana did become more like her, Miranda wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.

The most loving thing Miranda could do for Oriana was just let her live her life in peace, the way she had done for her before. She really would be better off just being cut loose, without her older sister weighing her down, shackling her to the weight of despair, damage and loneliness.

So Miranda didn’t text. She deleted the message she’d started typing, and the three dots to signal that she was writing were erased. She closed the app, got up and left her desk, deciding to head home.

She didn’t see the next message her sister sent.

“Miranda? Whatever is going on with you right now, please just remember that you are my most important person. I love you more than anything. And I’m here for you whenever you need me. You do know that, don’t you?”

Miranda limped home in the dark in the rain. It was freezing. She didn’t know how late it was. She hadn’t kept her eye on the time. She dragged her weary body up the stairs. Aside from the fact that her head was killing her, parts of her body that had never hurt before were starting to feel sore, and tight, and tense.

“Hey, Miss,” Seanne greeted her when she heard her key in the door. A few of the kids were gathered together in the main lounge, watching some sort of movie on the television. “We saved dinner for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“I’ll have it later,” Miranda muttered, not hungry at all. Just tired. 

“No problem,” Seanne replied, too focused on the film to pay her any mind.

Without another word, Miranda retreated to her room, and shut herself away, prepared for another night of staring at cracks in the ceiling in the darkness in a desperate attempt to ward off her dreams.

She slumped on her bed and ran her hand through her hair, staring into space.

And that was when it hit her. She didn’t...know what she was doing with her life anymore. Or why. She didn’t have a plan. A goal. For the first time since she’d reunited with Oriana, she no longer had a future she was working towards. Because that hope, that dream, had been snuffed out. A lie. A delusion.

The one thing that had made getting up every morning worth it since the shuttle crash - believing that, one day, she and Oriana would start a new life where nothing tore them apart ever again - had been exposed as a figment of her imagination.

With that dream dead, when she pictured her future now, there was...nothing.

Absence.

An empty, black abyss. Filled only by the ringing in her ear.

Miranda lay down on her bed. Curled up. And stared. And listened to that perpetual sound. And her mind, like her future, was blank. She watched the time tick by on the clock. Barely even registering it in her fatigue. 

One hour.

Two hours.

What was the point of anything anymore?

What was the fucking point?

Three hours.

Four hours.

It was after midnight when she was disturbed from her near-catatonic state by an urgent knocking at the front door. It came once, such a strange and unexpected sound that, at first, she wondered if it was just a trick of her mind. But then it came again, even more insistent. 

Reluctantly, Miranda dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the entryway, not even bothering to grab her cane. She saw the door to one of the students’ bedrooms was open. Jason was leaning out, as if to go investigate. 

“I’ve got it,” said Miranda with a dismissive wave as she limped to the door, assuming it was probably for her. “Go back to sleep.”

Jason gave her a nod, but lingered in the doorway, just in case.

The frantic knocking came again. With an annoyed grunt, Miranda undid the lock, wondering who the hell was bothering them at that ungodly hour.

“Jesus Christ, what is it--?” The words caught in Miranda’s throat the second she flung the door open. Her weary eye flickered wide awake. “Samara?”

*     *     *

Miranda stepped over snoring bodies and discarded glasses on the floor, not keen to wake anyone up when half the crew were spread out at various points on the spectrum between ‘fast asleep’ and ‘passed out drunk’, and all of whom were likely to be very cranky if awoken. Miranda hadn’t drunk as much as most of the others, and neither was she prone to going to bed early. 

Indeed, she was very much awake, not even close to tired. And it was not her idea of a fun end to the night to hang around being as quiet as a mouse, forced to pretend to doze off because everyone else was such a goddamn lightweight. 

With that in mind, Miranda crept over near the door to where Shepard kept her keys, pinching them for herself so she could let herself back into the apartment. Shepard wasn’t going to miss them. She and Liara had gone to bed some time ago for very obvious reasons. They wouldn’t be seen again until morning.

However, Miranda’s cunning plan was not one concocted purely for herself. A thought had occurred to her while she waited for everyone else to nod off, being that there was one other person she expected might be awake. Someone who, by all appearances, had not been a drinker for centuries. Someone who Miranda was eager to spend a lot more time with one-on-one, particularly given that it was not lost on her that this might well be the last opportunity they ever had to do so - the last time they might ever see one another.

Sure enough, she found that very person meditating under the stairs.

“Samara,” Miranda whispered just loud enough to be heard. Blue eyes opened, and shifted her way. “Can’t sleep?” Samara did not respond verbally, but let her current state speak for itself. “Me neither.” At that, Miranda held up Shepard’s keys and made a signal towards the door. “Feel like going out?”

Samara glanced at her slumbering companions scattered over the lounge. After a moment, she held a finger to her lips, and silently stood.

Taking that as acceptance of her invitation, Miranda stealthily snuck over to the door, and held it open for Samara. She closed it behind them as quietly as she could. There was a faint ‘click’ as it automatically locked.

“Do not mistake my surprise for protestation, for it is not, but...to what do I owe this?” Samara asked, once they were safely out of earshot of the others. Evidently she had not been anticipating this - that Miranda would seek her out. 

“What, did you really think I’d just forget about you after a single conversation?” Miranda rhetorically remarked. “I told you I missed you more than anyone else.”

Samara allowed herself a small smile, touched by her intentions. “You did.”

“Since you and I are both still awake, and I have way too much energy to sleep, I figured, hey, the Strip is right here, and nothing ever closes - let’s go enjoy it while we can,” Miranda offered, circling Shepard’s keys around her finger before slipping them into a discreet pocket. “Nobody will even notice we’re missing.”

“No, they certainly will not,” Samara concurred, clearly not regretting her temperance when it was apparent most of the crew would be nursing hangovers come morning. “I must admit, given I saw you partaking earlier, I did not expect you to be in such a better state compared to our other comrades.”

“Good genes, plus I know how to pace myself,” Miranda casually explained. She gestured for Samara to follow her. “Come on. Let’s go be stupid for a while.”

Samara suppressed a chuckle. “An enticing prospect. Very well. Lead the way.”

“I was planning on taking you back to my favourite sushi place - you know, the one we went to before. Unfortunately, it’s not open right now.” Miranda sighed, putting a hand on her hip. “There was an incident. Shepard was involved.”

“I see. That is unfortunate,” Samara commiserated, needing no further explanation as to what had happened. For as much as they both loved Shepard, it was no hyperbole to say that trouble followed her everywhere.

Ultimately, Miranda didn’t have a preference as to where they went, or what they did. This entire venture was little more than a flimsy excuse to spend time with Samara without anybody else interfering. A throwback to those intimate moments on the Starboard Observation Deck, and a means of paying her back for all her kindness, assuming Miranda succeeded in showing her a good time.

“There is the casino,” Miranda thought out loud. She’d been there before, and didn’t mind the atmosphere of the place. Plus another drink or two wouldn’t go amiss to kick things off - she was still a fair few away from her limit. 

“After you,” Samara gestured for her to go ahead, trailing in Miranda’s footsteps. A reverse of the last time they had visited the Citadel together.

Unlike the Presidium, the Wards didn’t operate on artificial day and night cycles. Virtually everything on the Citadel stayed open at all hours, with everyone resting and working shifts according to their own personal needs and wants. Thus, when they came to the casino, to nobody’s shock, it was still as busy as ever. 

The people here had been affected by the war, of course, but there was a sense of safety and security that existed nowhere else. As all the homeworlds fell, the Citadel stood strong as the heart of Council Space - the one place most species would unite to protect. If anywhere would survive the war, this was surely it.

“Can I get you anything? The food here’s not bad, if you’re hungry,” Miranda offered as they both made their way up to the bar.

“Just water, thank you,” said Samara. Miranda ordered something much stronger for herself, and the bartender filled up their respective glasses.  

“So, how have you been, Samara? Really?” Miranda asked, keen to make up for lost time. Now that they were alone, they were free to talk as long as they wanted, which was something they couldn’t really do at the party. That was precisely her intent in sneaking out like this. It would be several hours at least before anybody else woke up and wondered where they were. The Silver Coast Casino was no Starboard Observation Deck, but it would serve well enough.

“That is a...complicated question,” Samara acknowledged, still a little caught off guard by Miranda’s genuine eagerness to catch up with her, as if she hadn’t expected to warrant her attention. “Some days have been kind to me. Others have not. Many somewhere in between. I imagine you could say the same.”

“Most of my days have ranged between terrible and awful since I left. I’m glad you had some good ones.” Miranda took a sip of her drink.

“Forgive me. I am aware this past year must have been difficult for you.” Samara bowed her head, as if she had misspoken. “As a Justicar, I am not unfamiliar with the peril of knowing there are many people who would seek to have me killed, nor am I a stranger to looking over my shoulder expecting to see a gun each time I turn my head. Although, by the same token, my status affords me many privileges. Many asari will lend me aid or support without question, for no other reason than because they see my armour, and know what I am. You do not have that luxury.”

“No, sadly,” Miranda confirmed. Hiding like a cockroach in parts of the Citadel not fit for human habitation had not been fun. Having any allies she could have safely turned to, beyond her few limited contacts with Shepard, would have made a world of difference. “But I’m out in the open now. If anybody still wanted me dead, I would have been executed days ago. I think it’s safe to say what little is left of Cerberus no longer sees the point in targeting me.”

“I hope you are correct.” Samara instinctively cast her eyes about the place as she said that, scanning for signs of any suspicious activity. Miranda picked up on that, of course. “If it would be safer--”

“Samara, seriously. It’s fine. You can let your guard down. You don’t need to be on alert. Not for my sake,” Miranda assured her, reaching out to touch her hand to make sure she understood that. Nobody was hunting her anymore. 

“If you are certain…” Samara took her at her word, despite a hint of hesitancy.

“Yes. Relax. I insist. If you don’t, it somewhat defeats the whole purpose of going out,” Miranda pointed out. At that, Samara seemed to concede she was right. Being paranoid would only spoil their time together. “Enough talk of serious subjects. Have you kept up reading human literature?”

“When I have been able, yes. Although, I must confess, I did not have such access when I was travelling in asari space. The Citadel libraries have been a source of great assistance. Tell me, I must know, was this ‘King Arthur’ a real person?” As soon as she asked, Samara just as swiftly changed her mind. “No, no. On second thought, I would prefer you do not answer. I fear I would be disappointed.”

Miranda laughed, endeared by Samara’s odd, childlike fascination with such figures. If it wouldn’t have sounded so patronising to describe a woman in her mid-to-late 900s as ‘adorable’, that label definitely would have applied.

“Oh. That reminds me. Kurosawa,” said Miranda. Samara tilted her head in questioning, not sure what that meant. “Not an author, but a director. I’ve been told, if you’re interested in samurai media, his films are the place to start.”

“I see. Thank you.” Samara nodded, taking that recommendation on board.

“What is it with you and this sort of thing anyway?” Miranda decided to finally broach the question that she had been wondering for a while, earning a curious glance. “Knights. Samurai. Why are you so interested in them?”

Samara did a poor job concealing a grin. “Yes, why would I, a lone wanderer who adheres to a strict moral code and seeks to bring justice to the places she visits, see any appeal whatsoever in stories about virtuous, heroic wanderers who adhere to strict moral codes and seek to bring justice to the places they visit?”

Miranda couldn’t argue with that logic. “I withdraw the question.”

“You did not withdraw it. I answered it,” Samara corrected.

“No, no. I withdrew it,” Miranda maintained in jest, as if she had come to that conclusion entirely on her own, without any assistance. Samara affectionately shook her head. During that pause in the conversation, the song changed.  “You know, I saw you dancing before,” Miranda said with a smirk, indicating the dancefloor. “I’m glad you listened to me about enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I did. However, if I remember correctly, you once stated to me that you would dance when I danced,” Samara reminded her. Miranda raised her eyebrows and took a drink, averting her gaze. She’d really hoped Samara had forgotten that conversation. “And yet you did not join me. How perplexing.”

“Oh, so you haven’t noticed that I’m a pathological liar until just now. Good to know,” Miranda joked, toying with the stem of her glass as she placed it down. 

“You must be. You keep insisting to me that you are not funny, even though you clearly are,” Samara cleverly countered, a glimmer of mirth in her kind eyes.

“I--” Miranda stopped before she could retort, taken aback by that comment. Nobody had told her that before. Nobody thought she was funny, because she wasn’t. According to everyone else, she was just mean and sarcastic and unpleasant to be around. Eventually, Miranda awkwardly rubbed the back of her head, managing to mumble a response. “I think you have a very different definition of ‘funny’ than everyone else in the galaxy, but...if you say so.”

It didn’t seem lost on Samara just how much that compliment actually meant to her. But she didn’t harp on it, letting it stand unchallenged. “There is still time for you to keep your promise to me before we part ways,” Samara pressed and, though her tone was lighthearted, it was evident the offer was genuine. “After all, there is a dancefloor here, and I am finding this music rather persuasive...”

