#i could write essays on miranda's character and whats going on in her head......

[rxttenfish]

having a lot of thoughts about miranda and how her mental state has been fucked over by the merkingdom and by repeated and consistent abuses at the hands of the vanderbilts, to the point of singlemindedly considering herself an object. 

an object to be fought for, an object to be valued and protected, an object to hurt other people, an object to serve a purpose, an object that can be replaced, an object that belongs to a bigger system than it, an object that will be jealously guarded, an object to be used, an object to be hurt, an object to be a means to an end, an object to kill with, an object to be killed, or an object to be worshipped.

but always an object regardless.

[uomo-accattivante]

I recently came across a bunch of press articles and photos about Oscar Isaac that are so old, they appear to be out-of-print and pre-date social media. Considering they were probably never digitally transcribed for internet access, I’m guessing that the majority of current fans have never seen this stuff.

Even though a lot of these digital scans are challenging to read because they are the original fuzzy news print, I think there some gems worth sharing with you guys. Over the next several weeks, I will transcribe and share those gems on this page. Hope you enjoy them!

Let’s start with this fantastic 2001 profile piece done before Oscar was accepted into Juilliard:

South Florida’s rising star isn’t just acting the part

By Christine Dolen - cdolen@herald.com

February 4, 2001

As fifth-graders at Westminster Christian School in Miami, Oscar Isaac and his classmates were asked to write a story as if they were animals on Noah’s Ark. Oscar turned in a seven-page play – with original music – from the perspective of a platypus. Then he starred in the production his teacher directed.

He hasn’t stopped expressing himself creatively since. Today, Isaac is one of South Florida’s busiest young theater actors, and certainly its hottest. And not just because he’s a slender five-feet nine-inches tall with an expressively handsome face and glistening brown eyes.

Since making his professional debut as a Cuban hustler in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage in July 1999, he has played an explosive Vietnam vet in Private Wars for Horizons Repertory, a pot-smoking slacker in This Is Our Youth at GableStage, another Cuban on the make in Praying With the Enemy at the Coconut Grove Playhouse, the entrancing narrator of Side Man at GableStage, a Havana-based writer in Arrivals and Departures for the new Oye Rep and, most recently, a young Fidel Castro in When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba at New York’s Cherry Lane Theater.

Beginning Wednesday, he’ll be juggling five roles in City Theatre’s annual Winter Shorts festival, first at the Colony Theatre in Miami Beach, then at the Broward Center for the Performing Arts. But that is not all: During the two weeks he is doing Winter Shorts, he’ll also be playing dates with the punk-ska band The Blinking Underdogs (www.blinkingunderdogs.com), which features him as lead singer, guitarist and songwriter.

Oh, and he just got back from auditioning for New York’s prestigious Juilliard School of Drama.

All this for a guy a month shy of his 22nd birthday.

Sure, you could hate a guy who’s that talented, that charismatic, that transparently ambitious. But the people who have worked with Oscar Isaac don’t. On the contrary, they’re all sure he has it – that magical, can’t-be-taught thing that transforms an actor into a star.

Playwright Eduardo Machado, who put in a good word for Isaac at Juilliard, says “he does have that star quality that makes your eyes go to him. It’s great that someone with that talent still wants to train.”

“He has a star quality that’s rare in a young actor,” adds Joseph Adler, who directed him in Side Man and This Is Our Youth. “Without a doubt I expect to be hearing great things from him.”

‘I JUST LOVE CREATING’

Isaac, who also makes short films, can’t say exactly why he was attracted to acting. He just knows it makes him happier than anything, that it’s what he was meant to do. And he’s been doing it since he was a 4-year-old putting on plays in his family’s backyard with his sister Nicole.

“I just love creating, whether it’s music or films or a character on a stage. I love taking people for a ride,” he says. “In Side Man, every night I would love being that close to the audience. I felt like I was talking to 80 of my closest friends.

“I could feel what the audience was feeling.”

His powerful, mournful-yet-loving monologue near the end of the play, he said, “worked every night. I knew it would get them. I’d hear sniffles.

“But it had less to do with me than with the atmosphere [created by the playwright and director].”

You could understand if Isaac, surrounded as he is by praise and possibility, had an ego as burgeoning as his career. Instead, he channels the positive reinforcement into confidence about his work.

“He has such a charm and an ease onstage, but he’s very modest,” says New York-based actress Judith Delgado, who shared the stage with Isaac in Side Man. “He’s hungry. He’s got moxie. I was blown away by him.

“He saved me a couple of times. I went up [forgot a line] and that baby boy of mine came through. He’s a joy.”

FORGING HIS OWN PATH

The son of a Cuban-American father and a Guatemalan mother, Isaac was never a stellar student. But he found ways of turning routine assignments – like the Noah’s Ark story – into creative challenges.

His science reports were inevitably video documentaries underscored with punk music. He acted through middle and high school, though he had a falling out with his drama teacher at Santaluces Community High in Lantana over his misgivings about a character. When she refused to cast him in anything else, he got his English teacher to let him play the dentist in Little Shop of Horrors his senior year.

His skepticism about authority and love of playing the devil’s advocate have long made him resist doing things the usual way. His post-high school “training” consisted of one semester at Miami-Dade Community College’s South Campus (where he met his girlfriend, Maria Miranda), touring schools playing an abusive character in the Coconut Grove Playhouse’s Breaking the Cycle, and working as a transporter of bodies at Baptist Hospital, where he absorbed the drama of people in emotionally intense situations.

“It was the most magnificent dramatic institute I could’ve attended,” Isaac said. “I was able to observe the entire spectrum of human emotion, people under the most extreme duress. I was mesmerized watching the way people interacted with each other in such heightened situations.

“I learned everything about the human condition, and it was real and harsh and brutally honest.”

Yet even given his propensity for forging his own path, something nudged him another direction while he was in New York making his Off-Broadway debut in December. Walking by Juilliard one day, he impulsively went in to ask for an application. Though the application deadline had passed, Isaac persuaded Juilliard to accept his, noting in his application essay that most of the exceptional actors he admires had acquired “a brutally efficient technique” to enhance their talent by studying at places like Juilliard.

Though he won’t know whether he has been accepted until the end of this month, his audition last weekend went well, he says. He did monologues from Henry IV, Part I and Dancing at Lughnasa, adjusting his Shakespearean Hotspur to a more fiery temperature at the suggestion of Michael Kahn, head of Juilliard’s acting program – though not without arguing that Hotspur wouldn’t be speaking to the king that way.

Isaac, not surprisingly, loves a good debate.

Adler, GableStage’s artistic director and a man who is as liberal as Isaac once was conservative, savored the verbal jousting they did during rehearsals for Side Man.

“He knows exactly how to pull my chain,” Adler says with a laugh. “Intelligence is the cornerstone of all great actors, and he’s bright as hell.

“He has relentless ambition but with so much charm. He’s very hard to say no to. He has incredible raw talent and magnetism that is very rare in a young actor along with relentless energy, perseverance and ambition. I see his growth both onstage and off. He’s mature in both places.”

Part of his growth, of course, will necessarily involve dealing with the rejections that are part of any actor’s life. His career is still too new, his string of successes solid, so it’s anyone’s guess how failure will shape him. But director Michael John Garcés, who picked him for When It’s Cocktail Time in Cuba after Isaac flew to New York at his own expense to compete with a pool of seasoned Manhattan actors for the role, believes his character will see him through.

“Oscar is realistic, but he’s so willing to go the whole nine yards,” Garcés says. “He didn’t go out when he was in the show here. His focus earned the respect of the other actors, some of whom have been working in New York for 30 years.

“He hasn’t had a lot of blows yet, when the career knocks the wind out of you. But he has talent, determination and focus, and if he has perseverance – my intuition is that he does have it – he could achieve a lot.”

FAMILY TIES

His father and namesake, Baptist Hospital intensive-care physician Oscar Isaac Hernandez, couldn’t be more proud. (Isaac doesn’t use the family surname in order to avoid, in his words, being “put in that Hispanic actor box.”)

“I’m ecstatic that he’s probably going to be going to the most prestigious drama school in the United States,” he says. “School will help him focus his energies and give him discipline. He’s got the raw material and the drive.”

Isaac’s mother, Maria, divorced from his father since 1992, is a kidney-transplant recipient who acknowledges that she’ll miss her son if he moves to New York. But, she adds, she wants him “to live out his dreams. He amazes me every day. He calls me every day. I’m very proud of him.”

Even the other guys in The Blinking Underdogs are fans of Isaac’s acting, though it could take him away from South Florida just as the band appears to be, Isaac says, on the brink of signing a recording deal (it has already put out its own CD, The Last Word, with songs, lead vocals and even cover photography by Isaac.

“Oscar’s the leader of the band, a great musician who amazes me and motivates us,” says sax player Keith Cooper. “I’ve been to see every one of his plays. He’s a phenomenal actor.

“I completely buy into his role in every play. As close as I am to him, I forget it’s Oscar.”

His South Florida theater colleagues credit that to Isaac’s insatiable desire to learn and grow.

Gail Garrisan, who is directing him in Donnie and One of the Great Ones for Winter Shorts, observes, “It’s not often that you find a young actor who is willing to listen and who doesn’t think he knows everything. He loves the work.

“He really brought the young man in Side Man to life. When I saw it in New York, it seemed to be the father’s play. When I saw it here, I felt it was his [Isaac’s] play.”

Oye Rep’s John Rodaz, whom Isaac calls “the best director I’ve ever worked with,” gave the actor his first important job in Sleepwalkers at Area Stage. They met when Isaac came to see Area’s production of Oleanna and the actor, knowing Rodaz ran the theater, introduced himself.

“He has so much energy and such a sparkling personality,” Rodaz says. “He knows how to move in the world. He seems to take advantage of every situation in a good way; he’s not a cold, calculating person who’ll stab you in the back.

“[But] he wants it so badly. Everything he does, he’s the leader. When I was 21, I was taking naps.”

Rodaz coached Isaac on his Juilliard monologues and found the experience energizing.

“I got chills just watching him. That happens so rarely. I was so exhilarated when I came home that I just had to go out and run. You just know he’s got all the tools.”

Christine Dolen is The Herald’s theater critic.

###

[fbfh]

“forever” paxton hall-yoshida x reader

genre: fluffy romance + mutual pining (not too slowburn tho lol)

word count: 3.4k

au: none?? jock x theatre nerd ig

pairing: Paxton x broadway baby!reader 

requested: yes !! i hope u like it uwu

warnings: one hell one motherfucking and i think that’s it for swearing?? um brief self deprecating/talking bad abt urself from paxton (bby boy needs a self love boost), reader and paxton are home alone together for a little while but nothing bad happens, uh,,, i think that’s it

summary: when Eleanor can’t run lines with you, she sends over a very attractive, mutually pining substitute.

reccomended songs: “Seventeen” - Tuck everlasting OBC, “The Kiss” -The Princess Diaries score

a/n: i’m p sure i kept the reader p gender neutral but there’s implied slightly long hair, and you play the lead (a girl named winnie) in ur schools production of tuck everlasting but like it’s theatre so anyone can play anyone lol,, this took so got dam long bc i’m fucking s o f t for jock x artist and it just sorta happened lol aLsO,, not super thoroughly edited so there might be a typo or two?? im tired lol

requests r open <3

You had only ever seen two athletes present during rehearsals. Once when Madeline (who at the time was playing Penny in your production of Hairspray) was dating a guy from the soccer team. The other was when the star of the basketball team had come in to give your choreographer pointers for the basketball scenes during High School Musical. 

Until now.

You had run onstage part of the way through “Live Like This”, which wasn’t out of the ordinary since so much progress had been made on the costumes. You were still tying the ribbon on your pinafore as you jumped into the song, but when your eyes met a face in the usually empty auditorium, you faltered. You almost sang the wrong verse, but recovered quickly, continuing with the blocking. What felt like a moment later, the number was almost done and you were nearing the end of your counterpoint with Mae Tuck - played by Eleanor, of course. Who could be better for the part? You held out the last note, trying to stay in character despite all the distractions in the back of your mind. You had to talk to Eleanor when the director called for 10; she’d started telling you how Devi was being weird recently. Also, what the Hadestown was Paxton Hall-Yoshida doing chilling in the auditorium? You shoved all that away, focusing on staying in character until the director called for a break. 

‘I want to go to the fair. I want to go so badly! I just need a change, need to get out of this house for a little while. I never do anything, so this can’t be asking for too much, right?’ 

You projected all that into your everything - face, voice, mannerisms, energy.

“Hold!” 

Everyone froze.

The director wrote a few things on his paper, sighed, and underlined something several times. 

“Okay, good job! I need to revise some of the blocking, then we’ll do notes, so take ten.” Your sudden nerves had definitely made you pitchy, you knew that would be one of your notes for sure. 

A chorus of “Thank you ten”s erupted, and you immediately ran to Eleanor, telling the others good job as you passed. 

You leaned in and started speaking to her, quietly.

“Okay you need to finish telling me about Devi, and that other news you’re being so cryptic about! Also, what’s up with Fierro over there?” you nodded towards Paxton hoping he wouldn’t see, and you noticed Fab is sitting near him. You realized they’re probably waiting for Eleanor and/or Devi. That must be it, he’s been hanging out with them lately, right? Eleanor gasped.

“You’re right! Paxton is such a Fierro!”

You cringed inwardly a little bit as her voice carried through the auditorium, mixing with the others. Your eyes darted over to him for a fraction of a second. Oh god. He was looking at you. Or in your general direction at least. Lena, the costumer, walked around the set gingerly, following you around and getting you out of your dress incredibly carefully as you and Eleanor walked off stage. 

“No! Well, yes- but no. What’s he doing here? Jocks never come here during rehearsals. I saw Fab too, are you guys and Devi getting dinner or something?” You said, entering the auditorium, and stepping out of the dress. You grabbed sweatpants and a silky, floral kimono jacket from your bag to throw over your leotard and tights. She waved back at Fab before sitting down in the front. You both grabbed your fans and dramatically flicked them open in sync. Your wrists fluttered, cooling both of you off.  A knowing, and slightly mischievous, look came on her face. 

“Devi and Fab and I are. Paxton must be here for something… else.” she shrugged, nodding towards Paxton. You looked over again. He was staring at you. You did a double take and tried to hold back your smile. 

“Wh- I do not know to what you are referring.” 

“To what I am referring is the blush on his cheeks.”

You barely held back a nervous, bubbling laugh.

“He is not blushing! Why would he be blushing!”

“I don’t know,” She shrugged, “Just like how I don’t know that he’s been loitering in the halls outside the music room during your last three solo music rehearsals.”

You struggled for an answer. Before you could form one, you were interrupted.

“Okay, okay what is the best Lin Manuel Miranda musical? Because Kathryn thinks it’s Hamilton-” 

“Duh!”

“-But I think it’s In the Heights! It’s an underrated jewel!” Jonah interjected, still wearing his Jesse Tuck hat. 

You considered for a moment.

“I mean, they’re too different to compare. In the Heights has the same energy as Rent - showcasing what goes on in ordinary people’s lives, and how love ties us all together,” he nodded in agreement, “But Hamilton is on a way larger scale, almost Les Mis meets Fun Home vibes. But in terms of personal preference…” Eleanor scoffed at your answer, and Jonah went back to debate further with Kathryn.

“Anyway,” you turned back to Eleanor to ask her what the hell she meant by Paxton Hall-Yoshida was blushing. But before you could-

“Eleanor, we need you to try on your blue dress again,” Lena was already pulling her away, “I had the empire waist in the right place but half the pins fell out, and it’s just...” And she was whisked away before you could finish the thought. You just had time to help Holly get out her wig pins and drink some lemon water before notes. Eleanor still wasn’t back, so you made sure to write down hers for her. It was pretty standard; be quiet backstage, go over your lines, don’t touch props that aren’t yours, don’t eat in costume, and a couple blocking changes you made note of. After your end of rehearsal warm downs and huddle, everyone left relatively quickly. You ducked into the bathroom to freshen up a little. Sometimes it was hard coming down from such intense energy after rehearsal. You mentally ran through your to do list. You needed to get some more tea, write that essay when you got home, go over your notes- You gasped, cutting off your own train of thought. You ran out of the bathroom to look for Eleanor, still clutching her notes in hand. 

~

Your voice still echoed in Paxton’s ears. He wished he had a whole album of you singing. Your voice made him want to ruin his spotify algorithm by listening to nothing else. You had looked at him a couple times, and his heart had almost stopped. He didn’t know eye contact could be so intense. It’s probably just cause you’re like, the only person in the audience. Where else is she supposed to look? He deflated a little. He heard his name and looked over to you and Eleanor talking together. Hopefully it was about him. Hopefully it was good. He checked his phone, trying to look busy. When he glanced up to see if you were looking, you were gone. He started to look around for you when he saw Eleanor waving at Fab, and sure enough, you were next to her. What he didn’t expect was you dropping your dress to the ground. Time slowed down (and his heart sped up) as you stretched a little, and pulled out sweatpants from your bag.

Wow.

 You had on what looked like a bathing suit on underneath, and a few other people had done the same, but he knew that image would be in his memory, probably forever. His heart was beating in his ears and he knew he must be blushing.

“You okay, Paxton?” Fab asked, a seat or two away. Oh god, he didn’t want people asking why he blushed every time he looked at you! He muttered something about needing to make a call and headed for the doors. Don’t look back at her, don’t look back at her… His eyes involuntarily darted in your direction right before he left. You had on a flowy translucent jacket, your hair thrown back supermodel style as you fanned yourself to cool down. He needed to cool down too. Maybe a cold shower, a really cold shower.

~

You managed to find Eleanor just before she left. Two girls were with her, you had seen Fab once, and you’d heard a lot about Devi, but had never been introduced. 

You gave Eleanor her notes, and she hugged you.

“You’re a lifesaver!” 

“Of course, I-”

“Uh, who’s this?” you looked over, and the shorter girl - Devi, based on what you’d heard about her -  was giving you a weird look. You introduced yourself. 

“Nice to meet you. How do you know Eleanor?” said the taller girl - definitely Fab.

“Oh,” you smiled, “she’s my almost mother in law. And my arch rival,” you counted on your fingers, “my sister, my niece, my lover, my husband, and…” you trailed off, trying to think of the other dynamics your characters had had in past shows.

“Your co-conspirator.” 

“Right,” you laughed. Devi and Fab looked at you two.

“We’re in the musical together.” you clarified. You were about to part ways when you called to Eleanor, “Hey, we’re still on for running lines tomorrow night?” 

“Uh… Sounds good!” she walked away quickly, speaking to Devi and Fab in hushed tones. Something was definitely up. That was typical Eleanor Scheming behavior. 

~

That night, you almost couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t the normal post rehearsal can’t sleep. In fact, Tuck Everlasting was the last thing on your mind as you readjusted your pillows and snuggled into your duvet. You stared at the neon blue stars projected and swirling on your ceiling. You sighed. Again. Your brain was a 24/7 livestream of Paxton Hall-Yoshida to relax/study to. You saw him again, his face in the dimly lit auditorium, Adonis in a sea of faded seats. If you hadn’t been sure before, you knew now that red was definitely his color. You rolled onto your side. Your heart picked up speed as a thought crossed your mind. You could almost see Paxton now, kneeling next to you, his fingertips brushing your cheek. The piano underscore to “Seventeen” ran through your mind. You could imagine him saying “Wait with me, we could share the world…” so vividly it almost hurt. He leaned in, and… 

You let out a loud sigh and rolled over again. Your heart was fully saturated. That’s more than enough pining for tonight. 

~

“Paxton!” 

He was a little surprised when Eleanor just walked up to him at lunch the next day. Most people were too intimidated to approach him out of the blue. 

“I have a plan.”

“Uh, I don’t know what you-”

“Cut the crap, I know you like her.” 

His face blanched. Well, yeah of course he did. Who wouldn’t? He was going to ask Eleanor if there was something he could do to win you over, just not here, not now. Not where everyone could watch and jeer and rib him for it. Just like they were doing now. 

“Woah, dude, who is it?” Trent asked. He fumbled for words. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He hadn’t kept his crush a secret because he was embarrased of you, he’d kept it a secret because his dumbass friends wouldn’t get you. Hell, he barely got you. You were so deep, and emotive, and artistic... 

“Bro, if you like her as much as it seems like you do,” Trent continued, “you gotta win her over.” He was a little shocked at the agreement murmuring through his group of friends. He didn’t know how to respond. Trent turned to Eleanor.

“What’s the plan, drama mama?”

“First of all,” she said, an almost humorously dangerous look on her face, “never call me that again. Second,” she shoved some papers into Paxton’s hands, “meet me in the music room immediately after school.” She started back for her table. Trent looked back over to Paxton. 

“You gotta do it, dude. We’ll cover for you at swim.” 

The rest of his friends agreed. He was pleasantly surprised at how supportive they were being. 

“Yeah, I guess... we’ve got a plan.”

~

The next day went by pretty smoothly. No rehearsal was scheduled since they were finishing construction for some of the sets, but everyone was instructed to do a couple read throughs of the script, focusing on scenes they’re still forgetting, to make sure everyone’s off book. You stopped by 7 Eleven to get a blue slurpee (for homework) and a couple coconut waters (for run throughs). You texted Eleanor on your way to the slurpee machine. 

okay so do you like the mango coconut water or the pineapple one?? It’s the mango one right?? i always forget lmao

sent at 4:16 pm

btw I don’t have that much homework so you can probs come by around 5:30 if you’re ready by then

sent at 4:16 pm

Bae Tuck

OMFG!! I totally forgot about running lines tonight, I can’t make it! :( but I’ll send someone over to help you out. :)

sent at 4:17 pm

You squinted at your screen. That was weird. Eleanor never used colon parentheses smilies. Like, ever. She always used emojis, and usually way more than two per text. 

yeah np, are u good? ♡

sent at 4:17 pm

Bae Tuck

Yes :)

sent at 4:18 pm

Bae Tuck

Also get the passionfruit one 🥥🍠 👀

sent at 4:18

that’s,,, el that’s a sweet potato,,

sent at 4:19 pm

Bae Tuck

Close enough 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

sent at 4:19pm

...Okay? That was definitely weird. You shook it off and headed for the counter to pay. You stopped half way there, and turned back to swap the mango for passionfruit. 

Not long after you had finished your homework and tidied up your room a little, the doorbell rang. You exited the kitchen, drinks in hand, and opened the door. Your heart caught in your throat. Paxton Hall-Yoshida was standing outside. And you were pretty sure he looked nervous. You both just stood there for a second. No one breathed, no one spoke. 

“Uh, hi, do you want to…” you backed up, motioning for him to come inside. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, entering the doorway. Paxton motherfucking Hall-Yoshida was in your living room. You held out a hand to him.

“Coconut water?” he took the box, looked at the label, and smiled. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he said again, this time a faint, yet unmistakable note of joy in his voice. He took a sip. He smiled.

“Passionfruit’s my favorite.” You silently thanked Eleanor, who you knew must have planned all this. Most of the evening was a blur, and you thanked god your family wasn’t home right now. You went upstairs, texted Eleanor asking what the actual fuck, made some surprisingly comfortable small talk, then filled him in on how to run lines. 

“Do you think playing the soundtrack would help you… get into character?” he asked. 

“I would probably just end up singing the whole thing,” You laughed and tried to ignore the butterflies in your chest. The main scene you struggled with was before “Seventeen”. It was harder to get into Winnie’s head because you had no romantic feelings for Jonah, and you always just made each other laugh. You had started with a few easier scenes of Winnie and Jesse, like the fair, and the dialogue before “Top of the World”. 

“That was really good,” he said, and you felt the sincerity of his words. 

“Thanks…” you smiled and took a sip of coconut water, hoping you weren’t blushing too hard. 

“So what next?” he asked. 

“Probably the scene before ‘Seventeen’,” you said, giving him the page and scene number, “it’s one of the hardest ones for me. I guess I just can’t connect to Jonah the way Winnie does.” 

