#and also the entire conversation is STILL ONGOING and Will be In Perpetuity

[mister13eyond]

still relationship ranting forgive me (it's all positive, more or less?)

it's also why it is really funny to me that people constantly talk about like 'i want to be in a relationship but i don't want [one specific part]' and it's like

you can just... you can just NOT do that part, then.

you can NOT cohabitate, if you think living with someone would take away your comfort with your living situation. you can not have sex if you don't want to have sex. you can use or not use any label, you can use or not use any terms of affection, you can choose your level of consistent contact you can choose your level of physical affection you can choose whether you want to make any long-term decisions like pets or marriage or children. you can choose whether you want to be exclusive or monogamous, you can choose whether you have multiple people involved, you can choose whether you make plans now or talk it out later, you can have an ongoing, long-term conversation where you check in periodically to see if anything has changed or if you want to change something.

like! i know the cishets tell us 'you fall in love with ONE person and you will KNOW when you are in love and you will ONLY ever love them FOREVER unless you FALL OUT OF LOVE and then you will be DOOMED TO A TRAGIC BREAKUP OR CHEATING'

but like in my personal experience... it's more like.... 'you will meet someone and you will feel like you are really connected to them and you get along well and you are attracted to them. you can then either nurture that feeling by spending more time together and testing out whether your initial connection is sustainable or you can let it pass through you and simply let things go wherever they go. then you can tell them how you feel, talk about what you think you'd like or not like, decide whether you want to prioritize your relationship and your time together over other, more casual connections in your life, and try it out. and you can talk about this any time something feels off. and you're not going to fall out of love spontaneously and for no reason when you were happy before; most of the time you'll notice that there's more distance between you and you're not as close or communicative as you were previously pretty early along that path. and you can THEN decide whether you want to say 'hey let's do more things together to help us bond and feel close and open up to each other' or you can say 'i think we've probably changed in a way where we're no longer on the same page with our relationship, do you want to figure out what we both need and adjust accordingly?'

which is like. it sounds so sterile and clinical but it's actually GREAT? feelings aren't this great big overpowering beast that you cannot wrangle; love is not a thing that will just spontaneously stop one day despite your desperate desire to still feel it. the more time you spend with someone and the more you support each other, the closer you will feel. the less time you spend and the less you support each other's needs, the further you will drift. you can 100% grow that garden to your own specifications and you can simply choose not to include sex or cohabitation or monogamy or labels or WHATEVER else and it's great because it's YOUR garden.

there is no one hard definition for any relationship and there is no one specific way to have a relationship. it's literally just seeing what feels right and then describing it in whatever terms feel right.

[katytheinspiredworkaholic]

Correspondence, Chapter 04

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary:  An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: Action-y in that there is offscreen violence and peril, injuries, talk of surgery and symptoms/effects of medical grade narcotics (morphine), more on that big ol’ age difference. Side notes: Agent Anderson of the L.A. field office has no relation to Agent Anderson of Quantico, VA, because Agent Anderson of the BAU is a national treasure. (I’m considering going back and renaming the OC, but as of right now this is the last we hear of him for a while). And I know no one really pays attention to them, but the time stamps on the texts match the time zone of the scene setting. Set in season 6, self beta’d.

Word Count: 8893

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

--

Chapter 04

--

Late September 2010

--

Spencer Reid wakes up to the early grey morning two weeks later, a perpetual haze shrouding his room long before his alarm was supposed to rouse him. He reaches blindly, blearing eyed and checks his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, only to find no messages waiting for him. A terrible, horrid feeling has been clawing at his chest and throat the longer it gets -- the more time that passes -- and he still hasn’t heard from Hotch. 

They’ve been messaging each other near constantly for months now, and it only seemed to get more intense after that fateful talk at the beginning of September. Where Hotch finally revealed he’d thought Spencer was much older than him, and not the other way around. Spencer had set him straight, as much as he could, and even that had been nerve-wracking to say the least. The two men were crossing into a territory neither really wanted to put a label on, and Spencer was both afraid of it and excited by it. Of what it could mean, and how long it could last, but he’d thought he’d had time to figure out a solution to his inadvertent secrecy.

Then, Hotch began working a case in Delaware two days ago. 

It seemed like a textbook unsub; maybe a little aggressive with anti-establishment overtones, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing the BAU hasn’t seen before. They’d been closing in on the suspect, no location yet but some prospects that needed checking out, and the last Spencer had heard from Hotch…

It had been lunchtime for him, and midafternoon for the older man. The exchange hadn’t been anything of consequence, just their usual, easy correspondence. Hotch was going to check out that lead they’d spoken of, Spencer had a budget meeting as soon as he was done eating in the middle of his office hours, and they had a plan to play chess online that night. Hotch is still terrible at it, but he keeps coming back no matter how thoroughly Spencer wipes the floor with him. Now, sometimes they just forget about the game entirely after the first few minutes. It makes him smile each and every time, soft and fond and lighting a warmth inside him Spencer has… never felt before. 