“Still time for me to continue breaking my promise forever, you mean? Yes. I intend to. Glad we’re in agreement,” Miranda remarked. Samara’s enquiring gaze didn’t shift. “...Okay so I did dance at Shepard’s tonight, just a little bit.” Miranda reluctantly held her thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

“Good. I am delighted to hear it,” Samara enthused, pleased to see that Miranda had heeded her own advice and let herself go, and allowed herself to have some fun at the party. “My only regret is that I did not witness it.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Miranda assured her. “But I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“No, you did not. This imbalance must be rectified immediately,” Samara persisted, getting up from her seat and extending her hand. Miranda did not accept the invitation, quite intent on not moving anytime soon. “You made a promise to me, Miranda Lawson. As a Justicar, I must insist that you keep your word. You said you would dance when I danced, and I am going to dance. Hence...”

“No. You knock yourself out, but I am very comfortable on my stool.” Miranda shook her head, waving Samara off, making her stance plain.

“Then hand me the keys, and I will return to the apartment,” said Samara.

That got Miranda’s attention. “What?”

“You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘let us go and be stupid for a while’, and it was you who suggested we both sneak out after midnight for this purpose,” Samara noted. “That was the evening that was represented to me - one spent in inane, ridiculous frivolity. Yet, so far, you are being extremely sensible. If you are not going to do this with me, then I fear I have in fact been misled.” 

Miranda saw right through Samara’s feigned disappointment. “You’re evil.”

“In this moment, perhaps,” Samara conceded, but she still extended her hand.

“This is peer pressure,” Miranda complained.

“Yes, it is,” Samara confirmed, without shame, her mischievous smile widening.

Miranda sighed, but it was hard not to be uplifted purely from seeing Samara this outgoing and cheerful. That was a rare privilege. The last time she’d seen her like this was...well, the last time they visited the Citadel together, which must have been around nine or ten months ago by that point.

“You’re in an abnormally good mood tonight, aren’t you?” Miranda observed, certainly not complaining, but wondering what had made her so upbeat.

“Why would I not be?” Samara asked plainly. “I am with you.”

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Honestly, Miranda was so thoroughly charmed by that response that Samara could have asked her to do anything in that moment, no matter how embarrassing, and she would have been powerless to resist.

“...If you’re trying to butter me up to get me to dance with you...good strategy, because it’s working,” Miranda admitted defeat, seeing no point in even pretending to warn her otherwise. No doubt Samara could tell the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Samara was evidently entertained by that reaction, but equally quick to dismiss any notion that her words were coming from an insincere place. “It is not falsity. The time you and I spent together aboard The Normandy was the most I have enjoyed myself in many years. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“Oh, wow, that's depressing,” said Miranda. “Because I am not fun at all.”

“Neither am I. Perhaps this explains it,” Samara quipped. 

Miranda didn’t agree with that, but that wasn’t the point. “You’re not dropping this are you?” she deduced, realising she didn’t have a choice in this.

“I am afraid I cannot,” Samara confirmed, as if the decision was out of her hands. “Just as you have sensed that I am in a good mood, I have also been astounded by the change in you tonight. I have never seen you so unshackled from your burdens as you are now. So, if we are ever going to keep our promise and share a dance together, I fear this will be our only opportunity. We may not get another. And I cannot abide a broken promise,” she pointed out.

She wasn’t wrong. Tomorrows weren’t exactly guaranteed.

“Well, you bloody got me, alright? Now that you’ve accused me of being good company, I feel compelled to live up to the hype.” With that, Miranda threw back her head and downed her drink, determined to be ‘fun’ for once in her life. “You get one song.” She held up one finger. “And only because it’s you.”

“One song will suffice,” said Samara, taking Miranda by the hand at long last, leading her to the dancefloor. That was all she had been promised.

Maybe it was just the drinks talking, but as she let go of her inhibitions, started moving to the music and surrendered to not caring whether she looked stupid, Miranda found herself having a far better time than she would have thought.

Most of all, the best thing about it was getting to see Samara let go of her usual restraint, and glean a rare escape from the harsh and austere lifestyle that she was required to abide by as a Justicar. It went without saying how much she deserved this reprieve. Not merely to have fun and enjoy the evening, but to have a chance to let her walls down and be herself. Her real self, beneath the armour. Just one fleeting night in however many centuries, free of worries or cares. 

If Miranda could give her that, then making a fool of herself would all be worth it.

Miranda didn’t know what had suddenly made Samara so open to things like this she would have politely declined a year ago, aside from the same ‘carpe diem’ reason that applied to everyone at the moment, nor did it really matter. The point was that they were here and they were doing it while they could. And any time spent with Samara, no matter what they were doing, was never time wasted.

One song turned into two. And two into three.

In truth, because the music all blended together with similar rhythms and chord progressions, it was hard to tell where one track began and another ended. And, for the first time, Miranda began to understand that perhaps that was the whole point. It would have been pretty jarring and moment-ruining to have the flow disturbed by each new song. So, for now, she stopped being critical of that.

It was as the music changed to a fourth song that they were rudely interrupted.

“Heyyyyy, ladies,” a complete stranger wandered up to them, making finger guns and clicking his tongue. “Can I be the meat in your sandwich?”

Miranda gave the man an unimpressed look. “Mate, if that line ever actually works on a woman...she deserves you,” she said, earning a confused expression in response as the insult went over his head. 

“...Is that a no?” he asked, clueless.

“Yeah, look, I’m in a good mood, so just save yourself some embarrassment and…” Miranda signalled for him to walk away, not particularly keen on wasting time and effort verbally destroying him when she would rather not bother.

To his credit, he took that rejection without a fight and left without causing a scene.

“Sorry about that.” Miranda turned to Samara. Unwanted male attention was something that happened to her a lot, so she was used to dealing with it.

Samara seemed more perplexed than perturbed. “He made this gesture.” Samara somewhat awkwardly mimicked his finger guns, as if she’d never seen anyone do that before. “...I assume I should not interpret that as a threat.”

Miranda blinked. Then, as soon as it clicked that Samara was in fact joking, cracked up with laughter. She’d never forgotten how funny Samara could be, but that sneaky delivery of hers still took her by surprise when it came out.

“Why are you laughing? We may be in grave danger,” Samara feigned ignorance.

“Alright. That’s it. That was the last song,” Miranda declared, taking that disruption as their cue to leave. “Since neither of us are gamblers, I think we’ve seen as much as there is to see of the casino. We should move on.”

“Where should we go next?” Samara prompted, letting Miranda take the lead.

“Hmm.” Miranda pondered that. What she would ordinarily do versus what Samara would expect of her on a night devoted to frivolity were two very different things. Fortunately, the Strip did serve the latter quite well. “There's an arcade not far from here. Did you know I've literally never been to one?”

Samara looked rather impressed with that suggestion, given that it was entirely out of step with Miranda’s usual character, and hence very much in keeping with the evening of inane silliness she had been promised. “I believe you humans have a saying that 'there is a first time for everything'.”

“Alright. Arcade it is.”

It certainly wasn’t far to get there. And Miranda wasn’t kidding when she said she had never had the simple pleasure of playing these games in her childhood. Or any games. She had been deprived of anything resembling fun growing up.

That being said, the lightgun game came pretty naturally to her, even if Miranda did maintain the only reason she didn’t score higher was because the controller was a shitty piece of plastic and the sensor must have been broken. If Samara thought otherwise, she just smiled and didn’t correct her.

By contrast, Samara definitely did recognise some of these games from her youth.

“You’re telling me that some of these machines basically haven’t changed at all in nine hundred years?” said Miranda, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

“No, they have not,” Samara happily confirmed, an audible tinge of excitement colouring her voice at the prospect of coming across something familiar.

Miranda snorted. So much for creativity.

“Oh. This. I remember this.” Samara went over to a particularly old-fashioned machine in the corner. ‘Whack The Thresher Maw’. “It was not thresher maws when I played it. I do not recall what it was. But I was very little. I could not have been more than...twelve? I remember vividly; it was shortly before my father left Thessia to come live here on the Citadel. That was the only day I spent together with both my mother and father - the only day that they ever both took me out together,” she spoke softly, nostalgic for that fond memory.

Miranda’s eyes twinkled as she stood by her, listening to Samara reminisce about her past. She said nothing as she waived her credit chit over the machine, spurring it to life. When Samara glanced at her in questioning, she leaned against the wall, and gestured for Samara to go ahead and play. And she did.

The next game they played was a version of what Miranda would have called air hockey, using a virtual puck. Miranda was winning up until Samara cheated, using her biotics to subtly move Miranda’s wrist away from the goal. 

“I would never cheat,” Samara professed, not even trying to conceal her guilt.

“Mhmm.” Miranda fixed her with a knowing look. Two could play at that game. The very next round, she used her own biotics to move the table right when Samara least expected it, allowing her to get her goal back. “I would never cheat,” Miranda echoed back to her, mirroring Samara’s false innocent voice.

“Hey!” At that, one of the arcade workers pointed at a sign behind the counter which clearly stated ‘no biotics’, giving them no further warning than that.

Keeping track of the scores kind of went out the window when they could hardly make it through the next few rounds without cracking up. They called it a draw and gave up before they did something that got them both banned for life.

They moved on. The next thing that caught Samara’s eye was the claw machine.

“I used to be very good at these,” Samara noted, examining it.

“Really? I thought they were all rigged.”

“No, not at all. Certainly made to be difficult, yes. But if you could not win, that would be illegal. There is a skill to it,” Samara explained. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead and show her. “I have no money,” Samara pointed out. “And I could not keep the prize even if I won.”

Miranda sighed. “...Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I don’t know this is a waste of money on the same level as gambling,” she said, making it clear that nobody was to know she had done this. She put credits into the machine.

Samara appraised the prize spheres to see which would be the easiest to grab. “Aim for that one,” she advised, indicating a sphere that was higher up than the others. “It may take more than one attempt, but if you line it up correctly…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” Miranda waved off her backseat driving, still sceptical that it was even possible to win.

The first time, she didn’t get it at quite the right angle, and the claw slipped off. The second time, she was sure she lined it up properly, but the claws snapped shut above the prize sphere, without picking it up, like the prize was too heavy.

“See? The machine is rigged,” Miranda insisted. “It’s not possible.”

“You are very close. And you have one play left,” Samara encouraged. Miranda rolled her eyes, reluctantly deciding she may as well use the game she had already paid for. “Try coming at it slightly more from the left.”

Miranda did as Samara suggested, and this time, the claw grabbed it. She blinked as the claw lifted the prize and took it all the way to the chute. “Huh.”

“I believe the appropriate phrase is ‘I told you so’,” Samara teased.

“Alright, alright. No need to get cocky,” said Miranda, opening up the prize sphere to see what she’d won. It was a keychain in the shape of Blasto the Hanar Spectre. She uttered a tssk. “I’ve never seen any of these movies. They look like rubbish.”

“Sometimes, that is precisely the appeal,” Samara advised. Miranda didn’t share the sentiment. “I think that triumph signals that we have overstayed our welcome here,” said Samara, aware they were still being watched by the same employee from before in case they cheated again. “Where to next?”

“Hmm.” Miranda glanced around as they left the arcade, thinking of options.

“There is a combat simulator here, is there not?” Samara piped up, as if she’d been holding onto that idea for a while. “I would be eager to try that.”

“By all means. Though what people find fun about a laser arena is somewhat lost on me,” Miranda remarked, probably because her father had subjected her to similar combat programs when she was a kid. “It just feels like training.”

“Its intent is to recreate something we experience as a regular part of our lives. It is fun for them because it is unfamiliar. For us, it is not a deviation from the norm, save that for once we have the liberty of not being in any actual peril,” Samara astutely observed. She had a point, Miranda thought. It wasn’t the most relaxing pastime, but Miranda could run combat sims in her sleep. She had no problems teaming up with her if that was what Samara wanted to do.

“Okay, that absolutely was rigged,” Miranda loudly complained as they emerged from the combat arena a while later. “I hit that soldier dead between the eyes, and he still had twenty percent health left? That's nonsense. No human being could possibly survive that,” she argued, gesturing as she spoke.

“We still did extremely well,” Samara pointed out, content with their performance.

“If this program was realistic, my name would be on top right now,” Miranda proclaimed, waving her hand towards the scoreboard. She was nothing if not competitive, when she wanted to be anyway. Her rant was interrupted when Samara uttered a quiet, amused chuckle. It was impossible not to soften, seeing the unfeigned affection shimmering in Samara’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Samara shook her head, her smile reaching her eyes. “I simply...I did not forget how much I missed spending time with you, but...in a way, I forgot just how much I missed spending time with you,” Samara acknowledged, well aware of the contradiction in her own words, but unable to say it another way.

Miranda knew exactly what she meant. Memories of the Starboard Observation Deck were no substitute for the real thing. They didn’t do justice to just how at home she felt in Samara’s company. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And do not think I did not notice,” said Samara, a very proud look coming over her. Miranda tilted her head in questioning. “Reave. You mastered it,” Samara clarified, somehow wholly unsurprised to witness that.