“Huh,” he said, skimming the page. When you looked up at him, he had something between a smile and a smirk playing at his lips. You made yourself look away before you got too distracted. You refused to think about the fact that you were sitting across from Paxton Hall-Yoshida on your bed, in your room, like you were… close with each other. His eyes skimmed the script, finding the dialogue. He glanced up at you and nodded, indicating he found his place. You began.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t get away,” you said, jumping into character.

“I may be 102, but I can still outrun anyone,” a smile played at his lips. You smiled, then let your face fall.

“I’m so sorry, I-I tried to warn you-”

“No, no,” he interjected almost seamlessly, “It’s okay, it’s… refreshing having someone look after me who isn’t my mom.” His eyes flickered between your face and the page. You smiled with him for a second, then let distress cloud your face.

“Jesse… that man came by my house today. He heard the music box, he knows about you-”

“I know he knows…” 

You continued on with the scene and he trailed off when he came to the sheet music for the song Seventeen. You took in a breath to start the dialogue in the middle of the song, but before you could…

“Six years from now you will turn seventeen,

Turn seventeen,

The same age as me,

Six years from now,

Go to the spring,

Go to the spring and drink…”

He was singing to you. He was looking at you and singing to you. His eyes only flickered down to the page to confirm the lyrics. He was nervous, you could tell. But through his hesitance, the emotion in his voice was sincere. Your heart was beating faster. You didn’t even notice your pulse was ringing in your ears, you were too focused on Paxton. 

“I'll wait for you till you turn seventeen,

Turn seventeen,

The same age as me,

Six years from now,

Go to the spring,

Go to the spring and drink…” Your hand rose to cover your mouth. He hesitated, and you remembered your dialogue.

“Uh, wh-what if I… forget where the spring is?” He reached out and took your free hand in his. Your pulse was off the charts. “I’ll go get you some water. Just… remember to keep it somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will find it.” You got the feeling he wasn’t just talking about the water. You knew he had never really been in a serious relationship before, and it clicked suddenly - if he learned an entire song to duet with you, just how much he must like you. You exhaled a breathy laugh, unsure how to process the sudden euphoria you felt. 

“You make the world sound so… exciting. I just want to drink the water right now!”

“Uh, no. You have to wait.” you both smiled, anticipating the upcoming joke.

“Why?” you ask, “What’s the difference?” You held your breath as he tried not to laugh through the delivery of the punchline. 

“Believe me,” he rubbed his thumb over your hand, “there’s a difference.” You both chuckled, and he continued singing. You were so focused on him, so… touched that he would do all this for you. 

“Winnie, wait with me,

And we could be married,

Winnie, wait with me,

And we'll share the world,

Winnie, you can stop time,

And live like this,

Forever…”

“I could live like this forever,” you echoed.

“Live like this...” you sang in tandem.

“What do you say, Winnie? Do you want to…” he broke character suddenly, and asked, his eyes boring into yours, “Do you want to go out some time?” 

He could see the adorable smile blooming on your face, even from behind your hand. You nodded.

“Yes, I-I would love that,” and you began to sing the last line in the song, “Forever-” 

But before you finished holding out the note, his lips were on yours. His mouth moved slowly, intentionally, against yours. You followed his lead, flustered. He leaned further forward, his palm caressing your cheek. It was everything you imagined it would be, and you had quite the imagination. Your head was angled up and your hands rested themselves on his back, one tracing little shapes. Your shoulders were pressed against each other and neither of you could think. He was so warm. He tasted like coconut and passion fruit, and a distant part of your mind silently thanked Eleanor again. 

You really could live like this forever.

[alicedoessurveys]

Doctor Who Tag

yes im a nerd...

CHILDHOOD

1. Did you like DW as a child?

I was 10 when it came back on telly with Eccleston and the first episode with the autons scared me so much my mom wouldn't let me watch it again until a couple years later, but yeah my teens I was obsessed with DW... still am at age 25

2. Your age at the time of the revival?

10

3. First DW episode you ever saw?

‘Rose’

4. Did you have any of the toys?

I still have the eleventh doctor’s screwdriver... I used to have some of the figures but there in storage now somewhere

5. Which DW character did you play on the playground?

didn't play it on the playground

6. Monster(s) that scared you most as a child?

all of them! the ones that still scare me now are the Cybermen and the Autons... genuinely cant walk past a shop mannequin without being suspicious 

7. Joke/story you didn’t get as a kid?

as a kid, any of the innuendo type jokes

8. DW opinion that has changed since you were a kid?

idk I think I still have the same opinions

9. Who introduced you to DW?

parents

10. Did you like Sarah Jane Adventures as a child?

I LOVED SJA!! I miss that show, and Elizabeth Slade :(

DOCTOR

11. Who is your Doctor?

Ten was the doctor that made me fall in love with Doctor Who 

12. Your favourite Doctor?

omg why not just ask me who my favourite child is... (I don't have kids but you know what I mean) if I had to chose my top three are ten, eleven and thirteen

13. Least favourite Doctor?

purely just because he doesn't have enough episodes... nine...

14. Best regeneration?

none of them I hate regenerations :( they make me sad, im too emotionally invested in every single one

15. Do you like “Doctor-Lite” episodes?

they're not my faves

16. Who is the most human Doctor?

I think nine maybe? or twelve?

17. Best multi-Doctor story?

the 50th anniversary special 

18. Best Doctor monologue?

“Hello Stonehenge! who takes the pandorica, takes the universe. but bad news everyone, cause guess who? HA! You lot you're all whizzing about- its really very distracting. Could you all just stay still a minute because I AM TALKING. Question of the hour is, who's got the pandorica? Answer, I do. Next question, who's coming to take it from me? Come on, look at me! No plan. No backup. No weapons worth a damn. oh and something else, I don't have anything to lose. So, if you're sitting up there in your silly little spaceship with all your silly little guns and you've got any plans on taking the pandorica tonight... just remember who's standing in your way. remember ever black day I ever stopped you and then- AND THEN- do the smart thing... let somebody else try first.”

not copied and pasted, remember that from the top of my head... its always there waiting in my mind incase I ever need an epic monologue :’)

19, What do you think TenToo/MetaCrisis Doctor is doing now?

hopefully living his best life with Rose

20. Best Doctor/companion pairing?

ten and donna 

COMPANIONS

21. Favourite companion?

Donna, Clara, Amy

22. Favourite secondary companion?

is Mickey classed as secondary? idk

23. Least favourite companion?

Ryan

24. Best TARDIS Team?

Doctor, Amy and Rory

25. Most underrated companion?

Graham, but that may just be cause I love Bradders

26. Most overrated companion?

Rose... I like her but idk, I think she gets more hype than she deserves.. don't @ me

27. Favourite companion’s family?

Rose’s mom

28. Who should have been a companion but wasn’t?

idk I cant think of anyone

29. Favourite (canon or non-canon) DW universe relationship?

Amy and Rory

30. Who did you not used to like, but really like now?

wasn't keen on Bill at first but by the end I really liked her, same with Rory

EPISODES

31. Favourite episode ever?

girl in the fireplace

32. Least favourite episode?

most of Chibnall’s episodes tbh sorry not sorry 

33. Which episodes do you skip?

the regeneration episodes

34. Best two-parter?

Human Nature - Family of Blood

35. Historical, present day or futuristic episodes?

I like them all in there own way but I think present is fave, then historical, then future

36. Episode that will always make you smile?

all of them

37. Episode that will always make you cry?

Rory and Amy’s last episode :’(

38. Best run of episodes?

ugh I cant answer this theres too many 

39. Best cliffhanger?

the end of Spyfall part one when the Master reveals who he is... I was SHOOK

40. Favourite Christmas special?

Voyage of the Damned

SERIES

41. Classic Who or New Who?

new who

42. Favourite series?

four or five

43. Least favourite series?

eleven, I just cant with the writing

44. Which series do you skip?

none

45. Favourite series opening?

eleventh hour

46. Favourite series finale?

Doomsday

47. Best series arc?

Bad Wolf

48. Thoughts on series 11/12?

I adore Jodie Whittaker and her doctor, and although I think 3 companions is too many I do love Yaz and Graham (Ryan is hit & miss). I just think theyve been massively let down by the stories/writing... they’ve tried to hard to tick certain boxes and completely missed what Doctor Who is about for a lot of people.. an escape from the real world into these outrageous unbelievable but lovable fun alien adventures 

49. How much of Classic Who have you seen?

not a lot

50. Who should have had another series?

NINE NINE NINE NINE NINE 

MONSTERS

51. Favourite monster/villain?

the master 

52. Most creative monster?

Weeping Angels, whoever came up with monsters that look like statues and only move when you're not looking at them is genius 

53. Monster(s) that scares you most?

Autons, Cybermen, the creepy dolls from Night Terrors, the ones from Waters of Mars, Weeping Angels

54. Monster you think is too easy to defeat?

idk

55. Least favourite monster/villain?

absorbaloff

56. Monster you want to return?

The Master, I really hope that isn't the last we see of Dhawan

57. In your opinion, what makes a monster good?

being genuinely scary, 

58. Daleks, Cybermen or Weeping Angels?

Weeping Angels

59. Best Dalek story?

Daleks in Manhatten

60. Best one time villain/monster?

my brain has gone blank I cant think of an answer right now 

ADDITIONAL MATERIAL

61. Torchwood or Sarah Jane Adventures?

SJA

62. Favourite Torchwood Team member?

I haven't watched it all so I couldn't say 

63. Which Torchwood death made you saddest?

again, not watched it all 

64. Do you rewatch COE or MD?

huh

65. Favourite SJA Team member?

Sarah Jane

66. Mr Smith or K-9?

K-9

67. Maria or Rani?

Rani

68. Do you read the comics/novels or listen to Big Finish?

Nope

69. If you do, your favourite additional stories?

n/a

70. Do you like DW analysis (video essays, fan theories, etc)?

yes

DESIGN/PRODUCTION

71. Favourite piece of alien tech?

the sonic, I love how it is so multipurpose except for when it comes to wood 

72. Favourite piece of Murray Gold music?

I am the Doctor - gets me pumped every time 

73. Favourite TARDIS design?

Ten’s Tardis 

74. Has the 2005 era CGI aged well?

actually yeah, I was rewatching the ‘are you my mummy’ episodes the other day and my God when the gas masks emerged from the faces... ooooooof I was like omg how 

75. Favourite Doctor outfit?

eleven or thirteen

76. Monster with the best design?

not really a design more of a costume.. I live Dhawan master’s costume. that shade of purple, oof he so stylish 

77. Best show runner?

idk

78. Best writer?

Gatiss

79. Best opening titles?

eleven’s titles where the Tardis is flying and being zapped is cool but thirteens music hits different 

80. Will DW age well/stay popular in the future?

I hope so, I feel like its lasted this long surely it can last forever.. if the writers don't fuck it up... 

IF YOU WERE IN THE SHOW

81. Time period you’d want to go with the Doctor?

whatever time means Id get to wear the most beautiful costumes

82. Planet/place you’d want to go with the Doctor?

Galifrey, pre-desctruction

83. Doctor you’d most like to travel with?

any of them, please and thank you

84. Companion you’d most like to travel with?

donna, sceso a good laugh but also I feel like she’d look after me 

85. Monster you’d like to defeat/fight?

The Master 

86. If you could go back on your own history (like Father’s Day), where would you go?

back to when I was a toddler, I wanna see what I was like 

87. If you could ask the Doctor anything, what would you ask?

theres too many to ask 

88. Historical figure you’d like to meet?

Shakespeare

89. How do you think you’d meet the Doctor?

id probably be rescued from doing something stupid and then the doc would be like you know what the bitch clearly needs supervision she's coming with me 

90. Would you travel forwards or backwards in time first?

backwards

IF YOU MADE THE SHOW

91. Historical event would you like to see in DW?

Hamilton

92. Issue you’d like to see addressed in DW?

idk 

93. Who would you completely erase from the DW universe?

Ruth

94. One unanswered DW question you’d love to know the answer to?

where is Clara now?

95. Actor/actress you’d like to see play the Doctor?

Phoebe Waller Bridge (or Lin Manuel Miranda)

96. Actor/actress you’d like to see play a companion?

Andrew Scott (yes I did just basically recast fleabag and hot priest)

97. Is DW “too political”?

series 11 got a bit like that 

98. Which characters fate would you changed?

Danny Pink

99. What about DW could be improved?

I think ive made my options about Chibnall pretty clear... 

100. If you could write an episode of DW, any ideas for what you’d do

bring back Jenny, the Doctor / Daughter adventures they would have. I’m actually writing a fic about it if you wanna read.... here

[harry-leroy]

11, 12, and 13 for the writer asks?

Hey, Macy! Thank you so much for the ask- I sincerely appreciate it:) 

11- What’s your philosophy on writing love stories?

As someone who really hasn’t been in love before, it’s a little difficult for me to grasp all of the concepts I need to make it well-written enough. However, love is such a powerful motive (I’d know from watching enough mystery drama >-Hadestown as an example- (even though I haven’t seen the musical yet - I have listened to the soundtrack though - as much as I could listen to): I want them so desperately to be together. They’re both such wonderfully written characters with other motives and interests besides one another, and their love for one another is so powerful. There are other characters in other things that I wish had these other motives and interests besides falling in love- because there’s so much more to youth than that. 

12- What’s your favorite character archetype to write?

I took a Shakespeare-archetype quiz a while back, and I got ‘the flawed hero’, so I suppose that one? It’s the one I relate to the most. I also love writing for idealists, especially now, as the world grows less and less ideal. It’s probably why I’m attracted to characters like Edgar, like the Windermeres, like Miranda, like Endeavour Morse. They’re flawed idealists. Their idealism at once disappoints and dazzles, leads to their destruction and to their triumph. It’s a very fun one to toy around with when I’m writing. With Edgar, for example, it bothers him that everyone isn’t keen on playing nice. What makes it worse is that I think Edgar knows exactly why people aren’t playing nice. It makes him doubt the world, spin off into episodes of derealization, think of men as animals, self-discipline and principal being our only hope. Nice guys finish last? They might just be the last men standing. Lady Windermere from Lady Windermere’s Fan goes through this realization in one night. She begins as a misguided, yet principled young woman. She finishes as a tolerant and empathetic idealist, but only after being exposed to the worst of Victorian society after her marriage is thrown into danger. I myself am an idealist, despite everything. It’s a pain that I relate to, which makes it easier to write:) 

13- What do you think is the biggest flaw about your writing?

I’ve got quite a few to be honest. I am absolutely terrible at plotting things out. Plot is the last thing that comes to mind when thinking about a project. What got me interested in King Lear was actually the sound of the play (I said in a previous post that I’m an absolute sucker for good sound design). It’s got such a distinct absence of music - otherwise it’s just all these harsh instruments and the sound of the storm overhead. That was my initial attraction. My first focus with any project is usually an aesthetic, a sort of trailer of moments that goes on in my head, and I’ll usually figure out the ending before anything else. In TEP, I’m fairly set on the ending of the play. I want to leave the audience with some feeling of absurdist hope. In another project, the 1712 project, which I haven’t posted a ton about - I’m trying to pull a research library together for it - I know the ending of that one too, as well as the aesthetics. As far as a start to finish plot- I haven’t gotten that far on either project. I hope that this playwriting class I take next semester is going to give me some guidance in that area. Also, sometimes I need to remember that less is more. I struggle with this in my academic writing too - I put the least amount of pressure and attention on my last honors essay this year, and I got a better grade on that one than I had all the others. Sometimes, I overcomplicate things. Simple is probably better. Overall, I’d love guidance in the creative writing area because I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing (which is why I’m ready to go back to school hehehe). 

Thank you so much for this Macy! :) Best wishes

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (3/?)

Chapter Title: Operator

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: Flashbacks to Miranda’s emotionally abusive/controlling childhood. Graphic imagery some people may find disturbing. Allusions to character death.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, between the pain and the tinnitus, Miranda is in a miserable state, but she endeavours to make the most of her limited mobility by putting herself to good use. In 2185, Samara finally brings an end to Morinth’s centuries of pitiless killing, and Miranda swiftly comes to realise how woefully ill-equipped she is to talk to her about her loss.

Author’s Note: Still going. Nice long chapter for you all. Enjoy.

*     *     *

“Well done, Miranda,” said her English tutor, handing her back her essay. It was the first assignment she'd set for her, after the last teacher was fired. They rarely lasted longer than a few months. Already, there was something about this one that rubbed Miranda the wrong way, though she couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe it was because she smiled all the time.

Miranda's heart sank as her eyes fell upon the page. “Ninety-seven?” she said in disbelief, certain the teacher had made a mistake. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“There's no such thing as a perfect essay, Miranda,” her tutor condescendingly replied, talking down to her young student as if being less than half her age meant Miranda had less than half her mental capacity. “It is the best I’ve ever read from someone so young, but there's always room for improvement.”

“Where?” Miranda challenged, fixing her teacher with an unyielding stare as she stormed up to her desk, slamming down the essay on the table. “Where have I done anything wrong? Point it out to me.”

Her teacher was visibly taken aback by her furious response. “Miranda, that's not—“

“That's right. You can't. Because I haven't made any mistakes,” Miranda cut her off, certain of that. She never made mistakes. She knew how to write a perfect essay. She knew all the points that she was supposed to make. These things had been drilled into her for years. She had done everything the teacher could possibly have expected and more. So why was she punishing her? “Fix it.”

“Don't argue with me, Miranda,” the teacher stood up to her, unwilling to be so disrespected, least of all by an eleven-year-old child. “You're being unreasonable. Ninety-seven is a very good score.”

“No, it's not!” Miranda insisted. Not to her father. She knew how he reacted when she got anything less than a perfect mark.

“Miranda, if you don't sit back down, I'm going to deduct more marks from your essay,” her tutor calmly warned her, taking control of the situation. Miranda could see in her eyes that she wasn't bluffing. She had no idea what the consequences of that would be, but she knew her father. He would be livid.

Miranda had no choice but to back down, reluctantly stepping away from the desk, though no less enraged about this injustice. She held her teacher's stare, glaring at her through a narrowed gaze.

“...You're going to regret this,” Miranda told her, a quiet but unwavering vow. But she said no more about it, instead silently stewing in resentment, and the dread of showing her result to her father.

Needless to say, it went exactly as well as she expected.

“What is this?” said her father, much as Miranda had anticipated. She stood firm, her hands clasped behind her back. “What part of the text did you not understand?”

Miranda's lip twitched. “I understood it, Father, I—“

“Obviously you didn't or you wouldn't have lost a mark,” Henry countered, his tone unchanging. “I designed you to be perfect, Miranda. You have the intelligence and the ability. So the only explanation as to why your marks are slipping is that you've grown complacent. You aren't taking your work seriously.”

“N-No, that's not...” Miranda hesitated, her father's head turning when she dared to speak out of turn. He never accepted any excuses, and she was forbidden from making them. But this was wrong. This wasn't her fault. “Please, Father, if I could have your permission to explai—“

“Your judgement is hardly reliable, Miranda,” her father pointed out, forcing Miranda to unwillingly bite her tongue, her jaw clenched. “Clearly I've allowed you too many distractions. Your obsession with frivolous things has dulled your mind,” he said, seeking a remedy for her shortcomings. “Your room is to be emptied of anything non-essential. From now on, every spare moment you have will be spent studying, and I'm increasing your lessons. Is that understood?”

Did she have a choice? “...Yes, Father,” Miranda solemnly accepted her fate. Her exterior betrayed no signs of the sickening feeling in her stomach.

“Good. Now go back to your room and redo this immediately. I expect a perfect result,” her father instructed, handing back her paper before dismissively turning away, with no interest in Miranda whatsoever.

Her fingers tensed as she held the paper, wishing she could crumple it up and cast it in the bin, but she had to obey. She marched back to her room at speed, yanked her chair out from under her table and sat down to improve upon what she'd already done faultlessly the first time, ignoring the staff who began removing everything she took any shred of enjoyment in from her room.

Her piano? Gone. Her radio? Gone. Phone. Television. Magazines. Any books that weren't related to her courses. Online access. The art on her walls. Her speakers and headphones. Most of her clothes.

A security guard was posted by her door at all times, making sure she never took a break from her studies until she had her father's consent to do so.

It wasn't the first time her father had done this. It never hurt any less.

Every time she earned a little bit of freedom through ceaseless dedication and hard work, she always did something to upset her father – something to make him decide he had erred, and she needed to be monitored more closely again. Getting attached to anything or anyone just gave him the ability to take it away when she inevitably fell short of his standards.

Even when she was reaching his standards, even when she was doing everything right, all it took was the comments and criticisms of one clueless individual to ruin her life and set her back months in progress.

It wasn’t fair.

Miranda wanted to protest. She wanted to cry. She wanted to tear out her hair and scream until she lost her voice. But she couldn't do any of those things. She wasn't allowed. She wasn't sure she knew how to, even if she tried. Every emotion she ever felt was muted, bottled up, discarded. They were alien to her, and when they lingered it was like a phantom sickness – a useless hindrance.

The only thing Miranda took comfort in as she worked was in plotting her revenge. That teacher would pay for making her suffer this. Miranda would not allow her to remain in her father's service long enough to make her endure this a second time.

Forty-eight hours later, Miranda got to watch her plan come to fruition. She stood at her window and observed the tutor being escorted off the property in handcuffs by police. What an unfortunate coincidence that the security guards had found confidential research data hidden in her bag when she left for the day.

That was the first time Miranda consciously manipulated a situation to her advantage, learning how to play people against each other, cover her own tracks and seize some control amid her powerlessness. It wouldn't be the last.

Miranda's only regret was that she didn't go further – that she didn't permanently destroy that woman's life and career in retribution for what she'd done to her.

The next one to fuck with her wouldn't be so lucky.

*     *     *

Miranda barely made it to tent city before the painkillers started to wear off. She swallowed the bile in her throat, willing her infirmity not to show on her face as she leaned on Jacob, letting him lead her through a war-wounded Hyde Park.

In her state, Miranda could scarcely take it all in. The area was strewn with canvas and metal. There were people living in tents, people living out of ships, and networks of wires running from engines to power everything from water heaters to wash clothes to the equipment at the field hospitals.

A giant refugee camp. That was what this was.

Everywhere Miranda looked, survivors were crammed on top of one another, fitting wherever they could, humans and aliens alike patch-worked together in one of the few places that hadn't been rendered uninhabitable by the Reapers.

There was barely enough room to breathe. Thousands upon thousands of bodies shifting the landscape with every step they took. Even as visibly wounded as she was, there was no way to move without people bumping into her.

She kept her eye open, scanning the crowd. Every time she glimpsed blue skin she half-heartedly hoped that it might be her, but it never was. That was okay. Patience. One of these people had to have seen Samara recently.

“It's still a ways to my bunk,” said Jacob, navigating his way through the maze of displaced people and ships. “How's that leg holding up? Doing alright?”

It was killing her.

“It's fine,” Miranda insisted, masking the pain as she limped along on her crutch.

Jacob snorted. “Should have guessed.”

Miranda soldiered on, quelling the rising nausea in her stomach. It was disorientating not to be able to see or hear what was going on around her the way she used to, throwing off her sense of balance. Or maybe that was just the blaring headache burgeoning behind her eyes.

“Consider yourself lucky. The only reason I'm okay with you being out here is because of the field hospitals,” Jacob reminded her, not letting her forget his disapproval of her great escape. “You can get your meds and get your bandages changed just like you could if you were in a ward. Only difference is, they won’t afford you special treatment now. If it's not urgent, you have to wait like anyone else. And if supplies run short, you can be waiting for a while.”

Miranda rolled her eye, sensing Jacob enjoyed giving her these speeches.

“Now, after I drop you off, I need to run to work, so you'll be without me for a couple of hours,” Jacob informed her, unable to take the day off to babysit her when London was in shambles. “But I did keep track of all your medications, and I know you did too. But I don't want you going anywhere in your condition. Not by yourself. Not for a couple of days, at least.”