Then Hotch hadn’t messaged him the rest of the night.

Hadn’t shown up online to play chess.

Hadn’t texted him goodnight, or even sent him an update on the case. 

Nothing in their conversations warranted such ostracization, and although Spencer has been ‘ghosted’ before (as his doctoral students would say) he knows Hotch would never do that. Not after everything, the history they’ve built the past months -- leaving nothing but the dread to sink in and spread like a stain.

All night, he imagines the worst.

By morning, he all but expects it.

--

[]9/22, 18:59[] Are you alright? Did something happen with the case?

[]9/22, 19:10[] If you were that scared of losing at chess, I can also beat you at online poker instead.

[]9/22, 19:30[] I’d suggest scrabble but that’s honestly not fair to you.

[]9/22, 21:55[] Hotch? 

[]9/22, 22:30[] I’m assuming that lead panned out, and you caught your unsub and are neck deep in interrogation.

[]9/22, 22:36[] I don’t want to imagine anything else, so that’s what I will picture.

[]9/23, 00:06[] Hotch please answer me. 

[]9/23, 05:32[] Please be okay.

--

Spencer arrives at Caltech looking a little more of a mess than usual. More than most are used to seeing him, at least, and it causes a few second glances from students he passes and other faculty -- but he really can’t find it in himself to care, this morning. His unruly curls, getting longer again, falling into his face and over his ears, are frizzy in their unkemptness. Bags under his eyes, normal, but he’s settled for glasses instead of his contacts. He has a spare pair in his desk, he’ll have to change them before class. His glasses somehow always make him look even younger. A mystery that boggles the mind, because once he had grown into his face a few years ago (around 26 or 27, close enough he had worried he would forever be cursed with a ‘baby face’) Spencer had thought he would finally be getting away from that. 

And yet, square jaw and ‘grandpa’ glasses and thin frame towering just over six feet did nothing in the slightest to aid him. Certainly not stopping a man outside the campus coffee shop from shouting “Watch where you’re going, kid!” as he near barrels over him on the sidewalk. Not his sweater vest or half suits, attire straight out of a 1940’s noir film (he’d even sported a vintage inspired undercut with his waves combed over for a while there, too. Way too much upkeep, as nice as it looked). Nothing makes him any more grown up in the eyes of the unsuspecting world, than he’d been without his five doctorates and board of director’s seat. No matter what he tried, it seems.

This has been a subliminal thing for years, something Spencer always said didn’t bother him in the slightest. And for a long time he didn’t care one way or the other, he just kept getting more degrees. All his life Spencer has been ‘too young’, always been ‘kid’ or ‘sport’ or ‘tiger’, even when running quantum physics equations in his head. And it didn’t matter. Not with his credentials and accomplishments and everything he now has to his name.

Until Hotch.

Now, Spencer cares.

Notices, even through his haze of worry and sleeplessness, how on the street it’s “Watch it, kid!” and fifteen yards later it’s “Good morning, Dr. Reid” as he steps into the Physics building where everyone knows him on sight. Knows him, and what he’s capable of. 

What if when Hotch met him all he saw was… another kid? 

If they ever met.

“Whoa, rough night Dr. Reid?” 

“Yes, you could say that,” he mumbles out as he signs in and scans his ID card, taking the stack of mail that the desk attendant hands him. But stops before he gets too far from the desk, backtracking. “Hey, have you watched the news this morning? Did anything show up about New England or Delaware?”

“Not that I saw, Dr. Reid,” she says in confusion, looking up from where she had been texting on her phone. “Just a whole lot of coverage on the shitshow at capital hill, as usual. Oh, and more depressing reports about the earthquake clean-up in New Zealand.” 

Of course, why would there be a news story about a killer in Delaware here in California. He’d have to look up everything online himself. 

“Thanks anyway, Carla.”

“No problem, Dr. Reid.”

-

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch and his team are working. He usually prefers paper copies of news media, at first barely knowing where to begin, but he falls into a wormhole of news outlets and local Delaware station websites, reading the thousands of webpages faster than he can scroll and click through them. But he can’t find anything pointing to a disturbance related to the case. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be a part of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. Spencer gives up after an hour, and diverts to other resources. Ones with a direct line to Hotch. 

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

[]8/21, 15:36[] You're going to get me in trouble.

[]8/21, 15:38[] You didn’t laugh in front of your team, did you? The scandal.