“Oh. Right. That.” Miranda brushed that off. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Do not undersell yourself. It is not an easy feat,” Samara told her, not about to let this go unremarked upon. “Well done, Miranda. You are the first, and I suspect only human ever to learn this ability. And it would be a great achievement even if you were asari. Indeed, I have personally never met anyone, other than some fellow Justicars, who have mastered it.”

“Well, I owe that entirely to you. So here. Present for you.” Miranda held out the Blasto The Hanar Spectre keychain she'd won from the claw machine earlier, as a token of her appreciation for Samara’s teachings a year ago.

Samara smiled, politely raising her hand to decline. “Although I am grateful, I am afraid I cannot accept this; Justicars eschew personal possessions.”

Miranda's brow crinkled, looking down at the stupid thing in her hands in abject incredulity. “...It's a keychain.”

“That is not the point,” Samara reminded her, although clearly not at all shocked or offended why someone who had not chosen a religious life might fail to understand this. The fact that the gift had no material value did not make it any less of an indulgence. “I have sworn an oath to the Goddess. I can own nothing but what you see before you - my weapons and my armour - for that is all that is essential for me to carry out my duties as a Justicar.”

“Alright. Allow me to rephrase,” Miranda began, sensing a solution to this issue. “This is a...tactical keychain,” she informed her, arching an eyebrow as she twirled the chain around her finger. “It provides an entire additional square inch of armour plating. So I insist that you take it for your own protection.”

Samara laughed, more freely than Miranda had ever seen her do so. “There is that sense of humour you maintain you do not have again,” Samara wryly commented. “I will never comprehend why you insist on claiming that you are not funny.”

“Because I'm not.” Miranda shrugged, wearing a small, self-deprecating smile. “You also described yourself as ‘terribly dull’ earlier when you’re by far the most captivating person I’ve ever spoken to, so if we’re going to start this debate right now, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to win.”

“You would not be a stranger to that, would you?” Samara sighed, realising Miranda would not relent from her position. “Very well, then. You have convinced me.” She took the keychain, clasping it in her fingers. “Make no mistake, this is still yours,” she said, pointedly. “However, I will hold this in safekeeping on your behalf. And I will return it to you the next time we meet.”

“See? Was that so hard?” said Miranda, glad they'd reached a compromise.

Samara tried not to smile, because it was evident that she knew she was technically stretching the rules by accepting this gift, even on loan (though Miranda naturally assumed that she was kidding about intending to return it later), but despite her intentions she couldn't really fight it off. Not tonight.

“If you do not mind my asking, I know what your plans for the future are in the long term, but what of the short term?” Samara asked her, curious to know where Miranda would go when she left the Citadel.

“What else is there to do but get ready for whenever Shepard needs us?” said Miranda, leaning against a nearby railing overlooking a lower section of the strip. “I’ve taken command of a small ship and started putting together a team of Cerberus defectors. So, whatever happens, I’ll be there.” She looked over at Samara. “I suppose I don’t need to ask you, but...what about you?”

“I am as I am,” Samara answered, confirming Miranda’s assumptions. “When the day comes, I will walk into the fire, alone, with nothing but what you see before you, and fight to my last breath. And, should I die, I can only pray that my final acts honour the memory of all the Justicars who perished before me.”

“...I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Miranda said softly. “I mean, you’re you.”

Samara didn’t respond to that. “Miranda, I...” Samara hesitated. Her expression was unsettled, but she swallowed, quickly finding an equilibrium and settling on what she intended to say. “Though I imagine we will be fighting on the same battlefield in the near future, it has not eluded me that we may not get a chance to speak like this before that time comes to pass. Or...ever again.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, glancing down. The same thought had been swirling in her head even before Shepard’s party. She wasn't sure if they were meant to address that, or if that looming spectre of death was an open secret they weren't supposed to confront, but she was glad Samara had raised it. The problem was, there were too many things she wanted to say if this was going to be the last conversation they ever had. Thoughts she hadn’t even put into words in her mind, and could never fully express. “...I really am sorry about Rila,” was where Miranda chose to begin. It would have felt wrong not to tell her that.

Samara swallowed and nodded her head, trying to stay strong. Then her resolve cracked, and the tears came. Her hands went to her face, unable to stem the tide. Even the strongest woman in the universe could only carry so much.

For a split-second, Miranda thought she had made a mistake bringing this up, seeing how much Samara was hurting over her recent loss. But then it occurred to her. Maybe Samara breaking down in front of her didn’t mean she’d done anything wrong. Maybe it showed just how much she needed this moment of connection with someone she trusted - to allow herself the vulnerability to be hurt.

Had anyone even comforted Samara at all since it happened?

Had anyone given her the chance to grieve for her daughter?

“I did everything I could to save her. Even though I should not have. Even knowing it might mean putting myself in the position of choosing between my children and The Code. Even while the rest of my Order gave their lives to save so many on Thessia.” Samara drew a deep breath, but it wound up shallower than she intended in her sorrow. “...I violated one of my Oaths, Miranda.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, not knowing enough about the Justicars to understand what that meant. “You mean you broke The Code?”

“No. No, I would never...never break The Code. Not while I draw breath,” Samara insisted, making that clear, even through her tears. “But the first step to becoming a Justicar is to take the Oath of Solitude. That means you are forsworn from any family, including children. I did not utter a single word to Falere or Rila in four hundred and thirty-one years, save for when I wrote to them a year ago to let them know Mirala was dead. However, when I heard their monastery may be under threat...I did not go to them as a Justicar.” Her breath hitched as the moisture trickled down her cheeks. “I went to them because I am their mother.”

“Of course you did,” said Miranda, feeling nothing but sympathy for her, and a touch of anger towards the Justicars for subjecting Samara to that dilemma in the first place. For depriving her of the shattered, broken remnants of a family she had left, and making her feel ashamed for protecting her daughters from certain death. “There’s no oath in the universe anyone could swear that would make a mother stop loving her children. Not a mother like you.”

“No, there is not,” Samara confirmed, her voice breaking under the strain as her body was racked by another sob. “I saw so little of Rila before she died, but what I saw...I could not be prouder of the woman she became, in spite of the cruel hand fate dealt her. I always knew her to be the most responsible of my daughters, always taking care of her younger sisters, though she was barely any older than they were. But she was so strong, Miranda. I never knew she was so fearless. So ferociously protective. She gave her own life so that Falere could live.”

“And you,” Miranda added. “So that you could live too.”

Samara didn’t reply to that.

“How’s Falere?” Miranda asked, after Samara didn’t respond.

“She is well. Alone, but well.” Samara glanced down at her hands, her tears beginning to dry on her cheeks. “She was always a gentle and sensitive soul, so much like her fath--” Samara’s voice caught on that word. She couldn’t say it. It hurt to speak of her. “The woman she has grown into...she is so much kinder than I could possibly have imagined. She had not seen my face or heard my voice for four hundred and thirty-one years. She had every right to hate me. But, instead, she...when all was said and done, she embraced me.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” said Miranda, thinking that should have gone without saying. “She’s your daughter. She loves you.”

“That is more than I deserve.” Samara’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Miranda couldn’t stand to hear her talk about herself that way. “Samara--”

Samara raised a hand to silence her. “Respectfully, Miranda...It is no fault of yours, but there are some things that are beyond even your understanding. I believe this is one of them. I would prefer not to argue with you.”

Miranda sighed. She hated to admit it, but Samara had a point. If she felt that way, it wasn’t like it was a poorly-considered opinion. She had lived her own life for nearly a thousand years, and the disconnect between Samara and Falere had been there for centuries. It wasn’t Miranda’s place to debate with her about her perception of herself, or where she stood with Falere, much as she wanted to.

“...But you weren’t lying before, right?” Miranda pressed, unable to leave that thought alone. When Samara said things like this, it made her worry about her. “You are going to keep seeing Falere, aren’t you?”

“My Oaths say I should not,” Samara acknowledged.

“But you will,” Miranda intuited.

Samara held back the last of her tears, the first signs of a conflicted, broken smile coming to her lips. “I have no choice. In truth, there is no power in the universe, nor within myself, that could force me to stay away,” she said honestly, recognising she did not have the willpower to resist seeing her daughter again, especially knowing Falere had nobody else to look after her.

“Good,” Miranda forcefully enthused. For as much as she respected Samara, she might have had to slap some sense into her if she said otherwise. “No offence, and I know this is easy for me to say because I don’t have a single religious or spiritual bone in my body, but any oath that would compel you to stay away from the one person in your life who makes you happy isn’t an oath worth keeping. For me, that person is my sister. For you, that person is Falere.”

At long last, Samara allowed herself to smile again, her eyes glistening from her tears, but shedding no more. “She is.” Her voice was soft, perhaps even fragile, but Miranda had never heard it filled with so much tenderness. “I should not permit myself to feel this way, but...if you thought you perceived a change in me tonight, Miranda, you did,” she admitted. “Though losing Rila broke my heart, and my wounds for her will bleed until my dying days...even so, I have never felt more at peace than I do at this moment. Or, if I have, then I cannot remember it.”

Miranda could only imagine. In her own life, she had gone without seeing Oriana for nineteen years. And, the moment they met on Illium, it was like a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. That was nothing compared to what Samara had endured.

Going four hundred and thirty-one years not seeing her daughters, the people who mattered most to her...it must have been torture. Now, that torment had finally stopped. Even though Rila hadn’t lived long enough to be part of this new reunion, Samara had still regained a connection with Falere she never thought she would have again. She had some semblance of her family back.

That was life-changing.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Miranda said sincerely. After everything she’d lost, Samara had more than earned her just reward. "And, for what it’s worth, I hope this is merely the start of newer and brighter things for you and Falere.”

After recollecting her composure, Samara faced her. “Thank you, Miranda.” 

Miranda was not anticipating that shift in focus. “For what?”

“For this. For tonight,” Samara clarified, gesturing at their surroundings. “For allowing me to enjoy myself more than I have in centuries. And for reminding me to savour these effervescent glimmers of happiness while I still can.” She paused for a moment, averting her gaze down towards her hands on the railing. “I think, perhaps, on some level, you sensed I needed this. But perhaps you do not appreciate just how much I did. So, again, I thank you for spending your night in the company of this poor, tired old woman, when it was not required of you.”

Miranda hesitated at that. Of course, it meant a lot for Samara to tell her that she had gotten so much out of their time together, and that it had helped her in some way. But Miranda never liked it when Samara made those resigned, self-defeating comments about herself. They made her sound like some washed up, retired old racehorse about to be put down with two barrels behind the garden shed. And that was the furthest thing from reality.

Samara was amazing. Beyond compare. She had not lost a step. Aside from being a matriarch and continuing to get stronger with every passing year, she did not show a single sign of age. It certainly hadn’t hindered her yet, and probably would not for many decades yet to come. Asari regularly lived to be over a thousand years old. Hell, although hitting eleven-hundred was rare by most accounts, even that wouldn’t be unheard of. Not by a long shot.

Not that Miranda was an expert, but just from knowing her, she would guess Samara was still a long way off from the natural end of her life. About as far off as any of the human members of The Normandy. So why did she so often talk about herself like she was past the point where she had anything of worth left to offer - a broken relic of a bygone age to be carelessly discarded and cast aside?

Did she think Miranda was just doing this because she felt sorry for her?

“...I didn’t invite you out with me because I pity you,” Miranda broke the silence, glancing over at Samara. That had never been what this was, and she would correct any such mistaken assumptions as promptly and frankly as possible, so that there was no chance for misinterpretation. “I wanted to spend time with you because I like you, and I care about you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Samara confirmed, returning Miranda’s gaze. “And I hope you know that I did not spend time with you because I was merely seeking some distraction from what has come to pass in recent weeks.”

“I do,” Miranda replied in kind. She folded her arms across the railing, seeing no reason not to continue being so transparent. “This probably isn’t going to be a shock to you, because there aren’t exactly a lot of contenders for the title, but did you know you might very well be the best friend I’ve ever had?” 

Jacob may have been her friend for longer, sure, but they butted heads a lot, often on pretty fundamental things. There were some things she hadn’t told him, and may never tell him. Some things she couldn’t go to him about. Whereas Samara just...knew her so intimately. She got her on an entirely different level. One that didn’t even require words, a lot of the time.

Samara’s eyes dipped slightly. “It...occurred to me, some time ago, in fact, that...I could possibly say the same thing about you,” she replied. Miranda was taken aback by that, and it must have shown on her face. “You doubt me, but you have a stronger claim to that position than you know.”

Miranda brushed that off, finding it too hard to believe. Samara had been alive for over nine centuries. She’d definitely had better friends. “You’re just being nice.”

Samara squinted at that comment, visibly perplexed. “I do not know where you have garnered this impression that I am ‘nice’, or would say things I do not mean just to be thus. I can assure you, I have never at any stage of my life been renowned for being particularly ‘nice’ to anybody. Quite the contrary,” Samara assured her, wanting to clear up that mischaracterisation. “I mean no offence, but...in that regard, you and I are more alike than you seem to think.”