“Is this what having a nagging mother feels like?” Miranda remarked, earning a side-eye from Jacob, but otherwise he ignored her ungrateful grumbling.

“I know who to talk to around here. There's doctors who can hook you up with what you need,” Jacob continued, guiding her beneath a large Alliance-issue tent, with seemingly hundreds of bunk beds all lined up under the canvas. “Don't worry about a thing. I'll make sure it’s taken care of.”

“Great,” Miranda muttered, half-ignoring him, half-deaf to his words thanks to the ringing in her ear. “How much further is it? Are you sure you're not just leading me around in circles to teach me a lesson?”

“Just through here.” Jacob gestured ahead, guiding her to his bunk, a small little bed in the middle of the tent. “It's not much, and there's shit all for privacy, but it's somewhere to lay my head at night, and a place I can call my own,” he said, taking nothing for granted, assisting Miranda in settling down on the edge of the bed, an uncomfortable groan escaping her. Jacob smirked. “I get the top bunk.”

“You can have it,” Miranda dourly retorted. She was in no condition to climb. Her damaged knee seemed to have swollen up, not reacting well to walking so far for the first time since she'd awoken. It was no wonder she was so shaky.

“What do we say?” Jacob jokingly asked, crouched down in front of her.

Miranda glowered at him, not amused, even if it was a relief to be off her feet. “Thanks, Jacob,” she reluctantly forced herself to say, desiring nothing more than to be left alone to cope with the withdrawal from her pain meds.

Jacob only stared at her, not satisfied by that sarcastic gratitude.

Miranda released a heavy sigh, realising she was unfairly taking out her ill-health and terrible mood on him. He'd done a lot for her. “Thanks, Jacob,” Miranda said again, this time sincerely, appreciating Jacob's sacrifices, and his friendship.

“You're welcome,” he replied, happy to see that genuine side of Miranda rear her head. “Take it easy. Try and get some rest. You still need it.”

“I'll do my best,” Miranda murmured as she lay down, not sure how she could sleep when it felt like someone was jamming an icepick squarely behind her eye.

Miranda wasn't sure how bad she had expected to feel after leaving the hospital. It wasn't like she'd felt fantastic there, either. But she'd sorely underestimated how much worse it would get. She'd planned on dragging herself as far as she could around the ruined city, getting a read on the aftermath, familiarising herself with her new reality. Yeah, so much for that idea.

At first, Miranda had the strength and stability to wander the tent where Jacob had left her, even if she felt like death while doing it. She asked questions through her debilitating headache and established where she could find basic supplies like food and water and clothes. A stranger even brought some of each back to her bunk for her, as she had no free hand to transport anything herself.

But then an hour passed. And another. By the third, she could barely move.

She turned and writhed, but each position was more painful than the last. There was no escaping the burns on her face, or the searing agony of her phantom arm, nerve connections that no longer existed flaring like they were on fire.

She squeezed her eye shut, wrapping Jacob's jacket tightly around her shoulders in a paltry effort to shield herself from her shivers, willing herself to sleep through this bad patch, and awake only when it had passed. But then it got too hot, and she began to sweat profusely. Taking off the jacket did nothing to stem the tide as the fever took hold. Within thirty minutes, she was so drenched she looked like she'd stepped into the shower with her clothes on.

Miranda managed to take a few sips of the water the stranger had left her when she felt like she might be dehydrated, but even swallowing that her mouth began to sweat, foretelling that the upset in her abdomen was no false symptom.

The world spun when she threw up over the edge of the bed, not that there was anything to vomit up but bile and stomach acid. As out of it as she was, she caught sight of passers-by and neighbours looking at her like they had no idea what she was doing out on her own, away from proper medical care. Miranda flopped back onto the bed, covering her eye with her arm, trying to block out the splotches of colour and light that foretold of her deepening migraine.

Stifled groans of pain tore themselves from her throat as she lay there. It was all she could do to grit her teeth and bear it for a few more seconds. At times, she wanted to scream, but Miranda would sooner suffer in silence than give her wounds the satisfaction of getting the best of her.

Delirious images drifted through her mind as she teetered in and out of consciousness, an indecipherable mess of half-remembered dreams, waking hallucinations and jumbled memories all merging together and creating a nonsensical chimera indistinguishable from reality.

Somewhere in the chaos, a vision stirred. A flash of blue and red silhouetted against a golden sky. A familiar, warm aura filling the desolate crater with light. A saviour descending like an angel of mercy, delivering salvation in her darkest hour, when death seemed all but assured.

Miranda could never forget the moment that Samara had saved her life. But it wasn't lost on her that that was the last time she had seen her face. There had been no sign of her since.

Day after day in the hospital Miranda had waited for her, anticipating that it would surely be the day that Samara returned to check on her. But she never came.

It didn't make sense. Jacob had told her Samara had been there by her bedside when Miranda lay unconscious. He'd told her that Samara had fought to go out there and find her when all others had forsaken her to the wasteland.

So why had Samara abandoned her now, after going to such lengths to rescue her?

After everything they'd been through together, and all of the quiet hours they'd spent in each other's company, wasn't their friendship worth more than that? 

Maybe she'd overestimated how much Samara cared for her. Miranda could be guilty of arrogantly inflating her own importance, she would cop to that. She could accept that Samara had other priorities to contend with without taking offence. But did Miranda really mean that little to her that she didn't warrant a goodbye?

No. That didn't seem right either.

All those memories, all those conversations they'd shared, they weren't fake. And Samara wasn't duplicitous or flakey or prone to flattery. She'd chosen Miranda in those moments as much as Miranda had chosen her.

If Samara hadn't returned, then it was a sign that something was wrong. Something must have happened, whether to her or to someone else. Maybe events had taken her far across the city, and traversing the wasteland was too dangerous to do alone. Maybe she'd found others in need and her Code demanded she could not leave them. Whatever the reason, it must have taken the choice out of Samara's hands.

Either way, if she couldn't rely on Samara to come back on her own, then Miranda would find her, one way or another. It was part of the reason she'd left the hospital, determined to seize control and take charge of her fate.

If she got involved with the rescue and recovery efforts like Jacob then, well, for one thing, Miranda would have a purpose. But it would also enable her to scour the wasteland and develop contacts and connections, until she had as complete of a picture of London as any other living person. By that point, tracking Samara down would be a certainty. If she was anywhere in the city, Miranda would know about it as a matter of course. It was what she did – how she operated.

A whimper of pain escaped her when Miranda moved the wrong way and put too much pressure on her stump, held together by staples and stitches. The accidental contact sent a sickening wave of torment through her amputation site, radiating out through her nervous system, stirring the persistent storm in the pit of her stomach.

Okay. Maybe regaining that level of control over her life was going to take longer than Miranda anticipated.

At that moment, a gentle hand brushed stray hairs off Miranda's forehead. She opened her eye to see Jacob there. “Hey,” he greeted her with a sympathetic smile.

“What time is it?” Miranda murmured, having lost track.

“About five,” he told her. “Sorry I couldn't get back any sooner.”

“Not your fault,” said Miranda, bleary and disorientated.

“How you holdin' up?” Jacob asked. Miranda could only offer a weary grunt in response. Jacob smirked. “You sure you don't want me to take you back to the hospital?” Miranda repeated the same sound, too obstinate to admit defeat now. “It's alright. I've got you covered. Come here.”

Jacob helped her sit up. Miranda noticed he'd brought medical supplies, including a metal IV stand, bandages, bottles of medication and syringes.

“Now, I'm no doctor, so I'm going to need your help setting this up,” Jacob admitted.

“Sure.” Miranda rubbed her eye to wake herself up, struggling to concentrate through her terrible health. “Hand me what you've got and I'll tell you what I need.”

With a little instruction, Jacob set up Miranda's IV with a bag of saline solution and a bottle of antibiotics, finding a vein in her arm to run the drip into, finally getting some fluid into her again. Once that was set up, out came the syringe for an injection of anticoagulant, followed by a shot of painkillers.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” Miranda muttered, realising what an imposition she'd put on Jacob and the lengths he had to go to in order to look after her. She definitely didn't enjoy feeling like a burden, but she had no alternative; she quite literally couldn't have done this without him. “I really do appreciate it.”

“You'd do the same for me,” said Jacob, putting the used needles aside for disposal and turning his attention to the bandages in his supply kit. “Okay. Next step, time to change those dressings.”

Miranda sighed, wishing there was a way she could look after her needs herself, but there wasn't. From her earliest memories, self-sufficiency and self-reliance had been demanded of her. She'd quickly learned not to show vulnerability, as it was inevitably interpreted as weakness, and those lessons had stuck with her well into her adult life. So, suffice it to say, she wasn't used to being in this position. But it had to be done, and she was dependent on Jacob to do it.

With her tacit consent, Jacob began to unwrap the bandages that covered her face, seeing those wounds with his own eyes for the first time.

“How's it healing?” Miranda asked, avoiding Jacob's eyes, unable to look at him.

“I'm no expert on how these tissue grafts are supposed to look,” Jacob pointed out. “Like it or not, at some point you're going to have to check in with a doctor to keep tabs on your progress.”

“I know,” Miranda acknowledged. Even with all the advances in technology that had made permanent synthetic skin grafts medically viable, there was still a risk that her body could reject the the artificial, lab-grown skin as a foreign body, particularly given that the operation had not been performed in ideal conditions.

“Have you been able to keep any food down?” Jacob asked her as he began to clean her wounds. Miranda shook her head. Jacob sighed heavily. “Well, that's a problem. You're not going to last long out here if you can't eat.”

“Those might be alright.” Miranda nodded towards what looked like some barley sugar candies that the kind stranger had brought to her earlier. It was just sugar. She could probably suck on those for a while without upsetting her stomach.

Jacob half-frowned, grabbing one of the sweets for her, taking it out of the wrapping. “It's better than nothing, but you can't live on this forever.”

“If I ever look like I'm about to starve to death, you have my permission to drag me back to hospital kicking and screaming,” Miranda remarked, popping the lolly into her mouth, needing a bit of a blood sugar boost.

Jacob seemed satisfied with that answer, gently dabbing the cool water from her wounds and beginning to apply a fresh dressing.

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” said Jacob, prompting Miranda to glance his way. “I know the kind of person you are, Miranda. You think you need to be bulletproof. You don't like to let anything get to you. You're not interested in wasting time processing how something makes you feel when you could already be ten steps ahead working on the solution.”

Miranda didn't object to his assessment. It was accurate.

“But you're allowed to be upset about what happened to you,” Jacob told her, understanding that, at least on some level, she wasn't as unfazed and unflappable as she'd made herself appear. “You're allowed to be angry, even if it won't accomplish anything, and even if you know in your head that those feelings are selfish or short-sighted or downright wrong. It's okay to be those things. You don't have to police your own reaction to getting hurt.”

Miranda uttered a humourless chuckle, averting her gaze. Jacob really did know her. Sometimes he had better insight into her than she had into herself. 

On some level, she still refused to accept that this was real, that she was severely injured, and that some of these disabilities were permanent. It wasn't a question of willpower. Miranda had no shortage of that. But there was going to be an adjustment. Some things, she physically wasn't ready to do yet. Some things, she would never be able to do the way she used to. At least not for the foreseeable future. Other things, she would have to learn how to do differently.

Miranda had never been in that situation before. She'd never allowed herself to acknowledge limitations, seeing them as personal failures. Perhaps Jacob had been right. Perhaps she had been in denial, deflecting and downplaying how bad her condition was after surviving the shuttle crash, because it was too difficult to confront her actual feelings, and what she was supposed to do now.

“Do you know what the most pathetic thing is?” Miranda began, letting the IV drip do its work. “I've had plenty of opportunities to, but I still haven't...seen myself, like this,” she explained, gesturing at herself to the extent that she could.

Jacob didn't interrupt, letting her speak.

“I don't really know why,” Miranda went on, voicing her thoughts aloud. “It's not that I care if I'm disfigured. Despite what people may assume, I've never been that attached to my looks, or my face. Why would I be? They were chosen for me by a man I despise. But, at the same time, that's still how I see myself. Two eyes. Two arms. No crutch. And it's as if...if I look in a mirror, that's the last time I'll ever be able to have that self-image. That's not me anymore. It never will be again.”

“Doesn't sound like it's the way you see yourself on the outside that's bothering you,” Jacob observed, helping her unravel her emotions. “Do you feel like you're a different person than the Miranda who came to Earth a few weeks ago?”

“Maybe. And I'm not saying it's a bad thing if I am. But at least I knew who she was, and what she was capable of,” Miranda replied. “If I hadn't been hurt, I'd...”

“You'd probably be running this place right now,” Jacob agreed, unable to dispute that. Miranda was a fierce and driven leader, and she seized the initiative in any crisis, whether people wanted her to or not. She may not have been good at getting people to like her, but her hyper-competence spoke for itself. She got shit done, and her justified assertiveness commanded begrudging respect. Anyone who saw her work would have been an idiot not to follow her.

“Right. That's what I'd expect, in a vacuum. So that's the bar I'm comparing myself to,” Miranda reasoned, piecing it together in her own mind as she talked it out. “I don’t think I need to spell out that it feels like I’m falling short.”

“There's nothing to say you can't catch up later,” Jacob replied, certain Miranda would work her way to the top as soon as she recovered from her injuries.

“I know. That's not the problem,” said Miranda. “The problem is I should already be there. I can't be the person who sits around and waits for herself to get better while the entire galaxy has fallen apart, Jacob. You know that's not me. If I've changed that much, then I don't even recognise who I am anymore.”

“Hey, don't be so hard on yourself,” Jacob reassured her, rubbing her arm. “You shouldn't even be alive right now. But you are. Everything you've done since that shuttle crash, you've been beating the odds. You've earned the right to let yourself heal. You're a practical person; if our roles were reversed, you'd be the first one to tell me you have to deal with the situation as it is, not as you wish it was.”

“But that's just it.” Miranda shook her head. “The situation goes far beyond me. The Earth is in ruins. The galaxy is fractured. The relays are destroyed. Virtually all of our friends are missing, presumed dead. We have people waiting for us thousands of light years away who we may never see again. Everything has changed in ways we can't even begin to fathom, Jacob. That's the reality we have to deal with now. And I don't know how I’m supposed to do that if I'm not the me I know, because I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

Jacob softened, recognising how lost she was. For the first time, Miranda was starting to make sense of it herself, unable to hide from it.

If Miranda had emerged relatively unscathed, then she could have coped with the devastation the Reapers had inflicted on the galaxy because, if nothing else, she had supreme confidence in her own abilities. If the Crucible hadn't destroyed the mass relays, Miranda could have coped with her injuries because, despite the loss, it wouldn't take long for the galaxy to reach a new status quo, and there would be nothing stopping her from reuniting with Oriana.

But to contend with both of those life-altering events simultaneously? She didn't have anything to fall back on – no stable ground on which to centre herself. Nothing was certain anymore.

Maybe Miranda was pushing herself too hard, forcing herself to try to be further along in the healing process than she was, and determined to be more capable than time allowed just yet, but that was only because she desperately needed to have some semblance of control over something, however petty.

Jacob finished changing her bandages, pausing for a moment, thinking of anything he could do to make things even a little bit better for her.

“Listen, I've never brought it up, because I figured if you hadn't asked me by now you had your own reasons for that,” Jacob began, “But do you think it might be time to try and send a message to Oriana?”

“I don't want her to see me like this,” Miranda confessed, a sliver of genuine emotion creeping to the surface, making her voice quiver. She wiped her eye, holding back a tear. “I'm not ready for her to know what happened to me. Not yet.”

Miranda knew Oriana would take it far, far worse than she had. She would never show it, of course. She would never want Miranda to feel responsible for making her upset, even indirectly. But Oriana would be crushed to think that her sister had been so badly hurt while she was systems away, unable to be there by her side when she was needed most.

“It doesn't have to be video. It can be audio only,” Jacob pointed out, releasing a strained breath as he moved to sit beside her on the bed. “Hell, I can't even promise if or when your message would make it through the comms.”

“I've had days to think about it and I still have no clue what I want to say to her,” Miranda solemnly admitted, harbouring the guilt of leaving Oriana behind, promising that she would return when she had fully expected to die on Earth.

“I don't think it matters,” Jacob noted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “As long as it's your voice she hears instead of mine telling her you're okay.”

Miranda nodded, absorbing that advice. “Good point.”

* * *

Miranda never understood when people were upset. Intellectually she did, she supposed. But, when an ordinary person saw somebody crying, they instinctively felt bad for them. They sympathised, empathised, and tried to comfort them.

Miranda didn't.

She didn't have many memories of crying as a child, and none where anybody comforted her. Quite the opposite, in fact. If Miranda was upset then, to her father, that was a flaw that needed to be corrected. An imperfection. Weakness and stupidity. Her tears didn’t move him, and he damn sure never showed any emotion towards her, except anger and disappointment.

Miranda had been keenly aware of that problem all day. It lingered in the back of her mind the entire time Shepard and Samara were down on Omega hunting Morinth, counting down the hours until they returned, with whatever news.

There were two alternatives: either Morinth would escape and continue her killing spree, or else Samara would succeed and return to the Normandy having killed her daughter. Both outcomes would affect Samara profoundly. And it had become painfully apparent that Miranda didn't have the faintest clue what to do.

Ordinarily, that was never a problem because, quite honestly, Miranda didn't care about people. Others could mope about the nonsense in their lives all they liked and it wouldn't bother her. That was their business. With very rare exceptions, she never concerned herself with anybody beyond their utility.

But that wasn't true with Samara. They were work colleagues, yes, but Miranda couldn't pretend that that was the capacity in which she spent those long, late hours with her on the Starboard Observation Deck. She didn't go there because her job demanded her to, or to talk to Samara about professional matters. The time Miranda shared with her was free time. Her personal time.

It was the closest thing to a burgeoning friendship Miranda had formed on the ship. Frankly, she would miss it a great deal were it to stop. That was why it left her in an awkward position when Samara finally returned, and it became self-evident that Morinth was no longer a threat to anyone.

Miranda knew she should go to Samara. Any normal person would have, after an ordeal like that. She wanted to. But, at the same time, she was wary.

Samara had killed her daughter. What could Miranda possibly say or do to make that reality any more bearable? It wasn’t like she could just drop in the way she always did and act like nothing had changed. That would have come off as insensitive, surely. Dealing with emotions – particularly those of others – was hardly Miranda's strong suit. What if she alienated Samara because of that?

A day passed, and she still hadn't worked up the courage to risk approaching her.

It was bothering her. A lot more than she would have expected.

Miranda had been lost in thought when the sudden sound of her door opening roused her from her introspection, prompting her to glance up from her work.

“Shepard,” Miranda dutifully greeted her commander, nodding in acknowledgement to cover her own inattention. “I thought I was the only one working overtime today. What are you still doing awake?”

“Don't worry; this isn't a personal visit,” Shepard assured her, knowing Miranda loathed to be distracted from her ceaseless duties. “Just handing in my report.”

“Your report?” Miranda echoed.

“About yesterday,” Andrea clarified. Oh, Miranda thought. Of course. “I would have expected you to start harassing me for it by now.”

“I...” Miranda hesitated. The truth was, any thoughts of writing to The Illusive Man about Samara and Morinth had slipped her mind. But she concealed her falter. “Clearly I was correct in assuming you wouldn't need me to remind you.”

An amused smirk tugged at the corner of Shepard's lips. “Did I just hear Miranda Lawson admit that another person could be competent?” she light-heartedly teased, though her jibe contained more than a kernel of truth.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “It's one report, Shepard; don't get carried away,” she said, reaching across the table to take it from her. “But...yes, so far, you have been 'reliable' in meeting deadlines. Perhaps you do deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

“It's almost like you can trust people on this ship to do their jobs,” Shepard wryly remarked. After all, her leadership style didn't involve micromanagement.

“You, yes. I'm not so sure about everyone else,” Miranda noted. One step at a time.

“I should go,” said Shepard, needed elsewhere. “Don’t stay up too late. Believe it or not, that datapad will still be there in the morning.”

Miranda glanced down at the report, the thoughts that had plagued her for the past twenty-four hours circling in the back of her mind. Even though it likely contained the very details she had been quietly craving, she was uncertain whether she wanted to read Shepard’s notes, uncharacteristically apprehensive about what they might reveal. What if it was worse than she anticipated?

“Shepard,” Miranda called out to stop her before she left. “How is she?” she asked, unable to leave the topic unaddressed. Andrea had been there when Morinth met her demise at her mother's hands, and it was safe to assume she'd already spoken to Samara since. If anybody was a credible source, it was her.

Andrea’s features betrayed mild surprise at her inquiry. Miranda never expressed any interest in the well-being of her crewmates, unless it was for the purposes of divulging that information to The Illusive Man. “You could ask her yourself,” Shepard pointed out, wary of her motives.

“Just answer the question,” Miranda said tersely, having no time or patience for games. If she was going to approach Samara at a time like this, then it was too important to misjudge. Shepard was one of the few people she trusted to have the insight to know how to read someone when they were at their most vulnerable. God knew Miranda lacked that gift. She didn’t want to screw it up.

Shepard tilted her head, seeing no reason not to share her assessment. “She's heartbroken, but she's free. I don't think I've ever seen anybody overcome by such sheer relief and such intense despair at the same time.”

Shepard's natural ability to empathise with others was shining through. Miranda had never really envied that skill until just then.

Miranda swallowed, giving a polite nod of her head. “Thank you.” It wasn’t much, but at least she’d given Miranda a starting point from which to prepare.

A hint of a frown crossed Andrea’s lips, not sure what to make of Miranda in that moment. Despite her doubts, Shepard left it at that, exiting her office.

Without prying eyes to see, Miranda's expression betrayed her mounting worry, silently debating whether to approach Samara or not. Was it right to? Did she need company after what she'd been through? Would she rather be alone? Would respecting her space be perceived as callous disinterest?

Regardless of the answer, maybe it was best to leave it until Samara was in a better place. Miranda was hardly equipped to help another person handle their trauma. Her cold reputation was not some fanciful invention of the rumour mill.

It wasn't even her problem. She shouldn't have to deal with it. That wasn't Miranda's job. They had a bloody therapist on the ship for that. And there was no doubting that Samara was strong enough to handle anything on her own. She'd done it for centuries. It was how she preferred it. She didn’t need anybody’s pity.

So why did leaving the matter unaddressed for as long as she already had leave Miranda feeling so uncomfortable in her own skin?

Ultimately, it was driving Miranda crazy thinking about it, so much so that it was interfering with her ability to focus on her work. And she didn't like to leave a problem unresolved. Whether it was a mistake or not, she had to try.

Of all the things that Miranda had done in her life, why should the prospect of acting like a decent fucking person for once be an insurmountable obstacle?

It wasn’t. It was the bare minimum she could do for Samara. There was no excuse not to make an effort. Besides, Miranda wouldn’t be able to look at herself in the mirror the same way if she kept hiding in her office like a coward.

By the time Miranda made that choice, it was late. Virtually everyone else had gone to sleep. Probably a good thing. She made the short walk between her office and the Starboard Observation Deck, tentatively entering the room.

On the outside, nothing looked any different. Samara sat in the centre of the room, meditating, as per usual. But the atmosphere wasn't remotely the same. It had more in common with the cold vacuum of space glistening in the window than the serenity Miranda had come to associate with this secluded sanctum.

“Samara?” Miranda broke the silence, unsure if her presence was welcome or not.

Samara did not reply.

Miranda cautiously took another step into the room, far enough to let the doors close, nursing a glass of wine. She'd brought two, and a bottle. She didn't know if Samara drank but, if there was ever a time to start, well, this was it.

“I noticed you weren't in the mess for dinner,” Miranda continued, matter-of-fact. “Kitchen's closed, but I could...bring you something, if you want.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I would prefer not to partake,” Samara politely declined, her tone even and emotionless.