[]8/21, 15:42[] I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[]8/21, 15:43[] Then why are you checking your phone?

[]8/21, 15:45[] You know why.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague. 

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules, the unspoken ones that always kept this friendship easy and free-flowing and evolving into something more.

But this feels like the closest to an emergency they’ve ever encountered before.  

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Listed in bullet points behind his eyes. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is. He still didn’t have a plan for that, wracking his overworked brain day and night for a way to incorporate the information into a conversation that wouldn’t stop everything in its tracks. 

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath. 

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes fail him as he realizes far too late that he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time, anyway. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by like water through his fingers and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, relief a flash flood on his nerves that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call. 

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it. 

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

.

Please let me know of his well-being.

.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s. 

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, for now, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

--

His morning routine progresses as usual, as if nothing at all is wrong with the world. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well. 

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. The juxtaposition of his daily routine and this unfounded worry throws him entirely off kilter, and all of his students seem to know right away. 

Then, his distraction reaches its peak when his email pings, right in the middle of his department announcements. A response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls. 

.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

.

Surgery.

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is in surgery, Hotch is hurt, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt. 

She doesn’t know when he will be--

If he will be --

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a fraction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted. 

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Teetering on the edge of panic. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

.

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

.

The reply is almost immediate.

.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room for any immediate actions.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time. 

.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. Utilizing anything and everything he can do to aid the BAU team, and whatever Hotch has gotten himself into. But then, his mind sticks on something from the email. Boy Wonder. It stalls his hands mid-movement.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch? Wouldn’t she send the files to him directly? Had Hotch really known, all along?

Or did she do it on her own, and not tell him? Assuming her boss already knew everything about him. It’s too many questions and possibilities and they are interfering with what’s most important right now. Best to get it out of the way, no time to be indirect about it.

.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

.

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what   I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

.

Spencer hadn’t meant for it to be a secret at all, it just happened that way. 

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, like he and Hotch had discussed the previous day, aiming for specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or labels as official. 

It’s easy to see, now, why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders when the unsub still hesitated -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean. 

Except, every victim’s hospital records show elevated potassium rates. Spencer’s hands, skimming down each and every page quick as they can, stop on a dime as his gaze zero in on the information. 

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “--Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr.  Reid?” 

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?” 

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “...Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.” 

There’s more typing going on and Ms. Garcia’s breathing has gone a little labored.

“Alright, alright I’m getting patched through. What else can you tell me?”

“I think he’s been dosed with something called an XG Compound, either Eastman or Zhao I have to look up the specific components and chemist. But they are a series of banned, experimental military-grade drugs that suffer effects of thinning the blood, that’s why they can’t stop the bleeding around his stab wounds and old scar tissue.” Hotch’s old wounds from Foyet would only exacerbate the condition, once it reached the kidney failure stage, but up until then the intrusions of hardened tissue is the only reason his abdominal cavity hasn’t been flooded with blood and drowned out his other organs. 

“Okay, okay I’m through, I’m keeping you on the line. Stand by-- ” then she clicks over and he’s left with a pulsating silence. Nothing remaining but continuing his work, and hoping he’d called in time. Hoping that Hotch will be alright.

--

Spencer is digging through his floor to ceiling bookshelves for the biology book on airborne pathogens given to him by a visiting Professor two years ago and he is hating himself for never cracking it in that moment. It’s nearly the last book he gets a hand on, because of course it is, and he makes it a third of the way through the book before Garcia is back on the line. The phone on the floor beside him and just barely within reach. 

“You literal genius, I could kiss you,” Garcia tells him in what can only be overstated relief, and Spencer snatches up his phone with a very undignified scramble. “They’ve had to do two transfusions on him and are prepping a third, but you were right he’s been dosed with that XG compound.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Spencer asks, still cross-legged on his office floor surrounded by books and holding his phone to his ear like a lifeline.

“Yes, yes my dear he’s going to be alright. They think. He’s not out of the woods yet and the surgery is still going on, but he -- he would have died within the next hour if you hadn’t found out what was wrong.”

Spencer’s heart is in his throat, her words doing the exact opposite of reassuring him. Hotch had been that close to dying, to being forever out of reach, because Spencer had been too scared to pick up the phone. 

“I should have called sooner,” he says, so quiet even someone in the room wouldn’t have heard him correctly. “I knew something was wrong.”

“Oh no, sugar don’t think like that. You just saved his life,” she pauses, like she wants to say something else, but diverts to an adjacent topic. “How did you know?”

“Autopsy reports. There wasn’t enough blood left in the bodies, they bled out too quickly. Then I saw the elevated Potassium,” he murmurs it all, rattled off without really thinking about it.

“And you just… knew all of that, without looking anything up?”