“None taken,” Miranda nonchalantly replied. She supposed she understood where Samara was coming from by not accepting that description. If anyone tried to tell Miranda she was ‘just being nice’, she would have looked at them like they had grown a second head. “And I guess you do have a point. I mean, the first time I met you, you crushed a woman’s skull with your foot.”

“You would have used a gun,” Samara noted.

“Yeah, probably,” Miranda conceded. “You were always nice to me, though.”

“Not always. There were times when I challenged you. Like you, I am not prone to remaining silent when I disagree with someone. If I am less stubborn and stern than I once was, it is only because experience has humbled me, and I have spent many centuries practicing patience and mindfulness,” said Samara. 

Samara wasn’t wrong about any of that, Miranda thought. Samara had indeed called her out on her bullshit a couple of times, although whenever she did offer advice she had always treated it as something constructive rather than an exercise in judgement, which was largely why it had been so effective.

“However, if despite all that you perceived me as being especially nice to you...I probably was,” Samara admitted with a small sigh, willing to concede that wasn’t misplaced. “It is easy to be nice to a person you are already fond of.”

“Why though?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask, earning a confused look. “That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out. Look, I know I’m not the most self-aware person, but I’m better than I was. And, God, I could be fucking intolerable sometimes.” Miranda grimaced in annoyance at her own memory of herself, eliciting a faint smirk from Samara. “But even at my worst, you never had a problem with me. So, why did you like spending time with me?”

“How long do we have before our absence will be noticed? Because, if I answered that question comprehensively, we would be here a very long time,” Samara stated. That was, without question, the most heartwarming thing Miranda had ever heard another person say about her. “If I am being truly honest, I have often wondered the same thing about why you chose to spend your time with me.” 

“Is that a joke?” Miranda asked, not sure how Samara could even question that.

“You know very well that it is not,” Samara said astutely. She wasn’t a liar.

“Well, then, you and I remember things very differently, because you had countless things to offer me. Wisdom. Insight. Friendship. A place where I could just sit in silence for a while. You've taught me so much, but somehow you never made it feel like you were lecturing me. Even when you clearly were,” Miranda remarked, with a hint of teasing to her tone. “The only problem is that I've gained so much more out of knowing you than you have from knowing me.”

“That is not true,” Samara firmly insisted, the quickness of her response catching Miranda somewhat off guard. “The life of a Justicar is a solitary one. We meet many people, but have no companions. I had no companions. Until you. The connection we share is unlike any I have known in centuries. Or...even before that. You have enriched my life. I am better for having known you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Miranda instinctively replied. Samara was...well, she wasn’t a ‘perfect’ person per se, because they didn’t exist. But she was as close as Miranda had ever seen to one. She was a perfect version of what she strove to be. So how could Miranda make her better than she was? How could she possibly do anything to improve upon such sheer mastery of the self?

“Goddess, you do not even know…” Samara’s suddenness took Miranda by surprise. She watched as she let her fingers fall across her face, sighed deeply and shook her head, choosing her words carefully. “Forgive me. It is difficult for me to say this, but...when we travelled together, there were times where I thought…” Samara stopped herself, as if reconsidering what she intended to say. “Perhaps I did not always recognise it then, but in hindsight there were days where I do not know how I could have withstood my burdens if you were not with me.”

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that. It just...didn’t make sense. Samara was so strong. “But I didn’t do anything,” Miranda pointed out. 

At that, Samara uttered a quiet sound, almost like a short, sombre laugh. “But you did,” she said, meeting Miranda’s gaze once more. “You were there. And you have shown me nothing but kindness from the moment we met.”

Miranda still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. Besides, she didn’t remember doing anything that would strike a normal person as especially compassionate, because that wasn’t who she was. “But I’m not kind,” she said.

“No, perhaps you are not,” Samara acknowledged, never blind to the person Miranda was. She was not known for being sensitive or sympathetic, for good reason. “But you were to me,” she stated plainly. That was all that mattered.

Miranda didn’t completely agree with that. But she was glad Samara thought so. And, if nothing else, it was true that Samara did make her want to try to be a better person than she was, and had brought different shades out of her in a way that nobody else had, irrespective of whether they came naturally to her.

That was the thing about people like Samara, Miranda thought. When a person had a special connection with someone else, a special relationship, then they got to know a version of them that didn’t exist for anyone else. Parts of them nobody else ever saw. Truths nobody else ever knew. So maybe the Miranda reserved for Samara's eyes only really was gentler than the one everybody else had met. But, if so, that was only because their friendship brought that out of her.

As the silence lingered, the memory of one very unkind thing she had done emerged in Miranda’s mind. It wasn’t lost on her that there was still one regret she had in their friendship. One mistake for which she’d never made amends.

It was not something she had forgotten about. She recalled with discomforting clarity how she’d never taken her numerous chances back on The Normandy to confess to Samara about looking into her past without her consent. She’d never apologised for it, though she had intended to do so, eventually. She would have done it after The Collector Base but, when the Alpha Relay was destroyed, the thought had genuinely completely fallen from her mind amid so much death. By the time she thought about it again, it was too late. They had already parted ways.

So many months had passed since all of this transpired that part of her just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and not raise the subject now. But Miranda knew this was the only chance she would get. If she was ever going to apologise, this was her moment. She had to take it, or live with being a coward.

“...Samara, can I say one more thing?” Miranda broke the silence.

“You may always speak freely with me, Miranda. Indeed, that you always say precisely what is on your mind is perhaps my favourite thing about you. Certainly, one of them,” Samara said with a charming twinkle in her eye.

“Okay, then.” Miranda took Samara’s encouragement at face-value, and elected to come out with it, even if it was a heavy subject. “What happened to your family wasn't your fault,” Miranda began, deciding to approach the topic from that angle. The unexpected shift in the conversation caused Samara to stiffen visibly. “And you know I'm not the sort of person who'd say something I didn't think was true purely to make you feel better, no matter how much I like you. But you didn't do anything to make that happen. None of it is your fault. None. So please stop blaming yourself for what happened four hundred years ago.”

Samara didn't seem to know how to react to Miranda’s words, as they were the last thing she had anticipated. It was obvious it was a message she struggled to accept, even after all this time. Of course, she had no idea how much Miranda knew about her past, beyond the broad picture she’d painted. Not yet.

“Has anyone ever told you that before?” Miranda asked, curious.

“...They have not,” Samara answered, no less taken aback. From prior conversations, Miranda knew she had scarcely spoken about her past. Her daughters’ diagnoses made her a pariah as soon as they happened, leaving her nobody to turn to, and Justicars did not discuss the people they were before they swore their Oaths. Samara had carried her burdens alone every day since.

“Then I'm glad I said it,” Miranda replied, already feeling a sense of relief just from stating that out loud, though she knew she was far from finished when it came to things she had to get off her chest. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“Then may I also say something I should have said a long time ago?” Samara cut her off, speaking rather quickly. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead. If she was being that abrupt, then it must have been important. “I wish you loved being Miranda Lawson as much as everybody else believes you love being Miranda Lawson,” Samara spoke plainly. “Because she is and has always been a far, far better person than you seem to think she is. And there is not a single thing about her that makes her a ‘failure’. It wounds me whenever you think otherwise.”

Miranda was totally blindsided. She hadn’t expected Samara’s response at all, since she would never say anything unless she truly meant it. In fact, any prior thoughts Miranda had were completely ripped from her mind.

Samara didn’t need to ask whether anybody had told Miranda that before. She knew they hadn’t. Evidently, that knowledge bothered her a great deal.

“Miranda, I...” Samara reached out and touched Miranda's arm, as if considering saying something more. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before meeting Miranda's eyes. “I think we have been gone longer than we ought. We should return before our absence becomes a cause for concern,” she said, mustering a faint smile, sensing they had both lost track of time.

“Of course,” Miranda concurred, too dumbstruck by Samara’s confession to remember that there were words she had left unsaid. “After you.”

With that, Samara led the way back towards Shepard's apartment.

As she trailed behind her, Miranda discreetly wiped at the corner of her eye, maintaining her composure, masking any lingering signs that betrayed any frailty, and just how much Samara’s words had touched the core of something she hadn’t even known was as raw and vulnerable as it was.

It may have been a scant two hours that they’d shared there alone on the Silversun Strip, but stealing that precious time together felt like the best decision Miranda had ever made. It may have been over sooner than she would have liked but, if nothing else, at least she could look back on this night in the coming days and feel content with the way she left things between them.

She wanted to part ways with Samara on a high note. After all, deep down in her heart, Miranda knew it was the last time Samara would ever see her again.

*     *     *

Of all the people Miranda had expected to be banging on her door in the middle of the night, Samara was not high on that list. She hadn’t expected to see her anytime soon, given she had left only two weeks ago. And, when they eventually did meet again, Miranda hadn’t imagined Samara would look like this.

“Samara, what are you doing here? It’s freezing out, and you’re drenched--”

“I must speak with you,” Samara cut her off, her voice firm, and her eyes ablaze with a strange intensity Miranda had never seen in her before. It seemed as though Samara didn’t even feel the ice-cold rain on her. “It cannot wait.”

Judging from her tone, that wasn’t a request.

“Uh...Of course,” was all Miranda could mutter as she held open the door for her, closing it behind her. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her to say no. Not when Samara was in such a state, moving with such urgency. “In here.” Miranda gestured towards her room. Samara marched in without hesitation.

Suffice it to say, Miranda was a little stunned. What the hell was happening?

She followed her inside, and clicked the door shut. There wasn’t much space in her small room, but Samara found enough to pace back and forth. She was uncharacteristically wringing her hands as she wore wet tracks in the floor. These were things Miranda had quite literally never seen her do before.

“Samara, what is this? What’s going on?” Miranda asked.

“Forgive my intrusion. But I needed to see you. I could not...the way we left things, I…” Samara paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. “I fear that perhaps you already know what has brought me here, and what I wish to discuss.”

Miranda said nothing, too disoriented and sleep-deprived to be capable of doing anything other than staring at her in a dazed silence. She had no idea what she was talking about, or what could make her act so out-of-sorts. Miranda had never seen Samara so dishevelled. So discombobulated. So...frazzled.

“Oh. Oh, I see. You do not. I see. Very well, then. I…” At that realisation, Samara resumed her pacing, running her hand along her crest. “I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning, then. I do not know why I expected to avoid this.”

“Samara, please slow down.” Miranda raised her hand, her mind far too clouded with fog to make sense of any of this. Even just watching her march back and forth felt like running a marathon, which would have been an exhausting prospect even if she had slept in the past four days. Her request fell on deaf ears.

“Miranda, I was...I was dishonest with you the last time we spoke,” Samara began. “No, worse than dishonest. I have been deceiving you, for no other reason than because I have been too craven to admit the truth. What is worse, I fear that you have sensed my deceit, and that this is what has damaged our friendship. I cannot...I cannot abide this. I cannot continue to lie to you.”

Miranda could barely even make out what she was saying as she paced. She was speaking so quickly, and with such adamance that it felt like she might spontaneously combust from internal friction if it weren’t for the rain soaking her skin. Miranda had never seen Samara in this state. She was like a completely different person. A stranger wearing the face of someone she knew.

Samara was so restrained. So dignified. So elegant. She was a woman who had walked alone, unflinching into mortal peril thousands of times with no regard for her own life, and somehow emerged unscathed, even where countless others had fallen around her. She was the most fearless individual Miranda had ever met. 

There was none of that here.

She was...overcome.

Her proverbial armour had cracked.

“Samara, respectfully, you’re a category five hurricane right now. I need you to bring it down to a stiff breeze,” said Miranda, gesturing for her to cool her frantic energy just a little bit, because right now this was impossible to follow.

At last, Samara halted, and stood still. “...Yes. Yes, of course. You have my apologies,” Samara replied, no less anxious, but at least she seemed able to recognise what an incoherent onslaught her words must have sounded like. 

Miranda leaned back against the chair that was tucked into her desk, gripping it with her hand to take some weight off her bad leg. Whatever could have left Samara so shaken, it had to be serious. Nothing ever rattled her.

Except apparently this.

“What have you been lying about?” Miranda asked, that being about the only thing she had managed to make out of Samara’s hasty, jumbled rant a moment ago.

At that question, Samara held her stare, a distant expression falling across her face. “...After all this time, you truly do not suspect, do you?” she asked aloud, the realisation sinking in, as if that was a possibility she had not contemplated.

“Suspect what?” was all Miranda could say, tempted to utter a desperate laugh as she shrugged her good shoulder, not because there was anything remotely funny about this, but because she was so fucking tired, and so fucking lost.

“Why I abandoned you as I did. Why I fled this city and deserted you. Why you have been forced to contend with so much pain, suffering and death alone, when I ought to have been here to share those burdens with you, and taken care of you when you needed me by your side,” said Samara. Her voice was shaking.