Miranda couldn't claim to be surprised. In her position, she wasn't sure she would have felt like eating, either. “That's alright. You don't have to. But I could leave something out for you, in case you feel like having it later.”

“I do not expect that I will, but I appreciate your consideration.” Samara's voice was difficult to read. She sounded sincere but, then again, Miranda wasn't sure how much she could trust her own judgement on that. No matter how unaffected she came across, Samara definitely wasn't her normal self.

“...Would you prefer if I left?” Miranda elected to ask outright. No sense in playing games trying to figure out whether or not she was wanted when she could just confront the question directly. Miranda didn't receive an answer. She took that as an affirmative reply. “...Alright, then. I'll...”

“You may stay if you wish,” Samara intervened before Miranda could misconstrue her non-responsiveness as an invitation to leave.

Miranda blinked, somewhat confused. “Of course,” she said.

Samara stood as Miranda joined her, taking a heavy drink from her glass. Honestly, she hadn't expected to get this far and had no clue what to say. She'd never felt more awkward, at a loss for how to address the elephant in the room.

But Samara knew how she was feeling better than anybody else, right? If she wanted Miranda there, then she wanted her there. It only made sense to take her cues from her, and let her lead their interaction.

“...How are you?” was what Miranda eventually settled on when the unnatural quiet lingered intolerably long. Contrary to her expectation, Samara uttered something that sounded like a laugh, but if it was a laugh it was entirely humourless. “You're right. I'm sorry. That was a stupid question.”

“No. It is not,” Samara replied. “But I do not know how I could begin to answer that.”

For as restrained as Samara was, her voice quivered and cracked. She almost sounded as though she was on the verge of tears, though she didn't shed one. It was then that Miranda recognised it hadn't been laughter at all.

“Neither do I,” Miranda admitted, though Samara's reaction had given her a fair idea of a starting point. There was no mistaking the fact that Samara was completely and utterly heartbroken. And yet, at the same time, relieved? Even happy?

Miranda didn't wish to contemplate it, even if she could have. She found decrypting one emotion at a time convoluted enough, let alone the dissonant jumble that Samara now somehow had to sift through like a broken puzzle.

“A long time ago,” Samara's quiet voice disturbed the silence, “I brought a daughter into this world. Tenacious and sharp-minded. Everyone who met her – teachers, parents, peers – knew that she was destined for greatness. Instead of watching the bravest and smartest of my daughters live out the destiny she deserved, I spent the last four centuries hunting her. And now I have succeeded. She will never steal another soul – another mother's son or daughter.”

“No, she won't,” Miranda agreed.

“To be freed from that burden...” Samara swallowed and shook her head, her eyes shimmering as she struggled to express her myriad mixed emotions. “It defies comprehension. It is, in every respect, as though I have been granted a new beginning – the miracle of new life. While I cannot pretend I am not grateful for that, it does not serve as comfort for the fact that I have taken hers.”

“You had to,” Miranda spoke up. Nobody in their right mind could judge her for that.

“Yes, I did,” Samara confirmed, without making eye-contact. That was never in doubt. “I had to, because she succumbed to the disease I passed to her.” Miranda couldn't help but recoil slightly when she heard that, though her instincts warned her that it wasn't her place argue with the words of a grieving mother. Not today. “It twisted her and compelled her to become addicted to taking lives.”

“She chose to become a murderer, Samara,” Miranda gently pointed out. Samara couldn't blame herself for that. It wasn't her fault.

“Even if she had not, her diagnosis alone had already robbed her of her opportunity to live her life as a free woman – a life where she could have fulfilled even a fraction of her incredible potential,” Samara pointed out, empathising with her daughter's decision to defy the authorities, even though she obviously could not condone it. “My daughter did not die today. Not the one I brought into this world. I killed her centuries ago. I have only buried her, and at long last laid her to rest.”

Miranda's heart sank when she heard that. “Samara...” she moved to protest, but it was clear that Samara couldn't be swayed from her stance. Miranda folded her arms and drained her glass, biting her tongue, making her discontent with that sentiment apparent. It didn't go unnoticed.

“Hmm.” Samara bowed her head for a moment, finding some solace in Miranda's confidence. “Perhaps you will have a lesser opinion of me because of this but...part of me has always been proud of her for fighting her fate, rather than surrendering to it,” she confessed, well aware of how abhorrent that made her sound.

“That doesn't make me think less of you,” Miranda assured her. All she felt for Samara was compassion, as alien as that was. “I don't see why it should.”

“Then perhaps you are a fool and you pity me more than I deserve,” Samara responded, glancing down. Miranda chose not to read into that.

It hurt to think what Samara must have been going through, but she didn't have the faintest idea how she was supposed to comfort her. She'd never had to do it before. Not to anyone. Was she meant to...make physical contact? Touch her hand? Stroke her back? Say something? Stand there and listen? Could Samara even be consoled? Did it matter if she tried? Was it possible to say anything right, or would any words she offered only be construed in a way that made things worse?

She felt bloody useless, and she hated that feeling.

Even if Miranda's upbringing hadn't deprived her of the development of normal interpersonal skills, she didn't think that would have made a difference. This was a problem that was beyond her power to solve. She couldn't just...research the issue, make a decision and take Samara's pain away. If she could have, Miranda would have done it in a heartbeat, though. She didn't deserve this.

“Do not think that I did this because I despised her, nor even what she became; I did not,” Samara continued, prompting Miranda to glance up and gaze into blue eyes that shone with unyielding despair. “I loved her. I always loved her.”

“I know,” Miranda told her. Even if she hadn't recognised that before, she believed it now. Maybe because she finally had someone in her own life who made her feel the same way, in the form of her sister.

Miranda uttered a soft sigh, refilling her glass. They were talking, at least. That was what she wanted, right? But it was a conversation she was ill-prepared to deal with. Samara had been forced to take her daughter’s life to put her own soul at ease, but she was devastated all the same. How on Earth was Miranda supposed to know what to say? What could anyone say to make that okay?

In place of words, she offered a drink to Samara, who waved her hand in refusal. Miranda shrugged and topped up her glass even more. Why not? She needed it just as much. She took a few long sips, mulling over her words.

“I'm not going to console you or offer you any advice about how you feel, because I definitely don't understand it. Besides, I never learned how to do those things, so I'm sure I'd be objectively terrible at it,” Miranda began to break the silence. “That would be a waste of your time.”

“Perhaps, although I appreciate the intention,” Samara replied, her expression somehow at once both eerily tranquil and harrowed by grief.

“But, since you joined the crew, you've always been forthright with me, and you’ve listened to me waffle on about my...comparatively ridiculous personal problems,” Miranda continued, compelled to return Samara’s kindness. “So, if you ever need anything, my door is open to you. You've earned that.”

“This is not your responsibility. My burdens are not yours to shoulder; they are mine to bear alone. You owe me no debt, and I have never done anything for you in the expectation that it would be returned,” Samara quietly assured her.

“Good, because I'm not here out of obligation, or because I want a favour paid back later. I'm not entirely sure why I’m offering, because I'm clearly not good at this,” Miranda mumbled against the lip of her glass, choosing to be candid.

“Miranda,” Samara intervened, gently cutting her off, saving her from explaining herself when it was not necessary. “What I mean is that you are never required to do anything for my sake, for any reason. You do not have to speak with me or spend time with me if you do not want to, even in a time where you...feel that you might owe me some form of sympathy. You do not. And I will never hold it against you if you would...prefer to be elsewhere.”

Miranda blinked, caught by surprise. But then she nodded, accepting those terms. “Okay, then. If I’m free to do whatever I want and go where I please, then how about I just stay here?” Miranda proposed, meeting Samara's gaze. She could think of nowhere else aboard the ship she'd rather be, nor anyone else she'd rather be with on any given day. “Unless you have any objections, of course.”

A sincere if heavy-hearted smile unfolded across Samara's lips, visibly grateful for that response despite the sorrow that shone in her weary eyes. “No, I do not.”

“Great. Neither do I,” Miranda confirmed. Even if neither of them was especially accustomed this kind of companionship, it was becoming apparent that it had come to mean more than either of them expected. Their time together may only be limited, but there was no shame in preserving this bond while it lasted.

Before the silence could fall upon the secluded room once more, Samara's tenuous grip on her composure finally cracked. Just a little. She tried to resist them, but her first tear was shed, a sharp breath escaping her as her sorrow trickled down a pale blue cheek. She stepped forward, resting one hand against the window, as if leaning on it for support, to regather her strength.

Without a word, Miranda followed, her fingers gently touching Samara's shoulder, hoping her presence provided some comfort. Whether it was warranted it or not, Samara raised no objection to her vigil. So she didn't withdraw.

Miranda said nothing, allowing Samara to reflect, and process her thoughts in peace, her stoic features rarely betraying the depth of her grief.

There wasn't much Miranda could do for Samara. She knew that. But she stayed by her side for the entire night. She didn't sleep, though she ought to have, but it was worth it, because Samara didn't spend those hours alone with her regret.

* * *

“You feeling better this morning?” Jacob asked her as he got ready to head off for work, playing whatever role he could in the post-war recovery effort.

“Comparatively,” Miranda confirmed. It was miles better than her lowest point yesterday. “I'll be even better once the antibiotics and painkillers have kicked in.”

“Good. I'm glad you're not so bad today. But I need you do to me one favour,” he said, pulling on a jacket. Thankfully not the one now stained with Miranda's blood and sweat – that was officially hers now. “Stay put until I get back.”

Miranda snorted. “What? Right here? In this bed?”

“You know what I mean,” Jacob answered her with a dismissive roll of his eyes. “Remember what we talked about last night. Don't go off and do anything crazy while I'm gone. Take things slow. One step at a time.”

Needless to say, Miranda took a liberal interpretation of his request. She couldn't sit around all day doing nothing while she waited for Jacob to return. It wasn't in her nature, especially not with the tinnitus in her right ear driving her insane. So, she took the opportunity to explore the aftermath.

It was nought but gentle exercise – a stroll through London. Surely even Jacob couldn't be mad at her for that. He would be, of course, which was why Miranda did not plan on telling him. But he shouldn’t have been.

She was glad she'd chosen to go. It was her first chance to truly absorb what life was like in the days following the war, and to grasp just how far they still had to go to restore some semblance of the old social order.

This was what the world looked like now. This was London.

Even though this was probably the single most recovered area of the city, the vast majority of nearby buildings had been reduced to rubble. Many of those that stood were still inaccessible, too dangerously damaged to enter freely. Besides, without running water or power, what use were they? As a result, the streets were filled with survivors and refugees, slumming it in the cold.

She passed a small frigate, set down on the ground with stained laundry strung up on the ramp. Between the camps and the field hospitals, there must have been tens of thousands living outside. Maybe more. It was so crowded. The number of people who had died in this city alone was astronomical, yet the comparatively small number of soldiers and civilians who prevailed were crammed into a few tiny areas, as densely packed as tinned sardines.

Apparently Regents Park was in exactly the same state, only it had a higher proportion of aliens than humans. The communities weren't segregated, though. They were all intermixed, but for some degree of unofficial congregation.

Already, she'd walked by turian ships, asari, and mixed species crews. Miranda thought it would have been more sensible if the reverse was true, purely because it was easier to organise things that way. It was hard to mobilise any particular group of people when they were all spread out in such disarray.

From what Jacob had told her, the closest thing to a government in these troubled times had fittingly been set up in the old Systems Alliance offices. That building now acted as the headquarters for all rescue and recovery operations going on in the city, and as the hub of communications.

It wasn't just a human-led initiative either. Representatives of every species worked there in concert, trying to get the situation under control, and doing everything in their power to prevent things from getting worse.

They were all cut off from their military leaders, all of whom had jumped out of the Sol system before the relays exploded. With priority communication, they were able to stay in touch, but it didn’t change the fact that there was little to no structure and organisation down on the ground. It had fallen to the survivors to improvise and band together in ad hoc efforts to avert disaster.

The Reapers may have been defeated, but circumstances were no less precarious. They were balancing on a knife edge of competing needs, threats and tensions. Everyone appeared to be pulling together now regardless of species, but all it would take was for famine or disease to sweep through the camps to shatter that fragile peace. That wasn't even taking into account the quarians or turians. When their supplies ran out, what were they going to eat?

Hopefully, the situation would improve before then. But these issues couldn't be solved in London alone. And things may have been even worse elsewhere.

Miranda wandered out of Hyde Park and back onto the streets. She noticed some children getting yelled at by a soldier for running on the road, venturing outside of the designated habitation zones. These pathways had to be kept clear. The military needed roads. Tanks were always on the move, heading out into the wasteland to look for more survivors, or clearing out debris.

That was why everyone had been moved into open spaces, like parks, sports grounds or stadiums. Only a few had been given priority and placed into some form of housing, and they weren't much better off than the people outside.

As such, even parts of the city that were inhabited were scarcely distinguishable from the wasteland she'd crawled out of. Alleyways between buildings were often blocked with rubble or garbage. They hadn't cleared them all out yet, more concerned with treating the wounded and looking for survivors and scavenging for supplies in the ruined city. Food. Medicine. Clean water. Electronic parts to repair ships, vehicles and communication devices damaged in the fighting.

Operations were under way all around, though. Not just in the wasteland. Even in the green zone there was far too much to be done.

Miranda stopped and took note of the activity, watching dozens of survivors working together on the opposite side of the road, in groups comprised of soldiers and civilians alike. There were several different groups focused on several different tasks, such as trying to clear and repair potentially usable buildings for safe occupation, removing debris from the streets, searching for supplies, safely demolishing damaged buildings so they didn't pose a risk.

As she watched on, vehicles drove by, moving out into the wasteland beyond the green zone, accompanied by dozens of men and women on foot. It may have seemed futile to continue searching for survivors, but the reality was that large areas of London hadn't been reached yet, rendered inaccessible due to collapsed skyscrapers, crashed ships, flooding from burst water pipes. For all they knew, there might be completely functional outposts as near as Watford or Slough. Maybe even closer. Just unable to communicate with anyone.

Whatever the Crucible had done had badly damaged communications down on the ground. While Central London had managed to repair much of theirs, others might not have been able to. And the remaining comm buoys were so overburdened with people trying to get messages through that, without knowing how to access priority channels, it could take weeks or even months to be heard.

A lot of ships had been fried in the blast wave too. Not safe to fly. Not that ships were even that useful when there were few if any safe landing zones. For the most part, they were better used as power generators and shelters for the refugees, though shuttles were proving invaluable in traversing the wastes.

Regardless, it would likely take a while before they’d covered the whole city.

A cat darted through the shadows in an alley, chasing rats through overturned rubbish bins. Well, at least something in this city didn't have to worry about food, Miranda thought. Rats were abundant, which was a whole other problem.

Before the Sun had even hit midday, Miranda had seen enough.

Sure, she'd only left the hospital yesterday, and even then against doctor's orders, but there was nothing she found more irritating than not having anything to do. Especially when she knew there was nary a job she didn't excel at. Even with her injuries, she needed a task, a goal, a sense of purpose.

Miranda was a person who got things done. They needed people like her when the world was on its knees. Besides, she needed something to do to alleviate her boredom. And getting involved was her best chance of locating Samara, or finding another person who had seen her in the past two weeks.

Those were all good reasons.

Determined to put her skills to good use, Miranda made her way to the unofficial HQ Jacob had told her about. Walking was still painful, but she was getting used to it. At least she could limp without further damaging her leg.

It was buzzing with Alliance personnel when she got there. Troops were lining up, sorting through crates of supplies. Others seemed to have formed a unit that was being sent out much like those she'd passed by earlier, maybe headed to the same place, maybe in another direction.

Humans weren't the only people there. Members of every species were all around, either working right alongside humans, co-ordinating their efforts with the interim London leadership, or else bringing the concerns and ideas of interested parties to their attention. They mainly looked military, but not all were.

“Can I help you?” said an officious woman with high-pitched American accent, evidently singling Miranda out due to how out-of-place she must have looked.

“Yes. Is Commander Bailey in?” Miranda asked. “I need to speak with him.”

Jacob had mentioned his name to her back when he filled her in about life in post-war London, explaining to her that Bailey had made it off the Citadel before the Reapers seized it. Quite a few people had, in fact. Apparently, the Reapers had let many ships go, not seeing them as threats. But sadly not enough to even begin to compensate for the millions of lives lost on the station.

Like many others, Bailey had joined the fight for Earth in his desperation to save anyone still trapped on the Citadel. That was a lost cause now. The Citadel was a wreck. Anyone who had been on it when the Crucible fired would have been fried or suffocated in space when the station’s atmosphere went offline.

Undeterred, Bailey had since become one of the ringleaders of the reconstruction. Given that he'd dealt with the aftermath of Sovereign's attack on the Citadel, Miranda couldn't fault that appointment. He was an ideal choice to take charge of London. He had a lot of experience with post-disaster conditions.

“Commander Bailey is busy. You'll have to—“

“He knows me,” Miranda cut her off, unflinching, which stopped her cold. Even with her wounds, she was apparently no less authoritative and intimidating. Good. “Trust me, when he hears my name, he will want to speak with me.”

“...Alright,” the woman said cautiously. “What name should I give?”

“Lawson. Miranda Lawson.”

“Miranda Larsen?” the woman echoed.

“No. Lawson. Like the poet?” Her reference drew nothing but a blank stare. Miranda sighed. “Nobody ever knows the poet,” she muttered, finding this delay incredibly tedious. “Just call him down.”

The woman gave her a strange look before turning away, calling upstairs through her omni-tool. Miranda leaned on her crutch, examining the building while she waited. It had definitely sustained some damage in the war. There were marks where bullets had hit the walls, and part of the floor looked like it had been blown apart by a grenade. But it was intact. That was something, in these times.

Sure enough, her unexpected visit had been enough to warrant an audience.

“Commander Bailey.” Miranda gave a nod in greeting when she saw him arrive. “So you do remember me, then.”

“I don't forget anyone who travelled in the company of Commander Shepard,” he gruffly pointed out. He folded his arms, sizing her up. “You also had links to Cerberus, as I recall,” he said rather tepidly.

“Formerly,” she clarified, assuaging any doubts about her loyalties.

“I'm aware of that,” Bailey told her, speaking straightforwardly. “Why do you think you were able to move about the Citadel so freely this past year, even after the shit they pulled?” he said, giving her a look. Miranda smirked at that. With his no-nonsense attitude, she and Bailey were probably going to get along just fine.

“Unfortunately, Ms. Lawson, I doubt we can be of assistance to you,” he told her, sensing she was most likely seeking preferential treatment. “If it's a doctor you need, you'll have to go to one of the field hospitals like everybody else.”

Miranda wasn't naïve enough to be taken aback by that reaction.

“There appears to be a misunderstanding about my intentions,” Miranda said, maintaining her professional disposition. “I'm not here for help; I'm here to help you,” she matter-of-factly informed him as if he didn't have a say in it. Which, ultimately, he wouldn't. “I plan to start working here, effective immediately.”

It wasn't a request. It was a statement.

Bailey regarded her oddly. “Look, I appreciate the offer,” he began, searching for the least offensive way to say he didn't think she'd be anything more than a burden to him, at least until she healed up a bit more, “But, frankly, I'm not sure we have any tasks that we could put you to. I mean...what work do you do, exactly?”

“Whatever my employers need, really,” Miranda answered honestly, shrugging her shoulders. She was good at everything. A jack of all trades. “I solve problems. I do things that nobody else can get done. That would be the best way to describe it.”

“Problems of what magnitude?” Bailey inquired, unimpressed by her claims.

“I raised the dead once,” was Miranda's blunt reply. Given the fact that it was true, it was a pity no one would ever believe that.

“Don't suppose you can do that again,” Bailey sarcastically remarked, assuming she was fucking with him.

“Well, if you're willing to spend two years and two billion credits on each resurrection,” Miranda answered, her expression unchanging. “Of course, I'd also need a state of the art facility to work in, so if you're ever in a position to provide that, let me know and I’ll be there. Until then, we can do other business.”

Bailey stared at her, his brows threaded together. “...Either you're being completely serious or your sincere voice sounds a lot like your sarcastic voice,” he said in a mutter. Actually, both of his thoughts were true, but Bailey didn't need to know that.

“If you doubt my abilities, allow me to make you a proposition,” Miranda began, approaching him. “Send me in the direction of someone or something that's causing you a particular difficulty. If I haven't reached a solution for that issue by the end of the day, I won't bother you again.” She paused momentarily, reconsidering that. “Well, at least, not until my condition has improved.”

He uttered a strained sigh, not buying that Miranda was capable of doing anything other than getting in the way. “Look, Ms. Lawson, the reality is that all our most serious problems are resource shortages. While I'm sure you may have been fantastic at whatever it is you did for Cerberus in the past, unless you can manifest food or medical supplies out of thin air—“

“Medical supplies?” Miranda arched her eyebrow. Bailey moved to interrupt, but Miranda cut him off. “Say no more. I'll be back by sundown,” she vowed.

If Bailey was shocked by that, Miranda didn't see it, because she didn't linger long enough to gauge Bailey's expression, turning and walking away without a second glance, ready to deliver on that promise.

She'd given him her word, and she was going to keep it. She had roughly seven hours to obtain those medical supplies. Preferably a substantial amount. That sounded simple enough, as long as the painkillers didn’t wear off.

First things first, she had to dig through the local rumour mill. Contacts were an agent's best friend, someone who knew the word around town. They were always the quickest way of finding a hint about where to look.

Someone always knew something. But who to ask?

“Excuse me, Ms. Lawson?” a female voice called to Miranda, prompting her to turn. She blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unusual sight. A green asari, hurrying to catch up with her. Now there was no mistaking who that could be. “Uh, forgive me for cornering you like this. I'm not sure if you remember me.”

“I do,” Miranda assured her. Even though it had only been one brief encounter, Miranda had a near perfect memory. She rarely forgot a thing. That and, suffice it to say, it was difficult to get her confused with anyone else. “It's...Shiala, isn't it? We met on Illium. You were seeking treatment for the side-effects you and the Feros colonists suffered following your exposure to the Thorian three years ago.”

“That's correct,” Shiala confirmed, pleased that they could skip past the introductions. “I didn't recognise you at first but, when I heard your name...well, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Commander Bailey – what you said about gathering medical supplies,” she said, being direct in her purpose. “The thing is, we already have a lead on a large quantity of them.”

“That was fast,” Miranda remarked. “Where are they?”

“They're being held ransom by a criminal named Gary Wolfe and his gang of thugs,” Shiala informed her. “As far as I know, they’re mercenaries who went rogue after the war. We found out about him when we tracked the source of a bad batch of insulin. It was watered down. Four people died. They've seized control of an entire hospital a few miles from here, out in the wasteland.”

“So why hasn't anyone gone after them?” Miranda asked, suspicious. Yes, they might sustain casualties in a firefight, but they had thousands of soldiers that could storm the building at their disposal and put an end to his illegal enterprise.

“We were going to a few days back, but Mr. Wolfe sent out a warning over radio, saying he'd rigged the building with explosives. He threatened to blow the hospital and the supplies sky high unless we negotiate a trade on his terms. So, for now, we're at a standstill.” Shiala sighed, visibly stressed. It looked like barely a day went by where her head didn't hurt. “I've been pushing to organise a commando raid, but nobody will listen to me. Nobody is willing to take that risk.”

“Until now,” Miranda replied, an idea already forming in her head.

Shiala glanced up, as if she hadn't expected that response. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” said Miranda. She was always serious. “This is exactly the type of lead I was about to go looking for. The only thing I need now is transport.”

Shiala stared at her for a few moments, gauging her. “Look, I don't know if you're dramatically overestimating yourself or underestimating what you're getting yourself into, but...screw it, you're my only option. If you're going out to the wasteland, you'll need a shuttle. Nothing else can traverse the landscape,” Shiala explained, committed to securing Mr. Wolfe's stash.