Miranda softened when she heard that. Did Samara really think she was angry at her for leaving? “Samara, no.” Miranda shook her head, unconsciously gesturing with her amputated arm as if to strike that thought from history. “Of course I understand why you left. You’re a Justicar. You have your Code--”

The moment that word left her lips, Samara laughed a humourless laugh, laced with turmoil and despair. Miranda was struck mute by that. It was so unlike her.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, you truly still believe that about me?” said Samara, her hand on her forehead, as if she couldn’t fathom what she was hearing - that even now people still trusted her at her word. “No. No, my dear, it is a fiction. A comforting lie. A shadow I hide behind.”

Miranda damn near recoiled in abject confusion. “But you are a Justicar.”

“Yes, but that is not why I acted as I did. When I turned my back on you, it had nothing to do with The Code,” Samara unburdened herself at long last, revealing a secret that had been silently killing her. “When I left, it was for one reason only. And that was because I...because I could not be here to watch you die…”

Samara’s voice cracked on the last word, and her hands covered her face as tears began to swell from beneath the surface.

Miranda was dumbfounded - rendered speechless from utter astonishment. She had only seen Samara break like this twice before. Had only seen her cry twice before. That was when she killed Morinth. And when she opened up about losing Rila. Only the deaths of her daughters affected her like this.

Samara trembled, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with remorse as she met Miranda’s frozen visage across the room. “I am so sorry,” Samara told her sincerely, her words cut by the hitch of a breath. “I know my contrition means nothing, but I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I do not blame you if you despise me. You should. I know I deserve it, because the truth is that I failed you. I failed you because I am weak, and I am broken, and I could not...I could not lose you.”

Miranda’s heart tore in half when she heard that. Her head fell, and she pressed her palm to her eye, squeezing it shut. Was this why Samara thought Miranda had snapped at her the last time they spoke? Was she responsible for hurting her like this? God, she regretted that day even more now than she already had before.

“You didn’t fail me, Samara,” Miranda quietly assured her. “You saved my life.”

“That, too, was selfishness,” Samara confessed, owning up to her sins. “When the dust settled, I saw you had not returned. When I realised how close you had been to the Conduit, I went searching for you. And only for you.”

“That’s not true,” Miranda interjected, refusing to let Samara denigrate herself for what had been unparalleled heroism. “You saved dozens of lives in the wasteland.”

“Because The Code demanded I must, and my life would be forfeit if I did not. Every time I came across another survivor, I had to stop and render aid. But, though The Code compelled me to do everything in my power to rescue those in need, I tell you plainly I did not want to. I did not care about any of them. I would have abandoned every single one of them if I could,” Samara said starkly, stripping bare her truth. That revelation hit Miranda like a shockwave. It was something Miranda would have said. Not Samara. “People thought me brave, but I was not. People thought I was saving lives, but that was never my goal. My deeds should not entitle me to praise, but rather scorn, because I was selfish. I was so selfish. My only reason for going out there again and again was to find you.”

Samara swallowed. Miranda would have, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

“...And I did,” Samara continued, her features softening as she gazed upon Miranda. “You were caked in blood and dirt when I found you. So much so that I could barely recognise you. And then you...and then you stopped breathing.”

Samara took a moment to compose herself, affected by those painful memories. She drew a deep breath, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“I did not merely believe that you would die. I knew it. I was certain of it,” Samara quietly admitted. “The infection had already reached your blood. It was shutting down your organs. There seemed to be no hope that you would survive. The only reason you were breathing was because machines were doing it for you. Your pulse was so weak. Your condition showed no signs of improving. As I sat by your bedside, I came to understand that I was doing nothing but watching your life slip away before my very eyes. Every day, you were slowly dying in front of me. And I could not endure it. I...I broke. I ran away, rather than face it.”

“But you left me that message,” Miranda pointed out, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces together in her clouded head between things she already knew, parts of the story she had been told by others, and what Samara was saying now.

“A lie,” Samara said bluntly, her voice too strained to speak louder than a whisper. “To convince myself that I had not forsaken you. That I was not hiding in the shadows from my fears. That I was merely doing as I ought to, as a Justicar. A lie that rang hollow.” Samara glanced down at her feet, ashamed of her actions. “If I truly believed that you had any chance of recovering, I tell you from my heart, I would not have left. Never. And, if I had sincerely been forced into some temporary departure by my Code as I claimed, I would have placed a much better message beside your bed for you to find when you awoke. But I did not do so. I did not do so, because I could not bear to step into your room again. I was afraid each time I went near you, it would be the moment you would…”

Samara couldn’t even finish that sentence. She didn’t have to.

Miranda didn’t interrupt her, too overwhelmed to respond. 

“This is why I have returned now. To apologise for my selfishness. Not to seek your forgiveness. Just to apologise,” Samara explained, repentant for her recent failings. “You have earned nothing less than that.”

“I…” Miranda didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t...form the words. It was a lot to take in. She could scarcely process it in her heavily fatigued state. She couldn’t think. She was so tired. So confused. “I still don’t understand. You’ve seen death before. Why couldn’t you be here? Why did you have to leave?”

“Goddess…” Samara turned away, facing the wall. “You truly do not know…”

“No, I don’t. So tell me,” said Miranda, growing exasperated with how Samara kept doing things like that. Acting like there were things she should already know, which she didn’t. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read her mind. Obviously not. Samara had come all this way to throw this confession at her feet out of fucking nowhere. Why hold back now? “You’ve already said so--”

“Because I could not bear the pain of losing you!” Samara snapped back, her voice sharper and louder than before, as if she had to force the words out, fighting against herself to speak them. But, once they were said, they couldn’t be retracted. “I did not trust what I would do. How I would withstand it. Goddess, Miranda, I was coming apart. I had already broken The Code for you!”

Miranda’s eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“You know this. You said it yourself.” Samara faced her once more, moving a step closer. “I...I threatened to murder doctors, because they wanted to turn off your life support,” Samara confessed, hard as it was for her to say. “You were functionally dead, and I was prepared to harm innocents rather than accept it - to use violence against healers so I could keep you hooked to those machines.”

Miranda’s heart stopped in her chest.

Wait, what? That wasn’t something Jacob had just misunderstood? Her weary mind went black. She couldn’t even comprehend that revelation. 

“I breached two tenets, in total. Not only by threatening innocent medics, but that I lied about The Code in order to compel them to spare you,” Samara confided in her, exposing her transgressions, her shame. “This is not permitted. I was unjust. Had I any sisters left to judge me, I might be expelled from the Order for this. At worst, perhaps even executed. Though, if there is but one small mercy to be found, it is that my words, evil though they were, were only words. I took no violent act, drew no weapon, and made no attempt to carry out my threats. Had I done so, The Code would not suffer me to live. Nor should it.”

“...You…wait…” Miranda couldn’t hear herself, her ear was ringing so loud.

What the fuck was happening? This couldn’t be real.

“In what small part of me was still capable of thinking rationally, I knew my behaviour had made me a danger to myself and others,” Samara continued. “If you passed, I could not take the risk of what I might do. At least, that was what I told myself. In truth, by that stage, I was simply too afraid to stay. Afraid of how much it would hurt when you...” She trailed off into silence, her meaning clear.

Miranda didn’t even catch all of that, her thoughts blank. No, this didn’t make sense. Samara was a Justicar. A servant of her Code. She was the embodiment of her way of life. She stuck to it rigidly. She never bent the rules, much less broke them. She would never do that. She was so disciplined. So loyal to it.

Samara hadn’t even broken The Code when it came to her own daughters. An Oath, yes. But not The Code. From what Miranda understood, that was the difference between breaking a promise, and breaking the law. She had told Miranda straight to her face that she couldn’t do the latter. That she would never.

And yet now Samara was standing there in front of her telling her that she had not merely violated The Code, but that she had done so consciously. For her.

Twice.

“Now you see me for what I truly am. Frail. Weak. A fraud.” Samara glanced aside, accepting that what she had done would forever tarnish her in Miranda’s sight, as it should. “So, like a coward, I ran. As far as I could. Every day thinking, is this the day she died? Is this the day? Surely, she must have passed by now, Samara. Just go back. Just go. Confront this. Be with her. But I could not. I could not return, because I was not ready to know. Because I was not ready to feel--”

Her voice caught, rendering her unable to finish that bleak thought.

Miranda felt a heavy tide rising inside her. Like she was swimming in a maelstrom. Sucked in under the water. Unable to breathe. Unable to think or react. It was so much all at once. It was as if she’d been consumed by a tsunami.

“...Why are you telling me this?” Miranda asked through the haze.

“Because you do not deserve to believe you are at fault,” Samara insisted, taking another step towards her. “I abandoned you in your hour of need, not because you mean nothing to me, but because you...you are so important to me it scares me. But that is my burden, not yours. You should not have to suffer for my lack of bravery. I could not bear it if you thought that I have treated you so carelessly because you have slighted me in some way. You have not. I am to blame. Only me. The failure is mine, and mine alone. I am the monster here. Not you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Miranda. It hurt to hear Samara berate herself like that. She was the opposite of a monster. “I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”

“But I should have been here.” Samara took another step. As the space between them shrank, Miranda felt a shiver pass through her body, but not because it was cold. “I should have watched over you. Cared for you when you awoke. Been by your side as you rebuilt this city. Weathered the terrible news with you when you learned what became of our friends. But I could not. Instead, I left you. I let fear take hold, and surrendered to despair. Worst of all, I gave up hope. I did not have faith in you, when I should have known you are beyond extraordinary.”

“You don’t owe me anything--”

“Please.” Samara quietly cut her off, refusing her forgiveness, feeling unworthy of it. Even so, she could not refrain from reaching out, curling stray strands of hair back behind Miranda’s ear. Miranda’s pulse spiked, thundering like a drum. “I was distraught for so long. Too paralysed with sorrow to return, and face the news. So convinced that everything I dreaded had come to pass. That I had been too late when I found you in the wastes. That you had succumbed while I was away. That I would find nothing here but your grave.” Samara’s eyes shone as she looked upon her, a warm smile coming to her face. “I do not know how I ever doubted you would defy the odds. You are truly incredible. You always have been.”

Miranda didn’t dare to breathe, Samara was so close. All those bottled up feelings came flooding to the surface. It felt like somehow Samara should just know. That she should be able to lay eyes upon her, and glean from a single glance how easily Miranda came undone in her presence.

God, the things it did to her for Samara to be this near, her fingers on her skin. It was too much. She should have withdrawn and pulled away, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want Samara to stop. She needed her, with every fibre of her being.

Miranda couldn’t take it. For her own sanity, she had to force herself to turn her head away. To look somewhere else. Anywhere else but Samara.

"Do not hide from me.” Samara’s fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her head, compelling Miranda to lock her eye on Samara once more. “I know I ran before, but it was not because of you. Do not think it was ever to do with you.”

She realised then that Samara must have assumed the reason Miranda averted her gaze was because she’d felt self-conscious in that moment. Of her wounds. Of the scars on her face. Little did she know that had nothing to do with it.

It became achingly apparent then as she got lost in that shimmering sapphire stare that Samara had no idea what Miranda felt towards her. And that those feelings were so powerful and intense that they were threatening to devour her. 

How could Samara not see what she was doing to her? 

She was laid open. Bare. Exposed.

Samara’s fingers combed through Miranda’s hair until they grazed the cord that held her eyepatch in place. Miranda was so transfixed that she almost didn’t even feel her touch it. “May I?” Samara asked her permission to remove it, gauging whether Miranda trusted her enough to show the extent of her scars.

Miranda swallowed and nodded, giving her consent. That was never the problem. Least of all with Samara. Miranda stood stiff against her desk, knuckles turning white against her chair as Samara carefully slipped it off.

Samara released a slow exhale as she set that black cloth down on the table, a wave of heartfelt warmth washing over her features as that barrier fell by the wayside. As if on instinct, her fingers reached out to touch her face, but she stopped her hand just short of Miranda’s scarred cheek. “Will it hurt if I…?”

Miranda shook her head, almost too tense to speak. “Not if you’re gentle,” was all she could manage. And when was Samara ever anything less?

With Miranda’s tacit approval, Samara softly cupped her cheek. Miranda’s breath hitched. How could she be so on edge that such a feather-light caress could make her feel like her entire world was on the verge of exploding? 

“I have been devout in my faith for a very long time, and yet...Believe me when I tell you, the only time in my nine hundred and seventy-one years of life that the Goddess has ever answered my prayers was when I turned around on that balcony, and saw you standing there in front of me,” Samara professed.

If she moved so much as a single muscle, Miranda wasn’t sure there was any power on Earth that could stop her from crashing her lips against Samara’s, no matter how wrong she knew it was, or how bad of an idea. She willed her body to stay stone still, because it was all she could do to control herself.

If Miranda hadn’t been leaning so heavily on the desk and chair behind her, she was certain her legs would have given out right from under her. Samara’s skin was still so cold from the rain, but her touch was hotter than fire, and Miranda like wax beneath her fingertips. She could have melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I know I should not, but…” Without another word, Samara tilted Miranda’s head down, and pressed a tender, savouring kiss to her forehead. Miranda’s palm shook against her desk. She was trembling like a leaf. When she parted from her, Samara let her head rest against Miranda’s, cradling her jaw. “...I am sorry, but that is all I have wanted to do ever since I learned you were alive.”

Miranda’s heart wasn’t just pounding. It was screaming.

Somehow, she just knew, if she dared to utter a single sound, she wouldn’t be able to keep from shouting the truth at the top of her voice. The desire to say those five pivotal words seeped from every pore. She was bursting at the seams. 

“No, I should not have done that.” Samara shook her head, taking a step back. It was only then that Miranda realised she hadn’t taken a single breath in the last minute, and sharply gasped for air. “I have been selfish. Allowed myself to…” Samara stopped herself, as if suddenly coming to her senses. “Forgive me, Miranda. I have said all I needed to say. I should--”

The instant she turned to leave, Miranda’s hand shot out and seized Samara by her wrist, grabbing her as tightly as she’d ever held onto anything in her life.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” Miranda growled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Samara hesitated, caught off guard. “...I thought you did not want me here.”

“Why would I not want you here?!” Miranda shot back, her tension built to breaking point. She felt like she was going insane, trying to find her balance on shifting sands. Nothing made sense anymore. For all Samara’s honesty, she still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

“Because I abandoned you,” Samara answered. That had been the whole reason for her confession. Her apology. “Because I hurt you. Because you hate me.”

“Hate you? Samara, you idiot, I’m in love with you!” the words tore themselves from Miranda’s chest before she could stop them. Samara froze. Miranda released her tight grip on Samara’s wrist. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to stuff that confession back in.

God damn it. She’d really just said that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Fuck…” Miranda cursed under her breath, realising there was no going back. It was out there now. She had to confront it. “I’ve never...you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this way. It’s like a kind of madness.” She wasn’t sure what to say, or whether it was even a good idea to keep talking. But she had to. Now that she’d said it, she had to. “That was why I asked you to leave me alone before. Not because I hate you, but because...I feel the exact opposite.”

Miranda pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting off the incessant pain in her skull. The insomnia that made it so hard to think. To put these complicated feelings into words. She was so not in the right frame of mind to have this conversation.

Yet here they were.

“I’m pretty sure I have for a long time, actually. I was just too bloody stupid to figure it out any earlier. But...” In place of adding anything further, Miranda simply gestured, leaving her feelings out there, in the open, for Samara to do with as she wished. It was a horrible position to be in. She hated every second of it.

“...No,” was the first thing Samara said. Her voice sounded so distant. And it was tinged almost with a sense of...dread. “No. You do not. You should not.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I do. I think about you all the time. And I don’t...I don’t know what to do about it,” Miranda admitted, shrugging her shoulder. 

“No,” Samara repeated herself, more insistently. Her suddenness startled Miranda a little. “You...you are mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Miranda reflexively answered back. She couldn’t help but get defensive, hearing Samara tell her she was wrong about her own feelings, when she knew painfully well she wasn’t. “I tried to convince myself that I was, but--”

“You do not know what love is. And you do not know who I am,” Samara coldly shut her down, refusing to hear this. “If you did, you would know there is nothing about me that is worthy of you.”

“Fucking hell, Samara…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair. This was not how she would have planned this to go. For one thing, she never anticipated she would have to contend with Samara being in staunch denial about her dramatic love confession. But then she paused, as the final part of Samara’s sentence gradually registered in her tired mind. “...I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

“You…” Samara swallowed heavily, realising she had perhaps revealed more than she ought. Maybe because she thought her own feelings had already been blatantly obvious, and it hadn’t occurred to her to think Miranda wouldn’t have realised them by now. But she didn’t take it back. “No, I cannot do this.”

Samara moved for the door as if to leave. In response, Miranda extended her hand, biotically lifting Samara six inches off the ground, holding her in place.

“No,” Miranda sternly commanded her, not letting her run off and hide again. She was getting pretty bloody sick of that. “We’re talking.”

Samara could have overpowered her easily if she wanted to. Miranda was no match for her biotic prowess, especially not in her current state. She could have broken out of this grip with little more than a shadow of a thought. They both knew that. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t resist.

After a moment, Samara just gave her a nod, as if to confirm she would stay. Miranda let go. Samara’s feet hit the floor. She didn’t so much as stumble.

“You were saying,” Miranda prompted, losing patience for her evasiveness.

“...You heard what I said. It is as it seems,” was all Samara could bring herself to say, not denying Miranda’s suspicions. She would not lie to her.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Miranda asked, forcing her to acknowledge it out loud. To put it into words. There was no room for misunderstanding here.

“That is not the point,” Samara responded, tersely.

Miranda sighed heavily, intuiting what she meant. “Of course. You’re a Justicar,” she said. It didn’t matter what Samara felt about her, if The Code forbade it.

Samara’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I...am uncertain what you mean by this.”

Miranda’s expression mirrored Samara’s, equally bewildered. “Doesn’t the Justicar Code forbid...?” Miranda didn't finish that sentence, simply glancing down at the space between them, choosing to be deft in her words. Using any specific term that entered her mind might be perceived as demanding or presuming too much, or too little, and she wouldn’t risk that. 

Samara stared at her, the open-ended meaning not lost in the silence. It was obvious from looking at her expression that she wished her status as a Justicar permitted her to speak falsely. That would have made things so much easier. “...It does not,” she replied to Miranda's myriad unspoken questions, and the words running through her mind. It was the same answer for all of them.

At that, relief dared to trickle through Miranda’s skin. 

“That was never the problem,” Samara continued, not allowing Miranda to think that information changed anything. It didn’t.

“Then what is?” Miranda replied. “There’s obviously a connection between us. We both feel it. And if your Code says there’s nothing wrong with that, then--”

“Because I deserve to be alone!” Samara professed. “That is my penance.”

Miranda recoiled. It actually, physically hurt to hear that. “How can you say that?”

“Miranda, listen to me,” Samara implored her, holding her focus. “You are a remarkable woman. You are brilliant and exceptional, in every respect--”

“So are you,” said Miranda.

“No, you are not listening.” Samara raised her hands, determined to continue. “You are so young. You still have so much life ahead of you. So much potential. When others see you, as I have seen you, the entire galaxy will fall at your feet. As it should. You have nothing to gain from me. I am...I am regret, and ruin,” Samara told her, a faint glint of unshed tears in her eyes. “If you truly saw me for what I am, you would know there is only death and misery for you here.”

“I do know you, Samara,” Miranda spoke quietly. “I know that, despite all the tragedy you’ve endured that would break a lesser person, you somehow still manage to wake up each day and choose to be warm, and kind, and good--”

“I am none of those things,” Samara assured her.

“You are to me,” Miranda persisted, undeterred. “I know you are, because you found me when I was at my most jaded, my most cynical, my most closed off--”

“Miranda, no.” Samara shook her head, pleading with her not to feel this way.

“And, instead of rejecting me, you...you reached out to me,” Miranda continued, talking right through any interruption, or resistance. Because this needed to be said. “You made me smile more than anyone has ever made me smile. You showed me that...that opening up to someone you trust and letting yourself be vulnerable around them isn’t a weakness, but that it takes bravery and strength.”

“Please stop this,” Samara begged her, her voice a whisper.

But Miranda didn’t stop. “You single-handedly made me a better person than I was before I met you.” There was no denying that. Without Samara, she wouldn’t have learned from her past mistakes. She would have kept perpetuating the same cycles, and never stopped to reflect on her preconceived notions about what mattered to her, and what made her happy. “So, if you’re unworthy of love, then what does that make me? Because, from where I’m standing...Samara, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe you.”

“Enough!” Samara swept her hand across her body, signalling for this to cease.

But Miranda wouldn’t.

“No.” Miranda pressed forward. She was pouring her heart out. She’d never done this before, because she’d never felt this way about anyone. And, now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? You’re it. You’re it for me. I will never feel the way about anyone else that I feel about you, and I know because I’ve tried, and those efforts failed so hard I didn’t even think the ability to fall in love with someone existed in me, until I met you. You’re not just beyond comparison to everyone else. God, you’re...you’re fucking transcendent.”

“Do not...say these things!” Samara cut her off, her voice so loud and forceful that there was no doubt it bellowed through the whole apartment. Miranda had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone like that. “You know not of what you speak. You love a shadow. Nothing more.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed. “What is it you think I don’t know, Samara?” she challenged, determined to prove herself. “I know more than you think.”

“I killed the last person I loved!” Samara shot back, refusing to subject herself to that indescribable agony a second time. She would never let that happen again.

“No, you didn’t, Samara. She killed herself,” Miranda curtly replied.

“You know nothing of it!” Samara insisted through her teeth.

“I know everything,” Miranda interrupted, unshaken by what Samara thought were secrets. They weren’t. “I know every little fucked up detail you didn’t want me to know. I know you tried to kill yourself too, and the only reason you failed is that your neighbour found you. I know you blame yourself for Mirala becoming Morinth because you think whatever you said to her the night before her test scared her into running away and melding with her best friend to prove she wasn’t an Ardat-Yakshi. I know the police blamed you and wanted to charge you with something, anything, and that you broke down during your interrogation and told them you blamed yourself for everything too. I know the whole world turned against you for something that wasn’t your fault. I know it all.”

Miranda’s response thrust Samara into stunned silence. Miranda had the decency to look contrite, already seeing the fire of betrayal in steely blue eyes. Exactly like she expected. Exactly why this admission had been so easy to put off.

“There’s nothing about you that’s a mystery to me,” Miranda continued, quieter than before. “I looked into your past when we were aboard the SR-2. I’m surprised you didn’t already assume I did. I mean, this is me we’re talking about.”

As that slowly sank in, Samara stepped away and shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Miranda. Yet I suppose you are correct; I cannot claim this was a shock,” said Samara, in a tone Miranda had never heard before. “After all, you have at all times been nothing if not transparent about your duplicity.”

Miranda’s eye darkened. That hurt.

“Fuck you, Samara. You don’t get to turn this around on me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, between the two of us, I’m not the one lying.”

“Yes, how very dare I be hurt by your treachery,” Samara countered, looking her in the eye once more, her words laced with biting sarcasm. “I should know better than to criticise you, or confront you with consequences for your actions. After all, you are Miranda Lawson. You can do nothing wrong.”

“I’ll apologise as much as you want later. But that’s not what this conversation is about. So don’t change the subject,” Miranda snapped. 

“What more is there to say?” said Samara, her arms folded across her chest, unwilling to discuss it further. This hadn’t helped. “You know my answer.”

“There is so much more to say, because you’re pulling away and I don’t even know why. To punish yourself for some imaginary sins? Is that it? Look…” Miranda crossed the distance between them, reaching out and gently clasping Samara's hand, guiding it to rest upon her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat. “Whatever this is, I...I want this,” Miranda assured her. “Do you?”

Samara withdrew, resisting the temptation. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?” Miranda pursued her. “You’re a person, Samara. An incredible one, but still just a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. You've spent four hundred years being selfless, to a greater degree than your Code required you to be. You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to feel things. To want things. To need things. You’re allowed to...to move on with your life.”

“Move on?” Samara echoed incredulously. She turned her body away, refusing to look at her, visibly caught up in a tempestuous tumult of conflicting emotions.

Hurt.

Anger.

Grief.

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to, you would understand what an insult it is to me that you would tell me such a thing,” said Samara, shaking her head in contempt and disbelief. “‘Move on with my life’. The audacity...”

“I'm not saying that to get something from you. Genuinely, I'm not. You don't have to...” This wasn’t working, was it? “What I’m trying to say is that, whatever this is between us, this doesn’t have to go the way I want it to. I’m not even sure what that is, or what that would mean. I was so convinced this could never happen. But don't you deserve a bit of happiness?” she asked, trying to catch Samara’s eyes, though she was intent on avoiding her. “If I bring that to you, then—“

Before she could finish, Samara exhaled heavily and stepped closer, until the space between them virtually evaporated. Miranda trembled as she stumbled backwards on instinct, until she could go no further, and hit the wall near the door.

“Do not speak of happiness.” Samara pinned Miranda in place without exerting any force whatsoever. Without touching her. Whatever Miranda had intended to say before swiftly fled her mind. “My happiness died centuries ago. And I promised myself -- I promised myself, I would never...never betray that.”

Miranda moved to protest, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent Samara wasn’t really talking to her, but rather that she was arguing with herself.

“But, I...you were not...you were not part of that plan. I did not foresee how much I would...how much I would come to...” As her dilemma tore at her soul, Samara grimaced and braced herself on the wall, as if in physical pain. “I do not know what to do. I know I do not deserve this, but...perhaps we can, without...”

“Yes,” Miranda all but whimpered. Whatever she meant, her answer was yes.

She wanted this. So bad. Even if it might have been a terrible mistake. Even if it might have ruined everything they already had. At that moment, she didn't care.