“I know. I had a very good view of the situation when I was crawling through the wreckage,” Miranda dryly remarked, wondering where to find a willing pilot.

“I have one,” Shiala volunteered without hesitation, cutting off Miranda’s train of thought. If Shiala wanted her undivided attention, that was a good start. “I know where the hospital is. I've scouted it. I'll take you there.”

“…Well, aren’t you convenient,” Miranda commented, studying Shiala, cautious of her motives. When something sounded too good to be true, it usually was. “What’s in this for you? Why are you so eager to get involved?”

“People need those medical supplies. You can't walk down the street without being inundated with scenes of suffering. Doing the right thing by the wounded isn't reason enough?” Shiala said with a shrug, guarded.

“In my experience, rarely,” Miranda answered plainly.

Shiala accepted that response without offence. “I'm not naïve. I've seen enough in my time to understand your cynicism. And I suppose you're right that my motives aren't entirely unselfish. You see, my people need medicine too. Specialised medicine, and they're dangerously close to running out.”

“You mean the asari?” Miranda inferred.

“No,” Shiala shook her head. “I will always be asari, but the Zhu's Hope colonists are my people now, in a way that is...more than you could understand,” said Shiala, clasping her hands together nervously and averting her gaze. “Some of them got hurt in the fighting. I can't in good conscience risk their safety again, but you're the first person I've met who’s been willing to confront the Wolfe Gang. All I ask is that you let me take what I need to keep them going without red tape getting in the way. It won't be very much. I swear it.”

Miranda wasn't stupid; she knew a good deal when she heard one. And getting things done usually required a favour here or there, so it was an expected compromise. At least this time it was for a noble cause. “I don't think Bailey will notice if a few bits and pieces are missing. After all, who's to say Mr. Wolfe and his associates didn't pilfer it themselves?” she suggested, feigning ignorance.

Visible relief washed over Shiala's face, like a vice that had been tightening around her heart finally relinquished some of its pressure. “You have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you, Ms. Lawson.”

“It's Miranda. And you can thank me by showing me to this shuttle of yours.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

*     *     *

“You often bring your work with you,” Samara observed, prompting Miranda to look up from her datapad. While their silence could frequently go undisturbed, it was gradually becoming more and more common for them to speak when they shared this space. “Does this not defeat the purpose of leaving your office?”

“Sometimes a change of scenery helps me finish it,” said Miranda, typing away.

“You are always welcome to join me in meditation, as you have before. You might return to the task with a sharper mind,” Samara advised.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can't meditate when I have something I need to get done. I'll spend the entire time thinking about what I need to do, and how to improve it,” Miranda politely declined. She knew how her head worked.

“Which has greater worth?” Samara asked her. “Your accomplishments, from which you gain little or fleeting satisfaction, or the pursuit of spiritual clarity?”

Miranda blinked, wondering if that was a trick question. “My accomplishments. I brought Shepard back to life. I'm fighting to defeat the Collectors. After that, the Reapers. These aren't meagre tasks; these things affect billions of lives. That is more important. The galaxy won't thank me for soul-searching.”

“I did not ask what the galaxy requires of you,” Samara responded.

“I know you didn't, but sitting around deliberately doing nothing just isn't in my nature. It feels like wasting time I could spend working on other things.” Miranda paused, realising how that sounded. “That comment wasn't directed towards you, by the way,” she clarified, growing more aware of her tendency to rub people the wrong way. Normally, she didn't care if people disliked her, but she actually got on well with Samara. She had no desire to sabotage that.

Fortunately, Samara didn't seem affronted. “There was a time when I once thought as you did,” she said. “My youth was without a doubt the most active time of my life. I saw and experienced many things, barely stopping to rest. I travelled with mercenaries. Fought with mercenaries. Slept with mercenaries.” Miranda glanced up at that last one, only for a moment. “Yet I gained few insights living life at such a pace. My spiritual and moral development remained stagnant.”

“Huh. I can't imagine you being like that,” Miranda offhandedly commented, still primarily concentrating on her work. Samara was so elegant, graceful and composed. She carried herself with absolute confidence and certainty about who she was. It was hard not to picture her as a young woman possessing the same almost regal dignity she did now, far from the reckless outlaw she’d described.

“Our beginnings rarely match the person we become. You were young once, were you not?” asked Samara, amused by her perception of her.

“No, not really,” Miranda admitted, though that wasn’t what Samara meant. “I wasn't allowed to be. I made mistakes when I finally seized my freedom, if that's what you're asking, but between my father and Cerberus I had to grow up fast. Although I suppose, from your species' point of view, I'll always be young.”

“Some asari take that view of short-lived species,” Samara acknowledged, having heard that belief uttered before. “But many do not. I do not.”

“How do you mean?” Miranda asked, raising her head, intrigued.

Samara gestured for Miranda to sit beside her, indicating that she had to put aside her work if she desired an answer. Miranda couldn't conceal a vague shred of disapproval, but Samara had successfully distracted her; she did want to hear the rest of this conversation. With that, she joined her on the floor.

“Short-lived species tend to be perceived as hasty and impetuous among my kind, traits often associated with childishness,” Samara explained. “However, this is a narrow-minded perspective that places asari in the centre and fails to critically examine our own context, in addition to that of others.”

“What is the asari context?” Miranda prompted, curious to hear her take on it. Samara was genuinely speaking as herself – voicing personal views entirely separate from her Justicar role, which was always enlightening.

Not that Miranda took issue with the influence of her Order on her beliefs, but it was intriguing to ponder the woman Samara was distinct from the Justicar vows.

“Asari have many years in which to be youthful and carefree. In some respects, this is beneficial, as there is much in the galaxy to explore and experience. In others, perhaps it is not,” said Samara, her tone relaxed and calm. “Taking these luxuries for granted often leads to decades, if not centuries of frivolity and recklessness, much as it did for me. As such, you will rarely find one among my kind whose past is unblemished by regrettable errors in judgement.”

“So, in other words, it's hypocritical for them to accuse us of being childish when they've probably spent longer than an average human lifespan on youthful indiscretions,” Miranda concluded on her behalf. Samara nodded, confirming that was correct. “What about you? What do you think of short-lived species?”

“I do not envy that you are forced into adulthood from a very early age. The pace of your lives is often turbulent, but it is also an asset in shaping your appreciation for each moment you are granted,” Samara thoughtfully replied. “It emboldens you and teaches you to be resourceful and inventive. You master skills and knowledge at an astonishing rate. You take years to possess the wisdom, insight and maturity that some among my kind do not achieve over centuries.”

“And humans? Any thoughts on us specifically?” Miranda inquired, arching an eyebrow. “I promise I won't be offended.”

Samara's lips curled, a small but contented smile. “I like your species,” she said sincerely, evidently enjoying this discussion. It was rare for her to be so...animated. “Much like Commander Shepard, you embody what is best about your kind.”

Miranda ordinarily wouldn't have reacted to that. It was a fact, wasn't it? Not a compliment, just a reality. But hearing it from Samara was different, somehow. Miranda wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps because she actually valued her opinion. Although she didn't entirely know why that was, either.

“Well, I was designed to—“

“That is not to what I refer,” Samara interrupted her, having anticipated the misinterpretation as soon as the statement had left her lips.

A faint squint passed across Miranda's features. “Okay. What, then?”

Samara looked back towards the observation window, tilting her head slightly. “I believe the saying goes, 'If you want a problem solved, give it to a human',” she repeated, certain she’d recalled the gist of the phrase, if not the exact wording. She paused and turned to Miranda once more. “If you have an objective, you will see it done. Where others see impossibility, you are already completing the task. Among others, it is this aspect that makes you truly exceptional.”

Miranda smirked. “I thought you said I put too much stock in my accomplishments,” she pointed out, with no shortage of smug self-satisfaction. That sounded an awful lot like Samara conceding Miranda had been right before.

“You do not,” said Samara. “But you can devote yourself to worthy achievements without neglecting your inner development – that which will have the most profound effect on your growth and fulfilment as a person.”

“You mean like you?” Miranda asked, seeing Samara as the perfect embodiment of that balance. She meditated and reflected on her philosophies, yes, but never wavered from putting them into action as a Justicar.

Samara glanced down momentarily, a melancholy shadow passing across her features. “No,” she answered, though her tone was neutral, with no hint of sorrow. More like acceptance. “The opportunity for the latter has long passed for me.” Miranda frowned. That was rather a fatalistic thing to say. “But it has not for you,” Samara continued, meeting her gaze once more, with greater optimism.

Miranda had never been known for her sensitivity or her ability to read others, but Samara's meaning was painfully clear. It wasn’t lost on her that, in the time they had both spent aboard The Normandy, Miranda had rescued her sister, but Samara? She had killed her own daughter. 

Samara had undergone a noticeable change since that day, for the better. She was more vocal, more expressive. She actually smiled. Her Sisyphean task had finally ended. She no longer needed to bear that oppressive weight.

However, that didn’t mean she wasn’t still in pain.

Not enough time had passed yet. Maybe there was no amount of time that would ever diminish that hurt to the point where she could think of her daughter without a shadow of mourning and loss flickering across her eyes.

For as determined as she had been to stop Morinth from ever killing again, Samara had been in agony for four centuries as she awaited that fateful day, knowing what she had to do. Now, the deed had been done, but those deeply ingrained emotions didn’t go away overnight.

Miranda had been there to see that. Samara’s joy. Her sorrow.

Ordinarily, Miranda might not have understood how she could hold such conflicting feelings, when they should have been mutually exclusive. Poor socialisation hadn't made her a shining beacon of empathy. But meeting Oriana had given her an insight into what it meant to truly, unselfishly love someone.

What if Oriana was like Morinth? Or worse, what if she was an agent for the Reapers like Saren? What if, in some alternate reality, she was behind all these Collector attacks? What would Miranda have done? Would Miranda have any choice but to kill her? Probably not. But it would have broken her heart.

Even if Samara didn't love the monster her daughter had become, she still remembered her as she was the first time she held her innocent baby girl in her arms, just as Miranda had cradled her sister after rescuing her from her father. Part of her would always see Morinth that way, no matter what she’d done. And that was the child she could never stop loving. Miranda could relate to that.

The other thing Miranda respected better than most was why Samara didn't wish to express all that, no matter how heavily the grief still weighed on her mind. She carried it alone. So Miranda let her leave it unsaid, unshared.

“What are your views?” Samara broke the silence, making Miranda blink.

“Sorry?” she said, not following the sharp turn in conversation.

“Even though I am on a ship filled with humans, I must admit I have learned less about your species than I ought. Since we have discussed how asari perceive humans, I am curious as to how your species views mine,” said Samara, avoiding letting the atmosphere become overly sombre. Perhaps she felt she had shared her personal burdens with Miranda enough as of late.

Miranda curled her forefinger beneath her chin. “I’m not sure I can answer that without grossly oversimplifying. Every human views the asari differently.”

“That does not surprise me,” Samara remarked, her lip quirking with amusement. It seemed genuine, even if a hint of her heavy heart lingered behind her eyes. “I mean no offence, but it has become apparent to me that whenever I ask a human for one opinion on a matter they will give me six.”

“Oi, you had your turn; we’re talking about your species now,” Miranda feigned protest, searching for an adequate response. “At best, you’re seen as enlightened beings, intelligent, wise and technologically advanced - staunch allies who champion principles of democracy, equality and inclusion, and serve as the peacemakers of the galaxy. At worst, you’re haughty, judgemental and patronising with an undue sense of superiority and your compassion towards ‘lesser species’ is belittling, self-serving and manipulative.”

“Neither viewpoint is without merit,” Samara acknowledged. There was truth in both those extremes, even if neither was entirely accurate on its own. “I am intrigued to know whether your views fall into the former or the latter.”

Miranda shook her head. “It’s not a question of one or the other. As you said, both are true, to some extent. I’ve met many asari I respect and admire. I’ve met others I couldn’t stand. I could say the same about my own kind.”

“So you believe we are more similar than we are different?” Samara inferred. Miranda’s expression shifted, frowning slightly. That wasn’t what she’d intended to say, but by the same token she didn’t disagree with that assessment. “If that is your view, I am not certain your organisation would agree with you.”

“Believing in human advancement doesn’t mean Cerberus hates non-humans,” Miranda interjected almost instinctively, keen to correct that misapprehension. It was a false dichotomy she’d heard far too often. “That may be the reason why some people join or donate, but that doesn’t represent me or The Illusive Man. If anything, Cerberus has learned from the examples of other species, for better and worse. We just aspire to be your equals, not your inferiors.”

It was hard not to take any criticism of Cerberus personally. Miranda had spent her entire adult life in their employ, and she had never witnessed anything that made her question her loyalty. Their reputation as racists and terrorists was unwarranted. Their interests lay more in espionage, science and technology, hardly any different from the black ops activities carried out by every species.

Besides, she owed them. They had taken Miranda in when she had nowhere to turn, and had been the first people to treat her with kindness and respect. The Illusive Man had been a better father to her than her own father ever was.

“A fair ambition. Certainly, I have not experienced any intolerance or prejudice aboard this ship that would lead me to contradict you,” Samara noted, not wishing to suggest otherwise. “But you still have not told me your opinion.”

Miranda sighed. That wasn’t unjustified. She wasn’t intentionally dodging the question, but she hadn’t afforded Samara a straight answer.

“Every species has something of value that they bring to the table. Some more than others but, all the same.” Miranda shrugged and trailed off. “As far as the asari go, I’ve always admired you, ever since you stopped the First Contact War. I think humanity could stand to learn a lot from your species. You set the bar for what we could be if we set our minds to achieving our full potential.”

“Interesting.” Samara tilted her head. “You believe you could stand to learn from us, yet you do not heed my advice regarding meditation,” she observed.

Miranda paused, detecting the almost mischievous glint in Samara’s gaze.

God damn it. Samara had just outfoxed her.

“...I walked into that one, didn’t I?” Miranda conceded, willing to admit Samara had gotten the better of her. Few people could. “You have a point.”

“I am pleased that you think so,” Samara light-heartedly and humbly replied.

“Tell you what, how about I finish what I'm doing and then I'll join you in meditation?” Miranda offered, that compromise being the closest she could come to expressing anything that remotely resembled an act of friendship. Somehow she got the impression Samara recognised her effort for what it was.

“Very well,” said Samara, content to settle back into her trance, satisfied with her small victory, irrespective of whether Miranda would actually follow through.

Sure enough, Miranda kept her word.

* * *

They set the shuttle down a short distance from the hospital. Miranda got a pretty good view of it from above. Fortifications and walkways had been set up for guards, with snipers patrolling the front and rear, keeping watch.

“Are you sure about this?” Shiala asked, not yet lowering the shuttle door.

“About what?” Miranda offhandedly responded, her attention focused on her destination. Caustic dust tainted the air outside, something that was all too fresh in her memory. She wished she had a spare hand to cover her mouth.

“Going in alone,” Shiala answered, evidently concerned. “No offence, but you can barely walk, and I'm a trained asari commando. It might be best if I accompany you, in case the situation turns dangerous,” she tried to persuade her.

Miranda glanced at Shiala. They hadn't been in each other's company long, but her impression of the asari so far was that she seemed a serious and honourable woman. Her mannerisms could be a little strange at times, with moments of inexplicable stiltedness to her speech, but she had demonstrated that she was sensible, practical and competent.

When she’d led Miranda to her shuttle, humans who weren’t part of the Feros colony had approached her, reporting to her like she was an unofficial leader. It was evident that many survivors trusted her, recognising her as someone who would advocate for them, or volunteer to help with any problems they had.

Knowing somebody like her might come in handy in the future, Miranda thought. A former asari commando turned human sympathiser, independent from anyone else's influence, free to follow her own judgement and not bound by the rules of any military or other organisation? All those things made her incredibly useful.

“I appreciate the offer, but there's no need; I can handle myself,” Miranda replied, dismissing the suggestion. “I'd rather you guard the shuttle and keep an eye on those snipers. You are my ride out of here, after all.”

“So I'm...Plan B?” Shiala inferred, trying to make sense of whatever crazy ideas Miranda had up her sleeve.

“Well, that and my strategy for getting inside relies upon the exploitation of a certain set of social biases,” Miranda casually commented, peering out the window once more. “I have to play the role of the vulnerable, defenceless disabled woman. Somehow, I doubt Gary Wolfe will be quite as amenable to the charade if I arrive at his gate with an asari commando at my side.”

“...Very well,” Shiala acquiesced, withdrawing her reservations.

“I'm not sure how long this will take, but I'll signal you when you're clear to bring the shuttle in,” said Miranda, syncing their omni-tools so Shiala could listen in via her microphone. “There. All set. You’ll be able to hear everything.”

“I'll keep the shuttle ready in case you get in trouble,” Shiala added.

“That won't happen,” Miranda guaranteed her.

Shiala stared at her, with palpable scepticism. “...I'll keep the shuttle ready,” she reiterated, not quite buying into Miranda's boundless overconfidence. With that, she raised the shuttle doors, letting Miranda out into the wasteland.

With every step she took towards it, Miranda examined the building, gauging its layout and defences, even as the dust swirled around her. Gary definitely wasn't alone. His crew were prepared to fight for their territory, and they’d taken notice of her. At least three assault rifles were already trained her. But that was fine.

Beyond that, most of his defences were automated – a combination of turrets and a simple reworking of the hospital's own surveillance system. All hospitals like this had generators, of course, so power was not an issue for him.

The entrance was cordoned off behind high walls and a heavy steel gate, topped with barbed wire. Gary and his gang had obviously secured the building as best they could, ensuring any attackers had virtually no way of getting inside except through this gate. If they tried to break in any other way, Gary would set off the detonator the moment he sensed they were under attack. Allegedly.

Security cameras were trained on her position, watching Miranda limp towards the gate. She had their attention, at least. But no shots had been fired.

“Alright, that's close enough,” said one of the guards. He stood on a makeshift platform just behind the wall, brandishing his weapon threateningly. Miranda raised her arm, crutch in hand, offering no resistance. “If you're looking for a doctor, look elsewhere. We're not open for business.”

“I'm here to speak with Gary,” Miranda called back to him.

“What about?” he asked, interrogatively.

“Payment, for these supplies,” she said, keeping her hand raised.

Hearing that made the guard pause momentarily, not sure what to make of that. Sensing no threat from Miranda, he turned aside long enough to mutter something into his communicator. About thirty seconds later, he faced her again. “There's an intercom down there. Talk through that,” he instructed.

Miranda limped forward, approaching the gate.

“State your name and your business here,” a voice came over the speaker. Gary, no doubt. The man had an accent that bore a striking resemblance to Zaeed's, only his voice wasn't as deep or as gravelly.

“My name is Miranda Lawson. I’m a negotiator,” she answered back, keeping her hand perched against the intercom to help maintain her balance. “I'm here to talk with you about the supplies you have stored here.”

“You're with the Alliance?” he asked, evidently wary. “Or Bailey and his lot?”

“Of course,” Miranda lied effortlessly. “Who else would send me?”

“I warned you that I would take out this whole building and everything in it if the Alliance ever came knocking,” he threatened, audibly paranoid. “I'm not giving up any of this shit except on my terms.”

“That's why they sent me,” Miranda calmly replied. “I've been asked to discuss terms of settlement with you. Ideally, they want us to come to an agreement by the end of the day. The medicines you have here are incredibly valuable, but nobody on our side wants to see more blood shed over them. I'm sure you don't either,” she said. Gary's gang was in this for profit and personal gain, after all.

“So the Alliance is gonna give us what we want?” he said, remaining suspicious. It didn’t appear he’d expected them to cave in. He’d probably planned on fleeing elsewhere with as much stock as he could take before anyone realised.

“Within reason, yes,” Miranda answered, her demeanour firm but fair. “There are limits on what we're willing to offer you in exchange for this site and its contents, but we're not inflexible either. If you’re prepared to speak with me, I'm sure we can broker a compromise that satisfies both your interests, and my employers.”

“Huh. Give me a minute. No offence, love, but you're not what I expected from a negotiator,” he remarked, pausing to think. That was the idea, of course. Most people would never perceive someone in Miranda's condition as a threat.

It looked like her little masquerade was working perfectly. After all, being as badly wounded as she was, who would suspect she could harm them?

“You have an escort with you?” he asked.

“No. Just a shuttle pilot to fly me here and back. I'm alone and unarmed,” she answered plainly. “They knew you wouldn't agree to let me in otherwise.”

“Let you in?” he echoed.

“Consider it a gesture of good faith,” she replied, certain her explanation would persuade him to open his gates. “They've sent me to you as a hostage, as well as a negotiator. My presence among you is a guarantee that the Alliance isn't going to double-cross you once you trade over the medicines.”

“Right. I see...” The speaker crackled with his response. It sounded like he was contemplating the benefits of that arrangement. If she was his captive, then he had an insurance policy, so to speak. If had her in his custody, that ensured he wouldn't be attacked the moment he left the hospital.

Several seconds of silence ensued. After that long pause, Miranda heard a sudden clank. The gate locks had been opened.

“No funny business,” said Gary. “My men will escort you to me.”

And that they did.

Two men marched her upstairs, rifles in hand. Miranda quickly deduced that this gang only had a handful of members. Besides Gary, there couldn’t have been anymore than twelve. Beyond the handful she'd encountered outside, she hadn't spotted a single other guard, even as they moved her through the hospital.

Good to know.

Miranda was brought to a large administrative office near the top of the building, and ushered inside. Gary was waiting for her there, behind an ornate desk. The windows behind him had been welded shut with scrap metal. Everything he saw of the outside, he saw through monitors, cycling through security cameras.

Gary gestured at one of the two mercenaries escorting Miranda to leave them, which he did. The other guard remained behind to keep an eye on her, standing in front of the door, blocking the only route of escape.

“Have a seat,” said Gary.

“Thank you.” Miranda gingerly eased herself down into the chair opposite him. Even now, she was analysing her environment for important details, despite the fact that she never ostensibly let her eye wander the room.

She'd already seen that Gary wore a pistol at his hip, one that he was dangling his fingers beside. He was wary of her, then. Not surprising. Everything she'd observed so far betrayed a penchant for paranoia. Then again, Miranda usually didn't bother reading people, nor pay attention to their likely motives or characteristics. She didn't consider it a factor of any real significance.

What did matter was that the detonator for the explosives was purposefully poised upon his desk, inches away from his other hand. That didn't trouble her, though. Miranda felt completely at ease across from him.

She wore her poker face, he wore his.

Let the game begin.

“I've been wondering something,” Gary began, lowering his tone, perhaps to appear intimidating. “Once we reach this deal, how are you going to relay that information back to Bailey? We aren't letting you go, after all.”

“The pilot who brought me here is going to come to the gate at sundown,” Miranda improvised without so much as a flicker of hesitancy. “I’ll explain to her the terms of agreement we've reached. It has to come from me; it's the only way of verifying that you have what you say you have.”

“If we haven't reached an agreement?” Gary pressed.

“She returns at the same time tomorrow.” Miranda paused, leaning back in her chair. “Well, of course, unless things go really badly, in which case you might have to inform her of my sudden retirement.”

Her blasé attitude to that elicited an amused smirk. “You aren't afraid of that?”

“Couldn't be worse than what I've already been through,” she casually remarked. “I mean, look at me; I didn't end up like this because I fell down the stairs.”

“Fair point,” Gary conceded with a chuckle. He took his eyes off her for a moment as he shifted his chair to take a seat opposite her behind the desk, which Miranda took as a sign he was comfortable with her presence.

“Before we begin, do you have a full account of the supplies you have? Preferably one you've compiled yourself,” Miranda specified, getting to business. “I can't accept pre-invasion records due to the potential inaccuracy. Lots of hospitals exhausted their stock in the early days after the Reapers hit. Others were looted and ransacked. Many we've encountered are completely empty. No medicine. No bandages. Even the machines have been stripped for parts.”