Miranda wanted to kiss her. To sink her teeth into her neck, and tear her armour off. Her body was screaming at her to do those things, desperate to touch her, and powerless to resist if this was what Samara chose. But, in what little part of her brain could still think, she knew she had to let Samara take the initiative for whatever happened next. If she didn’t, she would push her away forever.

They probably only stood like that for a few seconds, but time moved so slowly it felt like minutes. Miranda could see the cogs spinning in Samara’s head. The conflict. The indecision. Temptation. Torn between resistance and surrender.

Samara’s fingers brushed her bare arm. She’d leaned so close Miranda felt her breath against her lips. Then, blue eyes went black. And Miranda felt the magnetic sensations she recognised as a meld beneath Samara’s fingertips. 

In an instant, everything changed.

A wave of sheer, uncompromising despair crashed over Miranda, plunging her into the deepest, darkest, blackest abyss she had ever known. It felt as if her very soul had been ripped from her body and murdered in front of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty shell. Any memory of happiness or joy was stripped from her mind, and shattered into a million pieces at her feet.

She had never felt more devastatingly, crushingly alone.

Bereft of hope.

And, although it had come over her as suddenly as the blink of an eye, it felt like she had never known anything else.

Abruptly, Samara glowed blue, her biotics repelling Miranda, like a barrier between them, pressing her back against the wall. The meld ended only a fraction of a second after it began, leaving both of them visibly shaken. The moment they separated, Miranda's hand flew to her lips, trembling as tears spilled from her eye, coursing down the unscarred side of her face, beyond her control.

Samara staggered backwards, as if she had seen a ghost. “No, I...I cannot.”

“No, don't...” Miranda could hardly speak, overcome by a grief that she could not name. She shook her head. What was happening? She never cried, unless her sister was involved. But this sorrow. It had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was intense and crushing and it dwarfed any sadness she had ever felt. So much so that it hurt just to breathe. Just to be alive. “I'm sorry, I don't...I'm not...I'm not normally like this. I don't know why this is happening.”

“Because it came from me,” Samara answered, her lips scarcely moving.

“...What did you say?” Miranda lifted her head, staring at Samara, shellshocked. But she hadn’t misheard. Whatever she was feeling, these weren’t her own emotions. In that brief instant that they had started to meld, Samara had inadvertently transferred whatever she was currently feeling onto her. 

“I did not mean for this to happen. I am so sorry. I...I thought I could contain myself. My boundaries. I never wanted you to experience this...” Samara whispered until her words trailed off into silence, confirming it to be true.

That realisation struck Miranda to her core, that agony still permeating her being.

“...Is this how you feel about me?” Miranda asked, a deep, dull ache pooling like lead at the base of her heart at the very thought - that this was how miserable she had made her by putting her in this position. Samara didn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

“It does not matter. This cannot happen,” Samara stated, her voice hollow.

“Samara.” Miranda reached out for her, but Samara raised her hand, signalling for her not to come closer, convinced this had been a terrible mistake.

“In another time, or another life, this would have been...” Samara didn't finish that thought, shaking her head. “I cannot contemplate this. I must not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to run off again?!” Miranda’s shout was enough to momentarily stop Samara in her tracks. Her throat was strangled with emotions that weren’t entirely her own. But some of them sure were. “Tell me, Samara, when did the strongest woman I’ve ever met turn into such a pathetic coward?”

“This is what I have always been!” Samara hissed in response, despising herself for this horrible misdeed. There was no hint of the stoic, composed, restrained person Miranda previously knew. “I have always been a coward. A fraud. A monster. A mistake. A worthless, selfish waste! I have the blood of over a thousand murders on my hands! I am nothing! I should not even be here!”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go!” Miranda shot back, lashing out in pain.

Samara took her at her word, looking at her one last time before she stormed out. Miranda heard the front door slam. The instant it did, Miranda slid down the wall, tears spilling from her eye, the weight of what just happened combining with Samara’s despair, still coursing through her body.

She felt so cold. Like everything right, or good, or light was just...absent.

There was only shadow.

Only grief.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips. What had she done? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She’d told Samara the truth, and pushed her away forever. They would probably never speak again. Not after this.

She didn’t even realise that the door to her room was still open until a few heads peeked around the corner to see her. Obviously, they’d been roused by raised voices, and the door slamming. The walls weren’t that thick. They probably hadn’t heard everything. But they would have heard enough.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Reiley asked, visibly concerned.

Miranda wiped her eye and picked herself up to her feet, refusing to let herself look vulnerable in front of them. Even though it was too late for that. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking her eyepatch off the desk and putting it on.

“You don’t look fine,” Jason pointed out as Miranda limped her way past them.

“Samara left in a hurry. And we heard fighting,” Rodriguez noted, not really sure how to approach this. “...Did you fuck things up between you?” she asked, in what sounded like an effort to be understanding and comforting. It wasn’t. Jason chastised her insensitivity with a light slap to the back of her head. “What? It’s fucking obvious they just had a fight…”

Miranda ignored them, grabbing her things, pulling on her jacket and scarf.

“What are you doing?” said Jason, shaking his head at her. For a second, it almost sounded like he was the responsible adult in the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Miranda answered stonily.

“It’s 1:00am,” Jason pointed out, as if convincing her to see reason.

“I don’t care.” Miranda slipped on her shoes, and took hold of her cane. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t lie there and think about this. Couldn’t feel this.

“Are you coming back?” said Reiley, confused.

Miranda was tempted to lash out at them and say no out of sheer bitterness and spite, but she couldn't. Unlike Samara, she didn't run from her problems.

“...I'll see you in the morning,” she said, before she closed the door and left. None of them knew it then, but they would not, in fact, see her in the morning.

And, when they did see her again, they would wish they hadn’t.

So would Miranda.

*     *     *

[keyofjetwolf]

Rei, Rei, Rei, Rei. So unable to bear that someone overheard, that someone MIGHT KNOW SHE DOESN’T HAVE ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING IN HER LIFE UNDER HER IRON GRIP OF CONTROL. I love her SO MUCH, I love that her instinctive protective measure is to drive Mako away, just ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK, so she’ll never have to be on the defensive.

And Mako is the perfect foil for Rei in this. Usagi wouldn’t fucking listen, for one, it’s like trying to use a broadsword to fight a cloud of feathers, she’d just keep coming at Rei until one of them gave up, and for as willful as Rei is, Usagi’s insistence on being there for her might be one of the only forces on earth that can wear her down. As for Ami, Rei lashing out at her like this is a steamroller versus a buttercup. Rei would decimate Ami before she got two words out, and it would feel like a massacre because it WOULD be.

Mako can take it, though. Mako can MATCH it. Neither of them want to give the other an inch, and because they’re BOTH being bullheaded, it gives us the space to think about what’s going on with Rei beyond her reaction to someone daring to give a shit.

Then that perfect fucking ending. Mako’s stomping off, and fuck this bitch anyway, BUT SHE IS GOING TO KNOW I DO NOT SKUTTLE ABOUT IN THE SHADOWS I AM NO LIAR AND I DID NOT MEAN TO OVERHEAR YOUR PRIVATE CONVERSATION GO TO HELL BUT ALSO SORRY ABOUT THAT

[kinetic-elaboration]

October 9: 1x18 Arena

Today’s ep is Arena, which isn’t my favorite type of narrative generally--I don’t tend to like very sparse man-versus-nature type stories, and this is pretty close, except there’s a singular opponent--but this one is good. I mean...Gorn??

What the heck kinda conversation is this lol? Kirk and Bones all excited for some good food. Spock being suspicious.

This is a tough ep for a Kirk stan such as myself but Spock sure does come across well.

“Doctor, you are a sensualist,” Spock says as if he weren’t ALSO a sensualist lol. I’ve seen those big red curtains you have in your room bitch, don’t tell me you’re not a sensualist.

DeForest Kelley was so good... that smile. It’s so beautiful.

Kirk’s smile is pretty good too, especially that very specific “my two favorite people are interacting” soft smile. Same, Kirk, I love it too!

Well, so much for that good non reconstituted meal.

Kirk, Spock, Bones, and a redshirt beam down to a planet...what will happen?

“There are living creatures here... not human... cold-blooded.” Like Spock!

Sulu is really running the whole show here. Definite Captain material. He is an experienced combat officer. But it’s not the military right lmao.

Honestly kind of love that all of this is being done by big lizards. Like the mystery of the unknown alien is great for a first watch but it’s just as satisfying to know they’re big reptiles.

Also speaking of Sulu his eye shadow is great today.

“Protect my ship!” aka today in “Kirk loves his ship more than anything.”

And their goes their ride.

Spock: “I’ve got to get to the captain!” Sure do bb. He’s so much ganglier and more awkward than Kirk when he runs and rolls around.

The lizards are very smart, locking onto Spock’s tricorder and turning it into a bomb, apparently.

I legit through azimuth was a sci fi word they made up rip me. It’s a real thing but in my defense it has to do with math.

Spock came SO close to patting Kirk’s ass there.

So I guess their grenade launcher worked or whatever? Kind of missed something there but they’re back on the ship.

In some ways this is a hard ep for me because Kirk does not come off great at this point, and a part of me is like “well he does respect alien life though!” but realistically....he respects life unless his own people are threatened: when it’s ship, crew, or the Federation, he’s ready to throw down. And this was a pretty big attack, and apparently merciless. Spock is right that it isn’t necessarily true that the Gorns are invaders--that’s the best part of the ep for me, they both interpreted actions on the other’s part as invasions and neither was right, so it was a perfectly parallel misunderstanding, two Captains that are both opposites and identical--but it’s understandable for Kirk to think so. He believes so strongly in the Federation and its peaceful, good faith missions to make alien friends, that aliens showing up and just decimating everything, even killing civilians, would of course anger him and make him kind of lose his mind a little.

And Spock knows he’s wrong but he also trusts the Captain and believes in the chain of command.

Also I’m a Kirk apologist so!!

Strange signals...unrecorded... space legends--there’s a whole other story right in those lines tbh!! Spooky space hauntings!

Even this angry, he still sounds soft when he says “Thank you Spock.” Shatner is a more nuanced actor than people give him credit for.

“The destruction of the alien vessel will not help that colony, Jim.”

I love how they keep saying “alien.” I mean what else are they going to say--but it’s a great word.

It’s just so obvious that Kirk needs to Learn a Very Important Lesson today...

Oops, ran into a space wall!

Scotty’s real accent is so much more subtle than Simon Pegg’s insane Scottish accent lol.

The Metrons. “You are bad, violent aliens. We hate violence ourselves, so we shall now have you fight to the death.”

Spock’s like “Uhura, get out of the way. This is fascinating.”

Yes CAPTAIN GORN what an entrance!

Kirk’s not even surprised, he’s like, well...he’s a lizard, I guess!

“This is an intelligent, highly advanced individual, a captain of a starship, like myself.”

Kirk needs a bigger stick, I guess.

This fight sequence is so odd. It’s so obvious that the Gorn’s skin is not his skin, and there’s a weird kinda delicacy/awkwardness to his movements. This isn’t even a criticism of the costume or actors, I think it’s impressive--and frankly more fun than any alien consume in more recent sci fi. Just very odd. And actually in a way I LIKE it being odd because it seems more alien.

Scotty’s like, “Mr. Spock, I have obviously already tried everything you’ve thought of. It’s ME we’re talking about here.”

Spock and Uhura so obviously in love lol. The chemistry. Wow.

I guess Starfleet exists now. And the Federation.

“If I could help him, I would.” Spock’s so sad.

So I wasn’t really clear here if the Gorn was listening to Kirk with a translator or not but apparently he was. Kind of confused why Kirk didn’t bother listening in on the Gorn. Or more specifically why his hisses weren’t automatically translated at the beginning.

Sneaky, sneaky Gorn planning something.

“Diamonds....beautifully crystallized and pointed...Spock would love them.”

Kirk definitely spends his retirement writing a memoir. “Captain’s Log: Adventures on the Final Frontier.”

Gorn’s building something still....

I love when they pretend to push styrofoam as if it were really heavy.

Ah, no, he fell right into the Gorn’s trap! Being dramatic as always.

Lol, Kirk, the Metron said there were MATERIALS for weapons, not whole-ass weapons. Put it together. Literally.

Spock in the Captain’s chair again oh yeah.

Rolling his eyes at McCoy again lol.

Spock: “Feelings for the Captain? Me? What?” *sweats nervously*

Uhura is the only one with a realistic reaction to the Gorn.

Kirk following that very human instinct to figure out what something is by licking it.

Just to drive the point home, the Gorn specifically refers to the Federation as invaders, just like Kirk referred to the Gorns as invaders. “You established an outpost in our space... We destroyed invaders.”

And Bones having a crisis over here. Could we have been.... wrong? The whole time?

This situation needs diplomats, not soldiers. Perhaps... Sarek?

Spock’s so proud of Jim. And so excited by the narrative. “Everyone out of my way, gotta sit in my fancy chair to better enjoy this quality entertainment.”