“Yeah, we found that too, but that's not the case here. Wouldn't have set up shop here if it didn't have anything worthwhile,” Gary assured her. “I don't have precise figures on hand, but I have men stationed outside the stash at all times. I could send one of them in to count for you.”

“That would suffice,” Miranda assented, adopting a relaxed posture. “I'm in no hurry.”

“Stash, this is Overwatch,” said Gary, activating his communicator. “The Alliance are looking to make a deal. Can you run the numbers on what we've got down there? Doesn't have to be exact. Enough for a rough estimate.”

Miranda took the opportunity to let her gaze wander the room with apparent disinterest, making sure there was nothing else about the office she'd missed. There certainly weren't any cameras in here, which meant none of Gary's other thugs were watching them. A lot of pictures and bookshelves had been moved around. Perhaps he'd been searching for a safe? She couldn't say.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something curious. Nothing that posed a potential threat, or anything relevant to her interests. Instead, what she saw was an entire section of the office dedicated to a fully stocked liquor cabinet, surrounded by boxes and boxes of wine, liquor and beer. It was out of place.

“We'll have an answer for you soon enough,” said Gary, attracting her attention.

“Perfect. While we wait, I couldn't help but notice what you have over there,” Miranda changed the subject, indicating his array of wines and spirits. “That’s an impressive collection. Was that always here?”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “A lot of the grog shops still have a bit of stock intact.”

“Really?” Miranda raised her eyebrow, feigning intrigue. “Thanks for the tip. I'll have to remember that.” She glanced over at the cabinet once more. “There's nothing like that back at the camp. Not to impose, but do you mind if we...?” Miranda trailed off, her implication made clear by a small gesture.

“Sure, why not,” Gary replied. “What's your poison?”

“I've always had an affinity for fine wines,” Miranda answered.

“Alright, then. Fetch the lady something, would you?” he commanded his guard, snapping his fingers. The guard moved away from the door, opening up one of the cases by the wall, retrieving a bottle that looked fancy.

“Where do we keep the glasses?” the guard asked.

Gary looked away from her. “Over there, behind the—“

He didn't get the chance to finish. That brief distraction was all Miranda needed.

With a small tensing of her fingers, her omni-tool activated, overloading the circuits of the detonator, deactivating it. Two sets of eyes immediately swung in her direction. The guard reached for his gun. Miranda flashed a glare his way and thrust her arm out. The man went stiff, suddenly ensnared in an amorphous vortex of blue and purple energy that lifted his feet off the ground and sapped the life from his body. The rifle fell limply from his hands.

In an instant, Gary drew his pistol. But, by the time he moved to point it at her, her hand was already in motion, slamming into his arm, knocking both it and the gun aside. While he was staggered, Miranda extended her hand. A biotic force ripped the pistol from his fingers. The weapon flew into her grasp.

The barrel was aimed straight at Gary before he could even think of striking her.

In that moment of silence, the guard behind her slumped to the ground, drained.

Checkmate.

“Take a seat,” Miranda said, her tone nonchalant. Gary reluctantly followed her command, realising he had no way out of this situation. At least not yet.

Miranda's reaction speed was much faster than that of any normal person. That fact of her genetic design hadn't been altered by the shuttle crash. That was why her confidence had never wavered. She'd never entertained the notion that her goal of taking over this hospital single-handedly might possibly fail.

She knew her plan would succeed. It was that simple. Because, regardless of what had happened to her, she was still Miranda fucking Lawson.

Honestly, it was barely even a challenge.

“Funny how people always forget to check for the amp,” Miranda remarked as she rested the butt of the pistol against the table, smugly leaning back in the seat. Gary's eyes were glued open, adrenaline coursing through his body. He looked to his guard, lying motionless on the ground. “Don't worry about your friend. I haven't killed him, but he won't be getting up,” Miranda informed him.

“What did you do?” Gary asked, trying to conceal his rising panic.

“Like that trick, did you? I learned that from a friend of mine. An asari Justicar,” she casually explained. She was enjoying this. After everything that had happened to her lately, it felt good to be back in her element: in control. “Take the detonator if you want. It’s dead now. Go ahead. Try it.”

Gary didn’t know whether or not that was an actual instruction or a warning. He stayed still. Miranda knocked the detonator off the table, disregarding it.

The bottle the guard had been holding rolled across the floor. “Pick that up,” Miranda commanded. Gary obeyed, having no choice but to comply. Miranda paused, slowly lowering the gun, placing it down on the table in front of her. She saw Gary's eyes flicker towards it. “Don't bother. You would never reach it,” she advised him. With her biotics, she didn't need a weapon in order to kill him.

Gary reluctantly handed over the wine, as she'd requested. Miranda took it in her hand, examining the bottle. She clucked her tongue, unimpressed.

“I must say, you’ve got a terrible taste in wines, Gary,” she commented, holding the bottle between her thighs, managing to unscrew the cap despite only having one hand. “You could have grabbed anything, but all you took is the cheap swill.”

“What do you want?” he pressed, endeavouring to show no fear.

“It's exactly as I told you,” Miranda responded. “Commander Bailey wants me to retrieve medical supplies. You have medical supplies, which means you have what I’m after. So I intend to negotiate a deal with you before sundown.”

“A deal?” Gary said with a scoff.

“Yes,” Miranda confirmed. “You give me everything you've taken, and I let you live.”

He snorted. “Tough shit. You're not getting access to the store room without the combination to the security doors. Anyone enters the wrong code or tries to cut the power? The bombs are rigged to go off.”

“I thought that might be the case,” said Miranda, turning over the bottle cap in her fingers. “That's why you're going to tell me the code.” The cap began to float above her palm, suspended with biotic energy. With a slight gesture, the cap moved forward, until it was pressed right against the centre of his forehead.

“Fuck you,” Gary all but growled, staying strong. “I'll die before I say a word.”

Miranda ignored his feeble proclamations.

“The ability to manipulate the mass of an object is a fascinating thing. Strange how we take it for granted these days,” she commented aloud, slowly pressing the edges of the cap into his skin. “I'm one of the oldest human biotics, you know. My father was among the first to realise the effect of element zero exposures on unborn children – to explore the idea of giving people the power to control mass effect fields. My abilities are the result of his early experiments.”

With a twist of her finger, the cap began to spin. Gary gritted his teeth as the blunt edges cut into his flesh, carving through skin. Blood dripped into his eyes. Miranda increased the pressure, pushing harder.

“I showed telekinetic abilities as a child, but I didn't get an implant to make my powers offensively viable until I was sixteen,” she continued. “Perhaps it was because my father feared what I might do if he gave me that power. Fortunately, it meant I skipped the L2 implants. But, regardless, living much of my life without having more than minor access to these abilities is something that I believe gives me a greater...appreciation for them than many others.”

“Appreciate my cock, you bitch!” Gary cursed her, struggling to resist the pain.

“Language, Gary,” she replied, toying with him. She moved the cap away from his head, letting the wound bleed. “We still have several hours before sunset,” Miranda reminded him in an almost taunting tone, levitating the cap. “I'm quite happy to make this last all afternoon, if that's what you want.”

“So what?” he said, perspiring heavily, his cheeks turning bright red as he panted for breath. “I'd sooner burn this whole place to the ground with me inside it than let you or any of those Alliance fucks get your hands on it.”

“That's a shame,” Miranda responded, letting the cap fall into her hand.

Gary began to laugh. “See, you’re fucked,” he gloated, certain that he had done everything in his power to make getting the better of him impossible. “As soon as my men realise something’s wrong, they’re going to kill you, and either blow the stash or leave with it before anyone knows you’re missing.”

“You sure about that?” Miranda asked, lackadaisically throwing the bottle cap into the air and catching it. Gary furrowed his brow, confused. Miranda tilted her head towards the monitors he’d set up, having kept her eye on them.

The colour drained from Gary’s face when he looked and saw a certain former asari commando charging up on one of his isolated mercenaries from behind on a lower level of the hospital, picking his guards off one by one as she closed in on the location of the stash, intent on securing it until Miranda got the code.

“Did you know you killed four people, Gary? Watered down insulin. You have to be a real shameless bastard to pull a stunt like that,” Miranda murmured, as if in thought. “Those people were desperate. Out of a vital resource they needed to survive. Prepared to buy it from the black market. And you still screwed them.”

Gary swallowed, raising both of his hands defensively. “Wait. Wait.”

“You can probably tell by looking at me that I’ve been through a lot lately, so I’m not exactly in the best mood,” Miranda continued, not letting him plead for mercy. “There was no saving my eye or my arm. It was too late for me by the time I got help. But while I’m sitting here, I can’t help but wonder how many other people have lost eyes and arms to infection that could have been spared if not for you hoarding an entire hospital’s supplies to profit off their suffering.”

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t,” Gary muttered with mounting anxiety. “Y-You can’t do this. You don’t have to. You don’t have to do this.”

“I can’t get justice for me. But I can get it for the people you’ve hurt.” Miranda sat forward, holding the cap in her fingertips. “What's that old saying? 'An eye for an eye'? I've got to admit, I've always liked the sound of that philosophy.”

She let the steel bottle cap float out of her hand, slowly drifting forwards, towards Gary's left eye. Miranda followed it with rapt attention, inch by inch, watching the terror play across his face as it moved ever closer.

She could tell he was vividly imagining exactly what was going to happen when that steel came in contact with his eye, but he refused to relinquish the code. He thought she was bluffing, that Miranda would stop. But the cap kept getting closer. And closer. And Miranda observed it all with cool, detached indifference.

He should have known, Miranda didn’t bluff.

She wasn't going to stop.

“Wait, no, no, no!” he protested, realising this was no mere mind game. 

“Give me the combination,” she said, her voice completely calm. “Trust me, you’ll avoid an awful lot of pain if you do.” Gary bolted upright, reaching for the gun, but a burst of biotic energy pushed him straight back down into the chair. “I told you not to do that,” Miranda spoke, her words a clear warning.

“Please,” he begged, “You have to—!”

“You aren't in a position to tell me what I have to do,” Miranda pointed out. “If you want to make this stop, the only way to do it is to tell me the combination. I'd be quick about it, if I were you. Take my word for it; I can tell you what this is going to feel like. And it isn't pleasant.”

The cap began to spin faster and faster as it floated, whirring like a circular saw mere inches away from his eye. He was trembling with terror, unable to move. He looked like was going to throw up or fall unconscious from fear alone.

It was strange to think how fragile people really were. Mere minutes ago, the person sitting across from her thought he could make himself the most powerful man in the city. And now he had no power. He was falling to pieces right in front of her. And all because of something as small as a bottle cap.

Unfortunately for him, he still hadn't told her what she needed to hear.

“There's another saying about this, you know. Often wrongly attributed to Gandhi, but, to my knowledge, it was actually from The Bible,” Miranda spoke, tilting her head slightly, content to witness every last moment of this. “'An eye for an eye will lead to a world of the blind,'” she quoted, paraphrasing the original. “An interesting thought, but its wisdom fails to account for my motives.”

Gary was blubbering and sobbing, begging for her to stop, saying everything under the sun he could think of in order to try and provoke a shred of sympathy from his captor. He should have realised by now that Miranda had none.

“See, I don't want to blind the world, Gary,” she told him. “Just you.”

A blood-curdling scream ripped through the wasteland.

* * *

“This should suffice, don't you think?” said Miranda, stepping out into the cargo bay with Samara in tow, letting her make a brief visual inspection of the space. “If not, we might be at an impasse. We can't exactly make a pit-stop on a planet purely for the sake of a training session.”

“This will do well,” Samara assured her, content that it was not too small for the use of their biotics. The same could not be said for their usual meeting place.

“Good. I'm eager to learn that new trick you pulled off on those Blue Suns,” Miranda remarked, stepping out across from her. “'Reave', did you call it? I'm sure I could find a few uses for that.”

“Operator Lawson, I must advise you that the cargo bay is not designed or graded for the safe use of biotics,” EDI's voice abruptly came through the intercom. “Biotics can cause both incremental and acute damage to the hull of the ship.”

“Do not worry, EDI,” Samara spoke up, assuaging her concerns. That is, if an artificial intelligence could even experience anything equivocal to worry. “We will proceed with the utmost care and restraint.”

'We will?' Miranda mouthed, earning an amused smile.

“...Logging you out,” EDI somewhat cautiously withdrew her objection.

“Of all the people on this ship EDI could trust not to be reckless, you'd think we would rank fairly highly,” Miranda noted. When was she ever anything less than the consummate professional? Nevertheless, she soon brushed off the interruption. “Okay, I'm ready when you are.”

“There are two stages to a successful reave,” Samara began, idly gesturing with one hand as she spoke. “First, you seize control of your target, reaching out with your biotics to envelope their mass. Second, you constrict your biotic field and siphon your energies back to you through your target, draining their life force and adding it to your own.”

“And you're sure non-asari can learn this technique?” Miranda asked. When she started hearing words like 'life force', it made her doubt.

“Yes, I am certain,” Samara confirmed. Well, Miranda thought, there was no way to know unless she tried, so she was willing to give it a shot. “If you have no objections, I believe the most efficient method of instruction in the two-stage process would be if I were to carry out a demonstration.”

“On what?” said Miranda.

“On you,” Samara answered. Miranda quirked an eyebrow. “It will be a gentle demonstration,” Samara light-heartedly clarified.

“...Sure, why not?” Miranda somewhat reluctantly agreed, putting her feet together and folding her arms across her chest, willing to set aside her misgivings. With her finely-honed technique and finesse, she trusted Samara wouldn't do anything that would make her regret consenting to this. “Go ahead.”

Samara adjusted her stance, focusing on her.

The first thing Miranda felt was her body growing denser, as if the ship had decelerated (although the internal dampeners made that impossible to detect in reality). About two seconds later, that sensation flipped to a complete inverse, and a peculiar pressure followed, like her skin was tightening from the inside. She straightened her arms on instinct, trying to maintain her balance as her body began to levitate, the tips of her toes just off the ground.

“Are you alright?” Samara asked, keeping Miranda safely suspended.

“Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I'm just...making notes,” Miranda replied, studying herself to better understand the intricacies of what Samara was doing and how to replicate it.

“It is in this position that I would drain either an opponent's barrier or their life force,” Samara explained, setting Miranda softly back down on the ground. “However, with respect, your defensive biotic capabilities are not particularly well developed. As such, I do not feel I could attempt to illustrate this on you without inadvertently causing you harm,” Samara pointed out, an observation rather than a criticism.

Miranda couldn't quite conceal a ruffled feather or two at that assessment but, in fairness, she couldn't dispute that. There was a reason why she relied on shields rather than barriers in the field. Not that she couldn't maintain a barrier, but they were only combat-effective when she concentrated exclusively on erecting them, as opposed to the passive barriers many other biotics sustained.

“Well, that's a bit of a nuisance, because that's the part I really need to learn,” Miranda commented, determined to figure out how it worked. “I can control an object, make it denser, levitate it, crush it. It's the...'draining' you spoke of that I can't quite wrap my head around.”

“And you will achieve it,” Samara guaranteed, never once doubting that Miranda was bound to master the skill given enough time. “You will practice on me.”

Miranda blinked, a tad taken aback by that offer. Even though she wasn't as powerful as Samara, she was certainly capable of doing damage to her, intentionally or otherwise. She didn't want to risk hurting her because she got carried away with an experimental technique.

“I will maintain my barrier. Your goal is to endeavour to absorb my biotic power and add its energies to your own,” Samara calmly instructed, at ease and relaxed. “Do not be concerned if it requires several attempts for you to do so successfully. That is to be expected, and I will advise you as necessary.”

Come to think of it, when she put it like that, it did sound like rather a sensible proposition. Avoiding practicing the actual reave while still familiarising herself with the principle behind the drain was the safest alternative.

“Okay, then,” said Miranda, steadying herself while Samara closed her eyes and bowed her head, sustaining a passive barrier. Just as Miranda was about to ensnare her with a biotic field, she caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision. She glanced up and saw Tali, Gabby and Ken standing in the corridor on the engineering deck, watching them through the window above.

“We have an audience,” Samara observed.

“We certainly do.” Miranda huffed, not sure what was so fascinating about this. “Why do I get the feeling they're hoping to see you wipe the floor with me?” she muttered, having half a mind to go up there and tell them off. They all had far more important things to be doing than watching them train.

“They will be terribly disappointed, if that is the case,” Samara remarked.

“Maybe that's the trick to getting them to leave?” Miranda suggested. “They won’t want to hang around once they realise we're going to bore them to tears.”

“If it would assist you in this purpose, I wholeheartedly promise to be as stoic as possible,” Samara vowed with mock-seriousness. “As this is counter to my nature, I am sure this prospect must shock and alarm you.”

It didn’t escape Miranda’s notice that that was the first time she’d ever heard Samara tell a joke, at least that she could recall. “It does indeed. Are you sure you're up to that challenge?” Miranda played along, wearing a wry smirk.

“With great effort, I believe I can manage,” Samara replied.

“This is why we work well together; we're always on the same page,” said Miranda, returning to the task at hand, electing to ignore her onlookers.

“Very well. Let us ensure we put on a resoundingly uninteresting show.”

*     *     *

Shiala's shuttle caused quite a stir when it landed outside the Alliance HQ. Commander Bailey stormed out of the lobby as the vehicle set down, waiting for the engines to shut off before he began banging on the side of the cockpit.

“Who the hell are you?” he barked at Shiala, incensed at her carelessness. “This is a high priority access road. You have no permission to be here.”

At that, Miranda opened the shuttle doors.

“Forgive me, Commander, she was acting under my instructions,” she said, cocking her head towards the crates stacked up beside her. “Those medical supplies you wanted. Two hours early, by my counting. There's more where this came from. This is all we could fit on the ship. I'm not doing much heavy lifting, as it is,” she remarked, indicating her crutch and her missing arm.

Commander Bailey squinted at her, not sure whether to be alarmed or impressed. “Where the hell did you get this?”

“A certain Mr. Wolfe has been holding these supplies hostage,” Miranda reminded him, knowing that name would ring a bell. “I made him share.”

His name did indeed strike a cord with Commander Bailey. It definitely explained where she had been able to find such a large quantity at short notice. He hummed, and scratched his chin. “Did you leave Mr. Wolfe alive?”

“That depends,” Miranda answered noncommittally.

“On what?” Bailey asked.

“If he makes it to a field hospital before infection sets in, he should be fine. I wouldn't count on that, though; it's a long way to walk with a broken arm, a broken leg and a missing eye. And I should know,” she said matter-of-factly.

Bailey looked rather amused by that.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow. Go get some rest, Ms. Lawson,” he instructed. “I expect to see you at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow.”

“Consider it done,” Miranda confirmed. She knew Bailey would see reason.

With that, he turned his attention to his nearby subordinates. “You, start unloading this shuttle. And I want crews dispatched to take over Gary Wolfe's base. That hospital is ours now, and we need it and all of its supplies.” The personnel obeyed Bailey's commands as he departed, returning to the HQ.

Once Commander Bailey was safely out of range, Miranda let out a quiet sigh, finally able to drop her façade of strength. She slouched heavily against the door of the shuttle, revealing how absolutely fucking exhausted she was, and had been for hours. This wasn't as easy as she remembered. Perhaps she had been a little quick to spring back into action after discharging herself from hospital.

“An impressive display,” Shiala commented, emerging from the cockpit to stand beside her newfound comrade. “Thank you for including me in it.”

“Thank you for helping me clear out Mr. Wolfe's crew,” said Miranda, wiping away the cold perspiration forming on her brow. Using her biotics had taken a lot out of her earlier. Having an asari commando to back her up really had made a difference, both when it came to taking out the guards and loading crates of supplies into her shuttle. That had been hard work. “I’m not used to saying this, but I genuinely don't think I could have done this without you. Not that easily.”

“It...I...” Shiala swallowed and averted her gaze, obviously unsure how to respond to that. “You are welcome,” was what she settled upon.

Miranda idly wondered if Shiala was this awkward around everyone. She didn't mind it, if she was. After all, Miranda wasn't exactly brilliant at socialising herself, even if she didn’t share Shiala’s self-consciousness or shyness.

“I don’t work under Bailey, and I never plan to. But I thought we made a good team together. And I wouldn’t mind doing it again,” said Shiala, shifting her feet as she spoke. “If you ever have need of me, I’ll do what I can to assist.”

“I appreciate it.” Miranda nodded her acknowledgement, and there was no falsity. “It's good to know there's somebody with a bit of sense out here.” Shiala turned a darker shade of green at that, uncomfortably clearing her throat. It was as if she wasn't used to receiving positive feedback, or something. How peculiar.

All of a sudden, a wave of dizziness coursed through Miranda's head. She stumbled, and might have fallen off the ramp had Shiala not caught her. 

“Miranda, what happened? Are you alright?” Shiala asked anxiously, clearly worried about the state of Miranda’s health, and with good reason.

“I'm fine,” Miranda brushed her off as best she could, not that her amputated arm could do a very good job of waving her away, especially thanks to her injured shoulder restricting her movement. “I'm just...tired, is all.”

“You're pale, and covered in sweat,” Shiala observed, familiar enough with humans by that point to read the signs of illness. “Have you eaten anything recently? And, before you answer, anything you've thrown up doesn't count.”

“I have, yes,” Miranda quietly insisted, maintaining direct eye-contact. Shiala stared at her, unconvinced. “I'm not lying. It's true. That is, if you consider being on a feeding tube 'eating', and if you consider several days ago 'recent',” Miranda reluctantly admitted, averting her gaze, already regretting her confession. “...I did have some barley sugars yesterday. They’re food.”

Shiala didn't seem shocked by that response, her stern expression softening. “Take a seat in the cockpit. Once they've finished unloading these crates, we'll return to my ship. We have plenty of food to spare, and you will be a welcome dinner guest. I'll ensure you get as much as you need.”

“That's not necessary.” Miranda shook her head, politely declining. “I already have a place to stay and someone looking out for me—“

“Please, I insist,” Shiala persisted, intent on making sure Miranda got some sorely needed sustenance before she destroyed herself. “It's the least I could do for you after you obtained those medical supplies for my people.”

Miranda bit her tongue on her next objection, realising Shiala would not take no for an answer. Miranda wondered if this was how Jacob had felt when she'd pressured him to help her sneak out of hospital the previous morning. “Fair warning, the last few times I've tried to eat were...unsuccessful,” she acknowledged, deciding there were worse ways to end her day than receiving a free meal.

“Don't worry; nausea will not be an issue,” Shiala replied, already two steps ahead of her. Miranda arched her eyebrow. She sounded awfully sure about that. “Ancient asari remedy – works twice as well on humans,” she guaranteed.

It turned out that natural remedy was a type of herbal tea. And, yes, it did work.

*     *     *

Miranda came to an abrupt halt when she entered the Starboard Observation Deck, caught by surprise. For once, Samara wasn’t meditating. She was standing rigidly upright, hands clasped behind her back, gazing out at the stars.

“Miranda,” Samara acknowledged her arrival. Whether she’d seen her reflection in the window or was simply accustomed to her visits, she didn’t know.

“Not meditating today?” Miranda asked.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but I do not always meditate,” Samara remarked, an indication that she was in a happy mood. That had been her default lately, ever since she’d had time to recover from the events on Omega. 

“Could have fooled me,” Miranda quipped, approaching the couch over near the library. “If you’re hungry, I come bearing dinner,” she said, gesturing to the cafeteria tray in her hand. “Consider it thanks for the training session yesterday.”

“No thank you is necessary. It was my pleasure,” Samara politely reminded her. “But I do have something of an appetite. A meal would not go amiss.”

“Help yourself,” Miranda invited her, shifting over to make more room for Samara beside her. “Unless you'd rather eat on the floor.”

“Somehow, I gain the sense that you would lose respect for me if I did,” Samara observed, crossing the floor to to join her on the couch, taking up a seat.

“A smidge,” Miranda conceded in jest.