And so Kirk learns his lesson.

I find the Metron kind of hilarious. 

There’s a moment with Kirk on the bridge, in profile, where the physical similarities between Shatner and CPine are very strong.

“Where we are! I mean, were! I mean!” Sulu lol.

Quality final talk between Kirk and Spock. Bones is so obviously tired of all this lol--he just gives Kirk a quick cuddle, then off for a post-adventure drink. While Kirk and Spock do their post-adventure flirting.

I kinda want to see what’s happening on the Gorn ship tbh. Like Kirk learned his lesson but he never really established any kind of dialogue with the Gorns. We don’t know what the Gorn reaction to his mercy was.

Also I want to see Sarek interact with the Gorns.

Another very tightly plotted episode, focused on its main theme/lesson. Very satisfying.

Next up: Tomorrow Is Yesterday, a CLASSIC D.C. Fontana ep.

[adarlingwrites]

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who's willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

IV

September 17, 2277

I count how many people are aiming their guns at us. Twelve. A dozen people versus two. Out of instinct, I draw my shotgun and aim it at those pointing their weapons at my mistress, but she only holds her hands up calmly, and looks at me from the corner of her eyes.

“Charon, stand down,” she tells me, and as much as it frustrates me, I oblige. I put my hands in the air too, mimicking her.

“Doc Barrows, what seems to be the problem?” Percy asks, calm despite it all, but I can see the thin sheen of sweat on her brow.

“Percy. Good to see you. I’m afraid I would have to apprehend Charon for killing Ahzrukhal.”

“I didn’t know you were also Underworld’s sheriff, Doc.”

“Mayor. My civic duties take a backseat due to my obligations as Underworld’s sole doctor. Don’t worry, this is just a formality,” Barrows explains, lowering his gun.

“We’ll comply. I’m surprised none of you tried to shoot or apprehend us when it happened though,” Percy replies, glasses sliding down her nose, but her hands remain in the air.

“Normally, residents would be more than willing to attack aggressors, but Charon is still one of our own. People were shocked to see him murder his employer. They didn’t know what to do, and they didn’t want to approach the stranger with the high-powered weapon who acquired his contract either,” Barrows answers her, gesturing to the rifle on my mistress’ back.

“Some of us suspect that you had some involvement with his death, but you’ve been forthcoming with your dealings so far, smoothskin. A lot of the people thought we should give you a chance to explain yourselves.”

“That’s all I ask,” Percy mumbles, nodding. “I’m glad you think I’m trustworthy enough not to shoot on sight. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s settle this.”

I watch as Willow holds her arm, an apologetic look on the ghoulette’s face. “Sorry, tourist. Come with me, no sudden movements,” she tells the mistress. Percy took it all in stride, putting her hands on her head. “You don’t have to do that,” Willow rasps, leading my mistress inside the concourse.

“Willow, spending a month in the wasteland made me realize that trust is hard to come by. I want to keep yours.”

“You’re really something else, smoothskin.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is one of the few places in the wasteland where there aren’t crazy people or animals or mutants trying to kill me. I’d like to remain welcome here,” Percy responds.

“Smart choice.”

Meanwhile, the other ghouls point their weapons at me while I walk behind my mistress. They’re right to be cautious. Although I’m still a citizen of Underworld, the contract dictates that my loyalty is now to Percy. Should they hurt her, I’d be forced to protect her from them.

Barrows lead us to the Ninth Circle, where the blood on the floor has been scrubbed, and Ahzrukhal’s rotting corpse is nowhere to be found. The stench of death still lingers, but I found it comforting, a reminder that I’m not longer under that bastard’s employ.

Willow drags a chair out for my mistress, and she sits down, while I remain standing, guns still pointed at my back. People gathered around us in a broken circle, and more onlookers started to flock to the scene, including Tulip, Winthrop, Greta, and Carol who normally did not like coming to the bar.

“What’s going on here?” Carol asks, weaving through the crowd. “Oh! Percy, why are they holding you and Charon up? Did something happen?”

“Don’t worry about me, Carol. It’s just a misunderstanding,” Percy replies.

“‘Misunderstanding’ is one hell of a word for murder, don’t you think, smoothskin?” one of the onlookers jeers, and the murmurs in the crowd grow stronger. “Maybe the others’ suspicions are right and you killed Ahzrukhal for Charon’s contract!”

“My, that’s a grave accusation! A sweet girl like Percy wouldn’t do such a thing, wouldn’t she?” Carol cuts in, worry etched on her flaking face. Her voice gets drowned out by the angry patrons.

One of them gets too close to Percy and I grab him by the throat.

“Charon!” My mistress holds me back, her hand pulling at my bicep. “Stop. Please, I don’t want any violence. We’re here to clear our names.”

“Charon, now a smoothskin’s little bitch boy,” the ghoul chokes out, and my grip on his neck tightens. “If it wasn’t for my mistress,” I rasp, looking the asshole in the eye. “I would’ve crushed your neck. Be thankful for her.”

“That’s enough. We’re not here to make accusations or engage in a bar fight,” Barrows asserts, and the crowd falls silent. I let go of the asshole, and stand beside my mistress. Percy looks at me, and I feel… guilt. I dragged my mistress into this mess.

“Mistress, if I haven’t killed Ahzrukhal…” I finally speak up, but Percy shakes her head. “You did what you have to do, big guy. I’ll help sort this out, I promise,” she whispers to me.

Barrows clears his throat. “You’ll have your turn to speak, young lady. I want to hear what Charon has to say. Why kill Ahzrukhal?”

“Talk to Percy,” I tell him, to which my mistress shakes her head.

“Charon. I’m not Ahzrukhal. I will not forbid you to speak to other people. You may answer Doctor Barrows’ question.”

“I-,” I tried to argue, but she is my mistress, and she is right. I’m no longer under Ahzrukhal’s employ, and any conditioning and methods I have learned from him, I have to unlearn so I may adapt to my new employer.

“Very well,” I start, my ruined vocal cords straining from being barely used. “I killed Ahzrukhal because he’s a danger to Underworld’s residents. I did all his dirty work for him while under his employ, so I speak from experience. When my mistre- when Miss Percy purchased my contract, I was free to correct the wrongdoings I committed while I was his employee. I thought the obvious solution is to kill him, and so I did. Miss Percy has nothing to do with this. She is innocent.”

Murmurs from the crowd start to grow louder once more.

“What do you mean by Ahzrukhal being a danger to Underworld’s people?” one of the people shouts, probably Ahzrukhal’s previous patron. “He’s just a bartender.”

“Hey, Charon has a point.” Another pipes up. Tulip. “Just a few weeks ago, Charon threw Patchwork over the balcony and broke his fingers. Ahzrukhal ordered him to do it. It’s the smoothskin who managed to get him to stop. She even dragged Patchwork to the doc and picked up his fingers.”

“Yeah, doc. It also doesn’t help that he doesn’t stop selling booze to the boy in the first place. It’s getting bad for him. C’mon doc, isn’t there something wrong with that?” another ghoul adds. Winthrop.

My mistress speaks up. “There is. Intervening with a patient’s addictions is a form of preventive care. I’m sure you’ve been telling him to lay off the booze, Doc Barrows, but no one’s removing him from the environment that’s enabling him. Hell, Ahzrukhal is fuelling his alcoholism. It doesn’t help that he’s hooking the others on jet too.”

The murmurs erupt to arguments. A few of Ahzrukhal’s former patrons called my mistress a meddling bitch, a snitch, a whore, and other unsavory things. Some of them accused me of being a traitor by siding with my human mistress. Others feigned ignorance about the jet trade, even when I saw them buying from Ahzrukhal a few times. Barrows had to shout at everyone to quiet down. Percy, silent throughout the entire ordeal, squeezes my hand, as if offering reassurance, and asking for it too.

“Enough! If anyone can provide solid evidence that Ahzrukhal is indeed hooking people on chems, it would be appreciated. As a doctor of medicine, the community’s health is my concern.”

“Check his terminal. He keeps his logs in there, but it’s locked,” I tell him.

“I know how to hack it,” my mistress adds, and Barrows motioned for her to work. A few keystrokes in, the mistress manages to unlock Ahzrukhal’s terminal, and Barrows starts reading the entries.

“Charon and the smoothskin’s accusations are true.”

“But is it enough to justify murder?” one of them shouts.

More arguments. Shouting. The entire thing was a shitshow.

“If risking the community’s health by peddling chems doesn’t convince you people that he’s a danger, I can prove that he wanted one of your people dead too,” Percy declares, and all eyes are on her. The room falls into a hush. She fishes out a small item from her pocket. A holotape.

“I didn’t trust Ahzrukhal after that incident with Patchwork, so I made it a point to look for blank holotapes to record him every time I stayed in the Ninth Circle.”

She slots it in her Pip-Boy, and a recording begins to play.

“-heard you’ve been poking around about Charon’s contract,” a voice says. It’s Ahzrukhal’s. “Perhaps, we can come to an agreement?”

“What kind of agreement?” Percy’s voice.

“You see, you might not like the deal that I have to offer. I don't like competition. Not at all. It goes against every principle that I have as a businessman. So, the fact that there is another source for booze in town is… troubling.” I fucking hated that voice.

“Greta, the waitress over at Carol's… Kill her. Make it quiet. Do it, and you can have Charon's contract.” A gasp rings out from the crowd, and it’s from Carol.

“Kill her? I- why not ask Charon to do that? Why ask me?”

“Loyal employee that he is, Charon would do it without question if I asked him to. However, the entire town would come down on me for it. Greta is quite popular too, and if Charon kills her, everyone will know that I ordered her death. I need him to be with me clear as day so I may feign ignorance.”

“With all due respect, Mister Ahzrukhal, but you can go fuck yourself. I’m not killing an innocent person. In fact, perhaps I should warn the other residents about your plans...”

“Your choice, madam. If you decide to blabber about our little deal, however, I won’t hesitate to unleash Charon upon you.”

Beside me, my mistress’ breathing is becoming irregular as the recording went on. The sheen of sweat on her forehead turns into a trickle. Seeing her distressed when she’s normally collected and smiling… I decided that I do not like it. I do not like to see her like this.

“In fact, I think it’s about time I give the good pup a treat… perhaps a bitch like you?”

“What.”

“Why not, miss? You seem eager to get your hands on my faithful employee anyway. I’d be doing you a favor. Did you know he’s still intact? It’s about time that this place gets a new source of entertainment. I’m sure the two of you will put up quite a show.”

My stomach begins to churn. Did Ahzrukhal really threaten her with something unspeakable… and he was planning to use me to do his bidding? I can’t imagine forcing myself on another individual, and doing that to the only smoothskin who was decent to me in the brief time I knew her too? I felt sick. If she hadn’t purchased my contract...

“You’re fucking sick. Whatever. I’m paying the thousand cap fee and getting out of here.”

“A thousand caps? Please, come back when you have a serious offer. Charon? Accompany Miss 101 out of Underworld… Charon. Get your thumb out of your ass. I said, accompany Miss 101 out of Underworld.”

“You said a thousand caps, you rat bastard.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, Charon’s contract is far more valuable to me than a thousand caps. Unless, you want to reconsider the offer I gave you previously?”

The recording ends. No one dared to say a word.

“If Charon hadn’t shot him up, and he finds a wastelander with a lesser conscience, Greta would be dead,” the mistress finally speaks up, unslotting the holotape from her Pip-Boy and handing it to Barrows.

“Here’s all the evidence you need. He did me a favor, he did Carol a favor, he did Greta a favor. Hell, Charon did all of you a favor.”

Barrows remained quiet, probably unsure of what to say after hearing all that. Carol runs over to embrace my mistress like a mother holding a child, weeping, thanking her. Percy lets her, and the ghoulette walks over to thank me as well, sniffling. People were shouting, arguing, and though some came to our defense, some still thought that we should still face punishment. One ghoul called us heroes. Another said I was still a murderer. It was pure discord.

In the end, the mayor decides to let us walk. The crowd dispersed after that.

Only my mistress and I remained in the bar. She’s staring at the spot where Ahzrukhal’s body used to lie, and sighs, relieved. The tension from her shoulders begin to melt. I’m still absorbing what the fuck just happened.

“Mi- Percy, may I ask you something?” I speak up. Percy turns around.

“You don’t have to ask permission, Charon. You’re free to ask me questions, make suggestions, anything. Just talk to me.”

“I will remember to do so,” I tell her.

“So, what did you want to ask?”

“I cannot comprehend why you would risk yourself for me. You’ve known me for less than three weeks, and I’ve been in your employ for just a few hours, but you’re more than willing to face an angry mob to come to my defense, when I should be the one serving you. Why?”

“Why not?”

I could not answer.

“You got my back, I got yours. It’s what partners are for.”

“Percy, the contract dictates-”

“I told you, let’s sort it out later. Let’s get out of here. I need my haircut,” she laughs, tossing her hair back.

My mistress’ motivations remain a mystery to me, but I am content to be by her side.