“My translator does not recognise that word,” Samara noted as she picked up a fork, neatly gathering her share of noodles and vegetables onto her plate.

“I get that a lot. The translator hates the Australian dialect,” Miranda commented. And, compared to most, she had a fairly neutral accent and barely used any colloquialisms. She could only imagine what the average Australian must have sounded like over the translator. Just white noise, probably.

“And you are certain these...words of yours are real?” Samara asked, entirely non-seriously. “I am beginning to suspect you are merely inventing new terms and phrases until I embarrass myself by using them in conversation.”

“Well I wasn’t before, but now you’ve put ideas in my head,” Miranda replied, wrapping noodles around her fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Miranda had never really addressed it, but Samara had been different ever since finally resolving the Morinth situation. It had broken her heart, shattering her into a thousand pieces to take her own daughter’s life, but at the same time there was no mistaking that she could breathe more easily. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a shackle around her neck undone.

She’d been a lot more outgoing, friendly, and talkative. Miranda was enjoying it. 

“You seem chipper,” Miranda stated aloud, once her mouth wasn’t full. Samara glanced up. “It’s a good thing,” Miranda clarified, in case of mistranslation.

Samara smiled, as if to confirm that word had in fact been recognised by the dictionary. “Perhaps I am.” She toyed with her food for a moment, as if lost in musings. “If you are curious, I was reflecting on what occurred today,” Samara offered, taking Miranda’s casual observation as a prompt.

“With Thane? I heard about that,” said Miranda, taking another bite.

“I am glad for Thane and his son,” Samara told her, meeting her gaze. There was no doubting her sincerity. “Kolyat ventured down a path he should not have tread, but he has been offered a second chance before it was too late to redeem him. I am hopeful that he will make the most of his time with Citadel Security.”

“Does the Code permit second chances?” Miranda wondered aloud.

“If the Code had no capacity to forgive past transgressions, I could not have become a Justicar. Few could,” Samara pointed out. “There are many ways to achieve justice other than with violence, even for one such as myself. However, when a Justicar becomes involved, that is normally an indication that peaceful alternatives are no longer viable. This is why our reputation proceeds us.”

“So what would you have done with Kolyat, if the choice was in your hands?” Miranda asked, intrigued to know how her philosophy worked in practice.

“I would have shot him,” Samara answered plainly, without hesitation. Miranda arched an eyebrow at her frankness, pausing mid-bite, though she couldn’t say she disagreed. From what she’d heard, it had been a very tense situation. “He had his weapon drawn, ready to assassinate Joram Talid. Any hesitation on my part could have allowed Kolyat to fire. I would not have negotiated. Would you?” 

Miranda shrugged. “Talid sounded like a piece of work. Corrupt. Racist. Can’t say it would have mattered to me whether he lived or died. But, then again, if the choice was in my hands, I’m not sure I would have taken time away from our mission for this business with Thane and Kolyat anyway,” she admitted. 

“You would not?” Samara studied Miranda’s features, contemplating her response. “Even though you took the time to notify Jacob as to the potential whereabouts of his absent father, and even after you were similarly compelled to ensure the safety of your own sister?” 

“I’m not saying I would have been right if I’d refused to help, but I can’t say I would have thought that way before…” Miranda trailed off, sighing. “Let’s just say that serving with Shepard is causing me to reconsider some things.” 

Samara’s expression softened into a small smile of understanding. “Similarly, I am grateful that the choice was not mine to make regarding Kolyat. None can say precisely how much time remains for Thane, nor for any of us. It is fortunate that they were able to reconcile. Not every parent receives that opportunity.” 

Miranda didn’t fail to perceive the hidden lament concealed in her tone. It hadn’t been that long since Morinth’s demise. Not even two weeks had passed, all told. That wound was fresh. And four centuries of anguish and grief didn’t disappear overnight. How could a pain like that ever go away?

“Do you have any other daughters?” Miranda asked her, sensing the sorrow Samara bore, hoping this topic would alleviate it. She did recall Samara mentioning daughters, plural, but she’d never directly spoken about them.

Samara’s eye-line dipped the moment she mentioned them. “I do.”

“How many?”

“Two,” Samara answered, her voice quiet.

“And they’re also Ardat-Yakshi,” Miranda inferred from prior discussions. “Not killers like Morinth, but they have the same condition. And they’re still alive?”

“...Yes,” Samara confirmed, keeping her gaze withdrawn.

“Are you close?” Miranda broached the subject openly, without tact or caution, failing to detect any tension in the air. “I know you lost whoever Morinth once was a long time ago, but you still have a relationship with them, don't—?”

“I cannot,” Samara quietly but firmly cut her off, unflinching. Miranda looked on, unsure what to make of that response. “I have told them what happened. They know that their sister no longer lives. I may yet speak to them again, if it is likely I will not return from our mission to stop the Collectors. However, I cannot…”

Samara didn’t finish, the words getting caught in her throat, for whatever reason. 

Miranda was perplexed, not sure what she’d done wrong by bringing up that subject, if anything. Then again, she found it hard enough to make sense of other humans most of the time, let alone someone from a completely different species.

Maybe this was one of those things Miranda could just never comprehend.

*    *     *

It was late by the time Miranda returned to the tent. Jacob stood next to her bunk, his arms folded. He was waiting for her. And he did not look pleased.

“Evening, Jacob. How was your day?” Miranda jovially greeted him, wilfully ignoring his sour mood.

“I know what happened, Miranda,” Jacob cut the bullshit, not remotely amused. Miranda sighed. If she was going to get an earful, it was best to get it over and done with. “I leave you alone for a few hours. A few hours. And all I ask is that you don't go off and do anything crazy. And you can't even do that for me.”

“Clearly I wasn't crazy,” Miranda nonchalantly responded, failing to see the problem. “I told you I was fit to return to work, and I proved it.”

“Miranda, you should be dead right now. The only reason you're not is because you're a genetic freak,” Jacob stated, his words direct and uncompromising. Miranda tilted her head, her body language ceding that she didn't dispute that part. “You nearly died three times! And you haven't fully recovered from sepsis yet! Do you even comprehend how badly this could have backfired?”

“I wasn't going to allow it to backfire, Jacob; I was in total control the entire time,” Miranda assured him, prepared to weather his outrage until it burned out.

“You weren't in control of anything! You just got lucky that things went according to your plan and that your body didn't give out on you! It was a gamble, plain and simple!” Jacob countered. Miranda rolled her eye, hardly persuaded by that argument. Jacob exhaled slowly and shook his head, trying to keep himself from flying off the handle at her. “...I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“A bit of an overreaction,” Miranda noted, certain he was exaggerating.

“No, it's not, because I came this close to losing you. This close! You knew that, and you know how much it meant to me that, somehow, someway, Samara found you of all people alive! You knew it, and yet you were still prepared to throw your life away without a second thought for anyone but yourself!” Jacob shot back, raising his voice again. “Did you even stop to think about how I would have felt if you'd gotten yourself killed today, knowing that I enabled that to happen?”

Miranda glanced down at that, mildly chastened. “No, I didn't,” she admitted. Of course she hadn't. She had low empathy. She didn't think about other people’s feelings like that. Not naturally. Not without making a conscious choice to do so. In hindsight, perhaps it should have occurred to her to consider why he was being so protective of her. “Look, I don't know what you want me to say.”

“'I'm sorry' would be a start,” Jacob muttered.

“Fine, then.” Miranda shrugged, just wanting to move past this. What was done was done. “I'm sorry. I was wrong. I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again.”

“That's the problem,” Jacob replied, unconvinced. “You're not sorry. You don't think you were wrong. You haven't learned your lesson. And you would do it again in a heartbeat. And I know you well enough to expect that, so I haven't got a god damn clue why I'm standing here like I'm suddenly going to talk you out of being you.”

“Neither do I, but points for trying,” Miranda offered as a form of compromise. She did recognise that there was merit in what he was saying, and she appreciated his concern. But she would be lying if she said that would ever stop her from doing what she wanted, at least when it came to forging her own path.

“Fuckin’ asshole.” Jacob massaged his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, releasing his anger through an exhale. “Have you eaten anything?” he asked, calmer now that he'd had the chance to vent his frustration.

“Yes,” Miranda answered honestly, taking his more relaxed posture as a cue that she was permitted to step towards the bunk bed. “And if you don't believe I'm telling the truth, go to the Feros colony ship and ask them yourself.”

“Feros colony?” Jacob echoed.

“Repayment of a favour I did for a certain green asari,” Miranda offhandedly explained, gingerly sitting down on the edge of her bunk. “Ring any bells?”

“Hmmph. Yeah, I know her. Kind of hard to miss,” Jacob acknowledged. He glanced over at her, softening slightly. “Here. You look cold,” he said, taking a blanket down from his top bunk and loosely tossing it to her as a peace offering.

Given she was still holding her crutch, Miranda instinctively went to catch it with her amputated arm, triggering a phantom pain that went all the way up to her injured shoulder. Fortunately, the blanket landed on her lap regardless. She grimaced, wondering how long it was going to take to train herself to subconsciously get used to the fact that she only had one arm.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying not to convey her discomfort.

“For the record, I absolutely did just see you do that,” Jacob remarked, smirking.

Miranda snorted. “Arse.”

*     *     *

[baereaved]

my dgm tarot associations

i wrote my explanations to why i chose what dgm charas for certain tarot cards a while ago but never posted it, so i polished it up and here it is now. i hope you enjoy, and feel free to tell me your own ideas for the cards and what charas you’d put on them! dgm is my one tru love and tarot is up there too, so i could talk about either of them forever

the fool - of course i chose allen for this, i could write a literal essay as to why he would be the fool, it should be blindingly obvious. the clown thing, first of all, allen as the jester/the fool is perfect and fitting. he's also the main character, and the entire major arcana focuses on the fool's journey, so it fits. he's young and innocent and he's old enough to have been through a lot but he is still inexperienced and naive and about to take on the world, even if that leads him into danger and even though he makes reckless decisions along the way. also, dog. the dog. the fool has a dog following him, allen is named after a dog, literally that alone is enough for me to put allen on this card, i die every day & constantly

the magician - i chose cross here, bc 1. he's a sorcerer and 2. when i was initially deciding all of this, i was thinking a lot about the fool's journey, and cross is about as early in allen's journey as they come, so. it made sense. mostly, though, the knowledgeable sorcerer who is all-knowing but won't tell the fool everything and only guides him, that's cross.

the high priestess - past!allen, here. i was a little iffy on that but i figured there wasn't really anyone better to portray knowledge and secrets (except maybe road, but the high priestess has a counterpart in the moon, and that's where i put my adorable daughter) in this series, except maybe bookman, but i just mentioned the relation of the priestess to the moon and i really wanted the priestess to have a stronger connection to the moon than it would've been had i put bookman here

the empress - tyki went here. i'll be honest, this was mostly to get a good counterpart to the emperor (who i put as sheril) but i mean. relaxed, down to earth, enjoys nature, good with kids. i like to think that tyki's human half would correspond with the empress pretty well.

this is a damn long post, so the rest of the cards are under the cut~

the emperor - like i said, this is where i put sheril, because. what is he if not dominant and controlling, really. plus, what can i say? i have a strong connection to the emperor card and i wanted to put my fave here, let me rest

the hierophant - i was tempted to put komui here for a while but i went with malcolm in the end to really represent the black order & central. the hierophant is a grounded and typically positive card, which is why i considered komui, but the christian aspects and the traditionalism were too hard to ignore lmao. i thought about zu mei a lot too, but i wanted a more prominent character who was more focused on the world around them than their religion. though, malcolm isn't much of a christian, is he? i'm not sure i could find any good christians in this series besides the pope himself, tbh

the lovers - jasdevi. figured there was no one better to represent a closeness like the lovers than the noah of bonds. it leaves out the choice part of the card, though, so tyki wouldn't have been bad here in that aspect, but. jasdevi fits more, i think.

the chariot - i put kanda here. fast-paced, confident, a warrior, highly emotional. has a goal they'll follow relentlessly, even if it means pushing themselves and running down anyone in their way. the self-reliance but need for harmony within its parts is clear for the chariot and is just as clear in kanda as well (the driver/chariot/steed = kanda and his innocence) and the focus on victory in relation to his goals and only his goals is fitting as well. i debated putting lena here too, but, well

strength - i think lenalee fit better here~ i struggled with this card a lot, actually, because lenalee isn't exactly, like, emotionally stable like the woman typically represented in this card, but she does have a lot of strength in basically every sense of the word, so i figured it'd work, and i like the idea of the lion she's taming equaling her innocence.

the hermit - wiselyyyy. i honestly was switching back and forth a ton on whether to put wisely or lavi here (and whether to put lavi or wisely as the hanged man), and i ended up going with wisely for the sake of feeling like lavi was more of a changing person in general (especially since he's in limbo rn lmao) and since wisely is generally the old man who's always lost in his own mind. i also debated putting bookman here for a while, but.... my son....

the wheel of fortune - miranda, if only bc 1. her innocence is circular (like a wheel) and 2. i thought it'd be Good to put the bad luck woman as representing fate and how things change, especially considering how things changed for her

justice - komui, the counterpart to lena's strength. we see a lot of him being the kind but occasionally harsh leader when situations force him into it and i think that fairness & level head worked well here. i think a lot about the times where he has to be cruel to lenalee and the others around him for work even though it kills him and. that's perfect here.

the hanged man - like i said, i put lavi here. the hanged man is not a card i understand stunningly well, and i feel as though he fits here, and i just don't know how to explain it. maybe i'll save that for another post.

death - the earl, as in, adult mana. allen's papa. figured since he was dead and also controlled death that it worked well enough, not to mention that death marks a change in the fool's life, and meeting mana and mana's death were both some of the biggest changes in allen's life

temperance - link, my sweet summer child. calm & not entirely balanced, but does help balance and control everyone around him. tempers emotions. also, um. wing symbolism. i literally could not resist in the fucking slightest.

the devil - young mana. i originally was going to have three people on this card, that is, the earl as the devil, and nea and mana as his prisoners, for symbolism, and i still stand by that, but. i thought that'd be a lot of work for the artist |D so i had them just put mana here instead. as mana basically is the earl and still works well as a prisoner, i thought it'd work.

the tower - fiidora. i just wanted to put him somewhere lololol. i was gonna put nea here initially because Destruction and also bc boy is he a disaster, but i ended up putting him somewhere else to fit w/ allen better, so. corrosion isn't so bad here either, really, because something corroding and breaking down fits with the idea of the tower, and. well. fiidora's a pretty drastic-seeming person in general

the star - timcanpy, our sweet guide. he's basically leading allen around from day one and for most of the series, plus, i mean, he looks like a star. he's very literally guiding the way and he fits super well here

the moon - as i mentioned, the counterpart to the high priestess, road. basically the dark side of the high priestess, the knowledge but also the unknown, a dreamy, distorted world that the fool almost gets lost in and can't quite understand, but leads you to clarity. the moon card is confusing and it's all (or at least some) of the high priestess' secrets, finally being revealed to the fool. since road knows everything in the series and has her own world, well. it fits.

the sun - johnny, bc he is pure. need i say more forreal tho, the sun is bright and hopeful and calm and brings the fool peace and happiness and reminds him of the childlike innocence he once had and i'm emotional, okay

judgment - almaaaaaa. mostly i put them here as a "judging the entire order for their sins" type of thing, but i also like the idea of alma being the people rising up and being judged because of their different past lives. iirc, it shows the different forms of the fool, as a man, woman, and child, and. alma. that's alma

the world - nea. the end of the fool's journey (at least, when he's card 0) and a transformed version of the fool. the clueless, happy boy we met at the beginning, but mature and finally understanding the world. i'm not sure nea truly fits the completion and success the world card embodies, but he definitely is endgame and from the looks of it his goal is gonna be the way things go, so. well.

[serenagaywaterford]

1) Okay, I'm late (bc rl sucks), but I'm back and I'll gradually address everything. "Also do not feel any pressure to respond to my multiple essays! I understand completely!"The same goes to you, bc I feel like I'm bothering you too much. That being said, I truly enjoy talking to you. Not only you offer fresh/perceptive insights into the characters' minds (which made me a. reconsider scenes and motives, b. wanna rewatch S1 --some scenes you're commenting on are SO fuzzy in my head-- mind you,

2) 2) I’m already rereading the book), but you also provide such hilarious, sarcastic lines (some of them are absolute killers).

3) personalities” I know you have an inkling of who’s who. :D But damn, that ‘lesbianing’ bit had me giggling. Kudos, fellow anon. Since we’re on the subject, I have another question about your fic (if you don’t mind): is it post s2 or s1/s2 canon divergent? b) “Add horrid fangirls to that and it’s a big ass no lol.” Ugh. Fandom smh manages to sour my opinion of characters/ships/series I personally like. Especially when fans start pestering the creators to cater to their whims or harass actors

4) or start ship wars. Double ugh. c) “So, that’s the Mass Effect connection!” Two more similarities: i. Mass Effect’s Miranda Lawson got a lot of fandom hate back then (even though she was a famous character), just like Serena. ii. She has a back-and-forth, bickering (hateful but not THAT complex) relationship with another female character. d) “I have seen Westworld! Well, okay, just the first season. I got too tired/confused to get past the 2nd season premiere.” Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have

5) assumed. Believe me when I say it’s a good thing you stopped watching when you did. The overall quality of the series remained pretty much the same (e.g. acting, cinematography, direction), but, oh boy, some new plot twists (which I usually like) are SO OVER THE TOP in order to impress (?) the audience. It’s reached a point where some characters are unrecognizable, bc they’re servants to the plot. Maeve has a lot bigger arc in S2 and Newton is thriving (imo, S2!Maeve >> S1!Maeve), but so is

6) Strahovski/Serena. :D e) “don’t go around bitching at people who say shitty things or stuff I don’t agree with, or blocking anybody who doesn’t like her."Ah, another thing we have in common. There were times I’ve been blocked by fandom people (with beautiful edits) that I NEVER interacted with (except for maybe reblogging from each other). That’s not me complaining. Like I said, each to their own.I just find this phenomenon funny at times. Story time. Once, an out of nowhere anon (whose msg I

7) didn’t publish, bc drama is SO not my thing) said they’d block me, bc of an uploaded gifset for a canon pairing (which wasn’t to their taste apparently) that was tagged as #[series]edit (although the ship!portmanteau was right there, too, so that people could easily block it). I remember being like: "Okay. Good for you, anon!” LOL. f) “I dunno if you see spoilers but there’s one about them.) She needs therapy so much more than a cutesy feelgood storyline.” I did NOT actually, but feel free to8) enlighten me.

——–

I am sort of back! (RL does get in the way of incredibly lengthy essays about fictional TV shows!) NO APOLOGIES NECESSARY!! I am just so happy I get to read all these excellent thoughts, analyses, and feelings you have! (and that we clearly share lol, including the sheer amusement of your writing!). I really want to write more at the mo but my hands are doing that weird old lady thing where you can see the veins popping out and it makes me v uncomfortable to look at. Especially since I have little baby hands. I hate it.

Ok, I’m now kneeling on the floor and the computer is on the kitchen island. This is better. I cannot see the top of my hands. 

SO. Where was I? OW. my kneeeessss. This is a bad idea.

I’m so lost. Fic question. right. It’s post-S2. Like… quite post-S2. I didn’t even deal with HOW or WHY June is back in the Waterford’s house tbh cos I can’t be bothered to sort that out. (Thanks, show.) So, it just assumes that for some reason, she’s back. Which, if the BTS pics/video is to be believed, that’s the case anyway. 

Fangirls (and boys ofc) ruin so much for me. Even if I like the same thing initially. Ugh. Then sometimes they’ll annoy me so much that I end up liking the complete opposite of what they like. Dunno why.

No worries about Westworld! It’s a reasonable assumption! Please don’t apologise, my friend. I do agree that Thandie was very good in S1. IIRC, her character was my fav (other than Clementine lol). Yvonne S2 was just next level shit to me. Like, what you’re saying makes me wanna give S2 WW another shot but when shows get overcomplicated, they’re not much fun anymore when I’m like “BUT WHAT IS HAPPENING LOL”. 

>> “There were times I’ve been blocked by fandom people (with beautiful edits) that I NEVER interacted with (except for maybe reblogging from each other)”

EXACT SAME. It was actually in THT fandom most recently lol. Like, I reblogged one of their pretty edits once. Ever. I didn’t even say anything snarky or bitchy or rude in tags. I don’t think I added any commentary at all. Next thing I know? BLOCKED. Never interacted with them in any way whatsoever. (Typical N/J fangirl lol.) It’s the strangest behaviour and it’s that kind of thing that sours me towards sects of fangirls, and sometimes even the characters they like. Maybe that’s just petty but I think it actually just reinforces pre-existing feelings I had towards the character or pairing.) The only blogs I block are ones that are gross, RP, or spam. (RP blogs is a long history of them stealing and spamming and adding awful commentary to my posts way back in the day, so I just… block em. lol.)

>> “they’d block me, bc of an uploaded gifset for a canon pairing (which wasn’t to their taste apparently) that was tagged as #[series]edit (although the ship!portmanteau was right there, too, so that people could easily block it). I remember being like: “Okay. Good for you, anon!” LOL.”

Oh. My… WHAT. There’s a very odd sense of entitlement here that seems so peculiar to me. Like, that’s what the blacklisting feature is for? I’ve put every version of my most despised pairings, characters, etc. and it works? Very rarely does it miss on. I guess we’re just dramaphobic, mature old fandom farts. Like, “Kids, let me sit you down and tell you about this site before you could block things. Before even XKit was invented…” Not to mention every other website ever lol.

HOLY GROSS… I just got up and a centipede fell off me!! WHYYYYYY. THIS IS WHY I DON’T SIT ON THE FLOOR. (we live near the beach/woods so we get lots of bugs no matter how clean we are…) no more painful kneeling for me i guess…

OKAY. Spoilers. It’s not much but other than the June in Martha costume (which was shown in the teaser Superbowl trailer anyway by now)… there were set pics of Emily, Sylvia, Nicole, and Luke all happy and smiling. IIRC. I can’t find the post anymore. So it may not have been in character. But I dunno… it all seems… too easy? Like, I’m glad Emily is safe but omg. She’d better not be all hunky dory “I stabbed a lady and threw her down the stairs, murdered another, and ran a dude over with a stolen car, but now I’m Canada, I’m all healed!” (Not including the heart attack/crotch kicking here cos that was fair play to Emily. She deserved that.) Like, honestly, as much part of me was like YESSSS at all of those, still… that’s grievous bodily harm with intent to kill, flat out murder, and vehicular manslaughter. For Emily to do those things, you don’t do those crimes without being really broken and damaged. And… yeah. That doesn’t magically disappear when you hop over a border.

[onlyonewoman]

A little essay about lgbt representation & expectations

Lots of people, myself included, wants more M/M moments than just Flint's memories in BS, for a lot of reasons. One of them is we want Flint to find love again, another is that it's not unreasonable to expect M/M relationship in the story, considering the pirate society's very liberal view on homosexuality. (If you're a BS fan who somehow missed the term "matelotage", look it up).

What some people get a bit irritated at, is that we've seen a lot F/F scenes - and of course M/F scenes - while M/M relationships are not shown, despite the fact that they were not only accepted but also celebrated amongst pirates.

Up until now, I've been thinking that perhaps the authors - who clearly know pirate history better than most people, because this show is one of the most historical accurate ones I've seen in years - didn't add F/F moments but left out M/M moments because F/F moments are far more accepted to "the common" viewer and a very easy way to add some hotness into a show.

I admit, even though I'm bisexual, that I got a little bit tired of the F/F and the F/F/M scenes, because lets be honest: we're so used to those kind of scenes most people who're not true homophobes and haven't lived under a rock the last ten years, hardly think it's a big deal with two women having a hot time together. It sometimes seems as if lesbian sex on screen is alright, simply because a lot of straight men are used to see "lesbian" - BIG fucking marks here - sex in pornos and by that used to see two women together as an act that's fine as long as they're allowed to watch and enjoy.

And as a bisexual person who doesn't really identify with any gender, I think that's just fine. I enjoy M/M and F/F but I very rarely appriciate F/M scenes (we're talking sexual or romantic scenes) in a show because it just bores the hell out of me. I often identify more with men - not always, but quite often - and even though I'm bisexual, I've always felt more comfortable with men for some damn reason. M/M moments in a show is therefor the romantic/sexual moments I ironically enough feel most "represented" in. That's where I can picture myself, even if I'm a biological, bisexual woman who's not TS. My gender identity is very fluid.  

Alright, lets return to the show. Used as I am to the F/F stuff used in so many shows these days, it didn't take long before I actually sighed at the F/F relationships, Max/Eleanor and Max/Anne, thinking "here we go again, showing off tits and pussy in F/F moments to make the straight male audience happy and not that I don't like how it's done, but this is fucking boring". Later, when I read about the matelotages I got even more irritated, since being gay clearly wasn't a problem in that society so where the fuck were the M/M couples? And then the major character turned out to be a GAY MAN, I mean hellooo?! Here we have a society allowing and celebrating M/M relationships while there's no records showing any female matelotages so this seemed... weird. And damn frustrating for a person with my gender identity.

But when thinking about it, Clara Paget said in an interview that Anne's relationship with Max can't be public. And I also remembered what happened to Max when Vane used her to get back at Eleanor. We actually don't see any romantic relationships among the pirates (we leave Silver and Madi out for now and since Miranda is "hidden" and remains a mystery for Flint's crew, she's not seen as Flint's official lover or wife). Vane and Eleanor are in a constant battle for power, emotional and in lack for better words political, while Anne and Jack have an unbalanced relationship where Anne, with Max entering their lives, suddenly finds herself in a very strange situation where she has a deep need for Max, she's "crazy about her", but Max is not a romantic person - honestly I think it's the men who're the romantics in this show - and the relationship M/F/F triangle they share, is not something that ANY of them, especially not Jack, takes easily. And we never gets to see the M/F/F threesome, which is just awesome, because it's not the sex that's interesting, but what's happening inside all three of them and especially Anne.

So yes, we do have a M/F/F relationship in the show, but the way it's performed, is very far from the usual "hot eye candy scene" we've seen in, for example Game Of Thrones and especially Spartacus, a show that, by the way, has one of the best M/M relationship and M/M sex scenes since the original Queer as Folk came out in 1999. (A show I ordered on import VHS from a gay magazine and wasn't allowed to put in the VHS collection by the telly, because my mom thought it was too obscene.) Yeah, think about that, folks! Growing up having to order a damn import VHS where you couldn't understand half of what the actors were saying because you were sixteen going on seventeen and British accents in fast speed with no subtitles were a bitch for a teen who mostly just needed to use English in English classes and while trying to understand music lyrics.

DVD:s were still new, Youtube, Facebook and Netflix didn't exist and the number one search engine was AltaVista. Computers were something not even all middle class families used, Internet costed money by the minute and finding a website for LBGT people to connect was something my generation was the first to experience in our teens. To even think that a F/F or M/M couple would have sex AND a relationship on screen in a show or film that wasn't specifically about lbgt issues and made for an lbgt audience was just something you didn't count on. At all.

Since I realised my gender identity and sexuality both were "different" in my early teens - the word I used back then because I didn't feel I could fit in any category - I read all the lbgt stuff on the library I could find. And when I'd finished it, I read it all again, and again and again. I waited in excitement for the soap operas I followed with minor lbgt characters, living on a kiss for days and watching re-runs on Sundays or recorded it. Believe me, if anyone knows how it feels to not get what you want from shows and movies, it's me - and all the other lbgt people in my age, not to mention older.

When it comes to Black Sails and the lack of M/M moments, I feel divided. On one hand, as a person growing up in a time where a show like Black Sails was unthinkable, I'm so grateful for the fact that this show has a gay head character who - and believe me, I've watched so many M/M movies and M/M moments from shows over the years, so I know what I'm talking about - is not a stereotype. I loved the fact that we got to see so much more of Flint before his secret love was reveiled. That the show makers refused to make a stereotype of him or Thomas. Seeing the comments from straight men being anything from shocked and confused to pissed off when their badass ginger captain turned out not to be straight was amazing - and also a proof of just how important it was to not be too in your face with Flint's sexuality, to make people love/hate/care for the character in a way that made it impossible for all people - except for morons and homophobes - to dismiss him or label him. And that's some damn good character writing.

Since the pirate community was very sexually liberal, and definately when it came to M/M relationships, I'm a bit disappointed that the show has not showed us that. We see no molly boys (male whores) in the brothels and the word matelotage has not been mentioned at all. That's a shame, I think, because this is literally one of the few places in history where M/M couples were actually getting married. And that's fucking huge! I didn't know about this before I looked it up and I've been a part of the lbgt community - and is a history nerd - for eighteen years.

To me, the lack of M/M couples as well as the large amount of F/F scenes in Black Sails, is a disappointment since we both have a gay male character and the time and place the show takes place in, makes M/M moments common. To not see that part of the pirate society's sexual freedom, but see F/F scenes when those must've been far more rare than M/M relationships, considering the hypermasculine environment the pirate community was, is the one thing I could maybe see as the show makers either being blind to or maybe dismissing due to the fact that they know M/M relationships are still something that unfortunately makes a lot of people, and I guess especially straight men, annoyed rather than excited. Tits are an easy way to make people interested and I can't blame the authors for realising that and using it to their advantage. I'm disappointed, but I still understand them.

But the eighteen years that's gone since I ordered Queer As Folk and struggled to understand the fucking accent without subtitles, have made me think of the difference in what I and the lbgt people I knew in late nineties and early 20th, expected when it came to representation. I'm white and lbgt, but saw a lot more black people than lbgt people - and the first ever TS person I saw that wasn't presented as a joke or a dragqueen, was "The Crying Game" from 1992. A movie I didn't get my hands on until 2003.

What I want to say with this post, is not that we should be content with less M/M couples than F/F or F/M couples, not at all. But we need to see Black Sails for what it is: a violent drama in a time where M/M relationships were punishable by death in most "civilized" places. James Flint is not a person who's free from those chains. That, I hope, is clear for anyone who's not slept through this show.

Despite what we think he deserves and what we know about the sexually liberal pirate community, Flint is not a person driven by the feeling that HE deserves love. And the last time he let go of the shame, the man he loved died (as far as he and we know) and if not all, so at least a huge part of James McGraw, died with that love. Even if Flint did love Silver or Billy or any other man, is it really reasonable to expect him to put a person he loves at risk once more, considering what happened with Thomas?

As sad as it is, Flint not letting any man near him in mind AND body again, should not be a surprise for us. And since Madi and Silver has a relationship and Flint probably is aware of how he, whether he intends to or not, seems to drag people down into his darkness. Since Silver is also aware of that and has even spoken openly about that concern directly to Flint, is it really reasonable to expect any of them to risk such vulnerability in that time, place and situation they are in?

Black Sails is a drama and perhaps one of the best historical shows I've ever seen, both when it comes to the story, the characters and the historical accurency. Not giving us a Silverflint, Blint, Gunnbones or Thomasflint relationship would feel sad, I'm the first to admit that. I almost always identify with men and I fall in love with and feel connected with men easier than women, so to me as a person, I would need an M/M relationship if I'm to feel "represented" at all in a romantic and/or sexual way.

But does that mean that the show needs it in order to feel complete? Honestly, I don't know since it's still four episodes left and the show has surprised me in every episode this season to a point where I find it almost impossible to foresee what's going to happen.

And I HATE to sound like a smug older person dismissing younger peoples as entitled millennials as if I'm not a product of my time as much as anyone else. People said the same things about my generation as well, that's how humans are and the last thing I want is for people to be content and grateful for breadcrumbs when the loaf is within reach. But what I wish, as a person growing up in a time where a show like Black Sails had been impossible and you still went to a store to rent a VHS movie (including porn) and you hardly dared to hope for a M/M or F/F kiss in your favourite shows- and if you did, there was likely no one you could share that wish with because coming out was a big fucking thing and you didn't take any chances - please, if you've experienced Youtube, Facebook, Google, Tumblr and downloading sites in your teens and/or early twenties, remember those who, like me, couldn't take even a M/M kiss for granted.

The kind of free spaces to experience and share your love and desires the Internet revolution has given us, didn't exist for us. I was a teen when thw word "queer" was still an insult and Russell T Davies said in an article that it was time to take back the word queer and not letting it be an insult, that it was time for a show where lbgt people weren't portraited as depressed individuals in constant battle with themselves, apologizing for our existence and longing to fit in with the heterosexual norm.

Reading those words meant a lot to me and if you're in your twenties or a teen reading this, trust me, there've been so many changes since a seventeen year old me read that.

So, as a soon to be 34 years old, non-binary, bisexual person who knows more than well how frustrating it is to not feel represented or get what you want from a show when it comes to sexual and/or romantic relationships, I would like to just remind you that striving for more diversity and better representation, shouldn't make us forget that not very long ago, a show like Black Sails with a gay male head character and all the different relationships and personalities shown in the show, had been un-fucking-thinkable. We're not talking seventy, fifty or even twenty years.

With Black Sails we have three lbgt characters who have major roles: Flint, Max and Anne. Non of them are stereotypes. They are all more than their sexual orientation, more than their relationships and when the show is handling their orientation and love interests, it's always complex. It's the same thing with the straight relationships. Anne/Rackham, Vane/Eleanor, Miranda/Flint, Silver/Madi and Woodes/Eleanor are not typical straight romantic couples at all and we should remember that.

If the show ends without any M/M moments then yes, I will be sad about that. But I don't think the reason for not adding it, is because of the creators being narrowminded or wanting to please a straight crowd. They've showed us over and over again that Black Sails is something more than a show about pirates doing pirate stuff. Not giving us a relationship that suits a modern person's view on M/M couples in a show taking place in the 1700th doesn't make the creators cowards, narrowminded or queerbaiting.

And this show has never been a tale of romance, no matter what we want to read into glances, touches and tone of voices. Will I be sad if I don't get an M/M moment? Of course. But, just to once again look back in history, not nearly as sad as all the real lbgt people in that time - and also in some places on earth in our time - who faced a very real death threat for loving someone of the same gender, or breaking the norms of gender roles.

Black Sails is their history and their time, and James McGraw has suffered so badly for breaking the heterosexual norm, he lost a part of himself. To count on him even to dare and reach out to another man easily again with that loss, guilt and grief inside him, is to not see the whole character.

We wish him that happiness, as modern free people with empathy should, but can James Flint allow himself to take that chance again? Is it really realistic to expect that? And if he can't, does that really make Black Sails a less good show? My answer to that is just: hell no.

[scribbles-by-kate]

Thoughts on 7.1 “Hyperion Heights”

Little bit late to the party with watching season seven. I wanted to wait to see how a few things played out before I decided if I could watch or not, and now I am, so, first episode of the sequel/slash reboot/whatever the hell they’re calling it. What did I think of it? Well, I was spoiled for most of it (by my own choice), so there wasn’t the element of surprise that I had with the first pilot, and I didn’t love everyone this go round the way I did in the initial pilot, but I’ve a feeling that’s because I was spoiled and I knew the premise going in, which I didn’t really the first time. There wasn’t the same wonder. That said, I think it was a good introduction to the new story and the new curse personas.

My Fan fiction My Once Upon a Time episode reviews, essays, and meta

Hyperion Heights - strange to not be in Storybrooke any more. You really get a sense of the different neighbourhood as Henry’s driving around, and with the city lights at night. It’s greyer and grittier, not small town charm at all. I know I’m going to miss Storybrooke, but the new sets are fun and I really like Roni’s so far. It’s just interesting to see all these characters we know in new settings doing completely different things.

Andrew as Henry - really channelled Jared exceptionally well, I think. He had the inflections of the voice really well, and the mannerisms too. I love how adult Henry channels Emma too, as he’s arriving in Hyperion Heights. ‘Seriously?’ That made me grin.

Lucy - is certainly very earnest. I’m afraid I don’t find Alison as subtle as I always found Jared. He was always more understated for me, but Alison definitely has time to grow into the role. I do really get a sense of Lucy’s earnest desperation to set things right, not just for her and her immediate family, but for all the fairy tale characters. I did also love the Swan Believer callbacks - ‘Kid’ :)

The gentrification of Hyperion Heights - which, of course, is just a cover for pushing the fairy tale characters out so that they will forever be isolated from one another and the curse can’t be broken. That’s the ‘mistake’ that Regina made: she kept everyone together, increasing the chances of them finding each other, but we’ve since learned that Regina’s curse, well, modified by one Rumplestiltskin, was a pretty tame affair compared to others. If she’d (he’d?) really wanted to be cruel, the curse would have scattered everyone to the four winds. Seems Lady Tremaine is that cruel.

Tremaine/Belfrey - her Hyperion Heights persona is very much a take off of Miranda Priestly. I mean, Ivy pretty much made that clear with that whole ‘she’s coming’ business. Hmm, she’s certainly cold. I don’t know whether she has the oomph of Regina, though. Be pretty hard to top Ms Parrilla, to be honest, so I’m sort of lukewarm on her at the moment. I will say it was pretty fucking vile to cut the fairy’s wings off. I mean, I know what that was a metaphor for in the Maleficent movie, so Tremaine doing it made me shudder. And her whole thing being fear rather than power is new. Makes her seem colder and more dangerous, somehow. She’s kind of emotionally cold, while Regina was full of emotion, though I think Regina had more anger in her, while what Tremaine/Belfrey has is calculated hatred. She certainly seems to hate her daughter.

Ivy/Drizella - definitely seems to be under her mother’s thumb and trying to please her. Need to see much more of her to figure her out, though. So far, she seems not that bad, but that could change.

Jacinda/Cinderella - she sort of reminds me of Bandit Snow, with the whole jadedness and cynicism, and the whole idea that she doesn’t believe there’s a happy ending for her. She ain’t got no time for no prince, but there’s a surprising element there in her wanting to kill the prince. I like that they made her steal Henry’s knife and hide it under her dress! I like the sword fighting too. I mean, Once’s original Ella never really did it for me as a character. I had serious problems with her wanting to solve her problems with magic, even though Rumple warned her, and then not adhering to their deal, so I was pleased to hear they were introducing a new Cinderella. The fact that she’s Latina is also really important in terms of representation, and I’m really pleased that they had Dania keep her own accent. I mean, I don’t think she flattens it out in any way, but I don’t know enough of her to be able to tell for sure. I look forward to seeing more of her anyway. And I want to know why the hell she doesn’t have custody of her daughter. What the hell is Vicky playing at there?

Henry and Cinderella - I liked the meet cute and the fact that she stole the motorcycle! They’re echoing Henry’s parents and grandparents’ meetings through theft, which I love. I also love Henry’s little shake of the head as she rides off! The moment she first turns and sees him, and seems to lose her voice for a second, like she’s instantly struck was really well done, as was the moment Henry first saw Jacinda in Roni’s, where he couldn’t speak for staring at her. I also loved how Henry insisted on helping her get away, how he wouldn’t give up on her, and their dance at the ball. And I liked how they talked about the Cinderella story, with her saying many girls have the same size foot as her and him saying that’s a pothole, alright!  To me, at the moment, they feel cute and sweet, much like Snowing did. I sort of neutrally ship them, not at all in the way I ship RumBelle, but there’s much more to come, I’m sure, and I look forward to more sweet moments.

Alice - is very intriguing. I figured she was awake when she looked at Henry. She’s kinda weird and loopy, but I think she’s a girl who knows what she’s about. I’m intrigued by how she knows Rumple, and this whole idea that when you get involved in a story that’s not your own, bad things happen. Be interesting to find out how she knows Rumple, and how that’ll all play out. I like the idea that Rumple is keeping watch over his grandson. And I’m pretty sure Alice stole Henry’s car to keep him in Hyperion Heights. On Rumple’s orders or…?

Roni - cool chick. I like the lower register of Lana’s voice as Roni. I like the sort of more relaxed, friendly demeanour. Roni was probably the life and soul of the party while the community was thriving, but now it’s fading away, so she’s grudgingly giving up and feeling jaded. I love her speech at the end, and how Jacinda inspired her to stand up to Vicky. I love how she says ‘nah, I’m not giving you my bar today’ :) Lana does some lovely things with her voice as Roni that she never did as Regina.

Regal Believer - there’s a moment, after he says ‘what if I walked in and told you I was your son’, where there’s a sort of spark, a memory, like there was for Emma and Snow in the pilot. I kind of knew the Regal Believer relationship was going to be one I rooted for in this new season, and I still feel that way. I’ve really become a fan of Mom Regina and her little prince over the seasons, so that’s one relationship I’m still invested in. It’ll be interesting to see which of them wakes first and what that does to their dynamic.

Rogers - so I was spoiled that this is Wish Hook before I watched this episode, and for Wish Hook’s back story, so I’m actually pretty chill about him. If I’d thought that this was original Hook, I probably wouldn’t be on for the team up with Weaver so much. I mean, Hook and Rumple, to me, can’t ever really be friends, and it would be weird to me to see them even be partners, even under the curse. Wish Hook kind of gives them a blank slate. I’m sure the Milah business still happened, but Wish Hook is clearly a different man from the Hook who’d only been after revenge on Rumple, so I think this can be a better relationship. I think the fact that it’s suggested that Belfrey got him his promotion after his help with Lucy, though, indicates that the police in Hyperion Heights may not be as above board as they should be. That desk sergeant sure didn’t seem to care about his job! Have to say I did love Rogers’ smitten kitten reaction to being partnered with Weaver!

Speaking of Weaver - well, hello, Detective! What are you up to with attempting to drown that man? Is he someone you’re trying to extract information from or some criminal lowlife you’re interrogating in your own rogue way? Never felt that Rumple was awake here. I think it’d be stupid, really, to have him be awake from the beginning. Prepared for the curse so he could be woken, yes, but awake from the get go, no, because we never saw Rumple really cursed before, so I think it was important to give Bobby that to play with for a bit. I think they gave just enough of him in this episode to make people wonder about Weaver, though, just as they did with Mr Gold in the pilot.

Henry needs to live his own story - it’s what drives eighteen-year-old Henry to leave Storybrooke and also what keeps adult Henry from writing - the idea that he’s not living his own story. That’s an interesting metaphor for living an authentic life, isn’t it? I mean, Henry is only able to begin to write again when he truly reconnects with something/someone meaningful, when he really embraces life again. Though I can understand the writer’s block coming, in his mind, from the loss of a dearly beloved wife and daughter, though we, of course, know it’s the curse keeping him from his true story.

[helloworlddemo1122-yahoopar-blog]

EXCLUSIVE: Benj Pasek and Justin Paul Give Their Generation a Voice on Stage and TV

Not long ago, you would have been forgiven for thinking Pasek and Paul was the name of a law firm. But as any self-respecting fan of theater or film musicals now knows, Benj Pasek and Justin Paul are actually songwriting partners, and they’re having an extremely good year.

In a span of less than five months, the former University of Michigan classmates, both 32, have won a Tony Award for Dear Evan Hansen -- a musical that was conceived while Pasek and Paul were still in college and that blossomed into one of the most celebrated shows of Broadway’s post-Hamilton season -- and shared an Oscar win for their lyrics for “City of Stars,” a song featured in Damien Chazelle’s cinematic smash La La Land starring Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone.

Now Pasek and Paul -- primarily a lyricist and composer, respectively, though they prefer to share credit for both music and lyrics -- are poised to add an Emmy to their growing trophy collection. Though nominations won’t be announced till July, “Runnin’ Home to You,” a rhapsodic ballad crafted for a March musical episode of The CW series The Flash, is generating awards buzz. With the Dear Evan Hansen cast recording all but certain to earn a GRAMMY nod later this year, the pair are on track to score the quickest entry into the tiny, elite “EGOT” club in memory.

MORE: Behind the Scenes of Kara and Barry's Tap Dancing Duet on 'The Flash/Supergirl' Musical Episode

But the guys aren’t counting their chickens yet. “We feel lucky to just be part of this beautiful musical theater renaissance that’s happening right now, with people embracing theatrical songs in movies and on stage and television,” Pasek tells ET. “So many other people have paved the way for this, songwriters like Alan Menken and Lin-Manuel Miranda who have made this kind of writing cool, and we’ve been able to learn from them.”

Pasek and Paul, whose previous TV credits include Smash, credit The Flash co-creator and executive producer Greg Berlanti for his own theatrical intuition. “We’d been mutual fans for a long time,” says Paul. “It was clear to us from the casting of his shows that he’s a musical theater fan, because they’re all peppered with great Broadway actors. So when his office reached out to us, we naturally got excited.”

With the Flash episode, Pasek says they were struck by how well-conceived the script was. “I think sometimes when [TV] people want to do a musical episode, they’re not sure how they’re going to justify the character singing. But here there was a clear vision for that.” Specifically, “Runnin’ Home” -- only one of two original songs written for the episode -- was intended for the Flash’s alter ego, Barry Allen (Grant Gustin), to sing to his girlfriend, Iris (Candice Patton), as he re-proposes to her. “There was this beautiful moment at the end that felt much larger than a specific episode, because it was about the entire relationship that Barry and Iris have had since the beginning of the show -- and we’re fans; I’ve watched it from the beginning.”

The idea of tapping into something bigger than themselves is not new for the pair. When Dear Evan Hansen began taking shape, it was written “from our heads and hearts.” But the story about a lonely, troubled teenager who becomes an unlikely hero at school and on social media after attaching himself, unwittingly at first, to a tragic event speaks to a larger phenomenon.

As millennials, Pasek, Paul and book writer Steven Levenson “were definitely conscious of how our generation was responding to the world, particularly to tragedies,” says Pasek, who cites September 11, 2001, as an example of when so many people so aggressively wanted to be a part of it that they invented a place for themselves in the narrative. “They’d say they knew people involved, or write college essays that seemed a little self-serving. Another obvious thing is that social media has become so prevalent. We’re all constantly watching these perfectly curated versions of other people’s lives, so that while we’re more interconnected than ever, we can feel incredibly alone.”

This is not purely generational, Pasek points out: “My mom is on Facebook -- all our parents are. Whatever your age now, there’s a sense of returning to being a teenager, where you’re aware of what everyone else is doing. We’re all back at the cafeteria table, in a way.” Paul adds that while he and Pasek always let characters and stories lead them, “We wanted to make sure with Evan Hansen that this story really appealed directly to parents, to families -- that it wasn’t just for young people.” Indeed, it has connected with audiences, not only winning five Tony Awards but collecting over $33 million at the box office, making it one of the most successful new Broadway shows of the season.

EMMYs 2017: The Standout Performances of the Season

“All that’s happened with Evan Hansen has been miraculous,” Pasek says. “We really give the credit to our cast, and the collaboration we have with people like Steven Levenson, whose ability to capture contemporary life and the nuances of how people speak was so inspirational.”

Now in demand, the duo is currently finishing work on another musical film, The Greatest Showman, a P.T. Barnum biopic starring Hugh Jackman. Paul took note of director Michael Gracey’s comparison of the original impresario to JAY-Z and Steve Jobs, saying, “There was a desire to create music that was contemporary, to bring that vitality to the story.” The next holiday season will bring A Christmas Story: Live, a FOX broadcast of Pasek and Paul’s acclaimed adaptation of the 1983 cult film with the addition of new songs. And Disney has recruited the songwriters for its upcoming live-action remake of Snow White.

And with another awards season just ahead, Pasek and Paul are trying to stay grounded while still pinching themselves. “With both the Tonys and the Oscars, we had a couple of days before the awards ceremonies where we could just hang out with the other nominees,” Pasek recalls. “We got to be in the company of so many writers we’ve respected for so long, and that was something we never would have imagined we’d be able to do.”