“That’s basically what I do. The only reason anyone calls me,” Spencer laughs but it holds no humor. “I know too much, make connections, and drink too much coffee.” 

“You drink and know things, oh God I hope you get that reference because you’re getting a coffee mug.”

Spencer laughs a little, despite the situation, and feels… lighter, somehow, even with the worry still plaguing him. Caught up in his chest like a bad cold. 

“I’m reading this textbook on airborne pathogens, I have a hunch, and I’ll send you anything I find that can help with the case,” Spencer continues, his voice not so heavy for a moment. “Just… tell me when he’s out of surgery? Keep me posted?”

“Of course, honey, you’ll be my first message,” Ms. Garcia assures him, but then she pauses again -- and he almost hangs up because it feels too anticipatory. “You should tell him, B.T.Dubs.”

Spencer hesitates more than is probably necessary.

“... I don’t know what good that will do,” he admits, quiet and unsure. “I’m not -- I’m not ready for this to be over.”

“You’re not that young, honey. Does he know you like him?”

“Mmhmm,” Spencer makes a nervous, affirmative sound. “And… he likes me, or who he thinks I am.”

“Don’t write him off just yet, Doc, let him speak for himself when he wakes up,”  Ms. Garcia all but scolds him, in as gentle a way as possible and Spencer appreciates that, at least. 

“--I’ll think about it.” 

--

Not long after Spencer finds what he’s looking for: military grade poisons that were banned for causing adverse effects, listed and categorized by chemist and agency. It is the Eastman compound, originated during the first invasion of Afghanistan. Their unsub has prolonged exposure, Spencer is sure, and that will narrow down the suspect pool immensely.

After he sends the information to Ms. Garcia, Spencer looks to his phone once more, where there is a block of text all from him himself in his correspondence with Hotch. Begging him to be alright, to answer him, and now that he knows that the man has a fighting chance -- or as much of one as he will be able to have, with where advanced medicine resides in the current conjecture of time -- there really isn’t much he can do now. But hope. And wait. And pray.

Except Spencer doesn’t believe in prayer, or God, or anything that might hear him. The only thing he really believes in is science, and facts, and none of that is very helpful to him right now. Except maybe the coincidental balance of the universe, in a theoretical physics sense, and unexplained phenomenon that have an equal and spatial balance to it. Anything with the descriptor ‘unexplained’ always draws him in like a moth to flame, and he knows he can typically find a semblance of comfort in the way his brain constantly connects dots and far off specks of information that not everyone can see at first glance. Constellations in the sky. But only when he has someone to tell it to, that even pretends to listen for a moment, and for a long while now… Hotch has been that someone. Hotch always listens to him.

Before he knows it, he’s typing into the text box once more --

[]9/23, 11:10[] You’re in surgery still, but Ms. Garcia has confirmed the treatments are working and they are able to actually repair the damage instead of treading water like they have been the past ten hours. I’ve had her personally in contact with the doctors and surgical staff, and all they’ve been able to tell us is to let them work and just pray for you.

[]9/23, 11:13[] Which is such an odd thing; men of science telling people to pray like the outcome of a surgery isn’t in their hands, but some theoretical astronomical entity. I know it’s probably just a ‘bedside-manner’ tactic, but it doesn’t help me in the slightest so it just irks me instead.

[]9/23, 11:15[] I don’t believe in prayer -- a shock, I’m sure -- but I do believe in the phenomenon of universal affirmation. It’s an interesting trend in history and spans cultures where if someone has something awaiting them, to live for, even if they are unaware of it… they will fight harder to cling to life. 

[]9/23, 11:18[] But I also know you will fight tooth and nail for Jack, and for your team that you treat like family, and maybe even me. I’d like to hope I’m included in that, and no amount of books or IQ points can make me think of something to contribute to help you keep fighting.

[]9/23, 11:19[] Just please keep fighting. Come back. And if I come up with something to entice you… I’ll let you know.

It eases a lot of the tension in his chest, talking to Hotch like this -- even if he’s just talking at him, in a place where he might never know what Spencer has had to say. But he can hope. Hope that Hotch will wake up and have thirty missed messages and see they are all from Spencer and it will make him smile. 

Spencer would give anything to see him smile, and he allows himself to hope that one day... he might get to. 

He might as well, while he’s sitting there hopelessly hoping for things beyond his control. 

Come back to me.

Spencer almost types it out, can see it in the text window though he hasn’t pressed a single letter, and closes his phone before he can. Pressing it to his mouth and closing his eyes and just… 

Hoping.

--

The hours roll over into the afternoon, and there’s still no word. 

Spencer has spent the majority of the day messaging Ms. Garcia, who has had no information beyond trivial updates here and there and Spencer has read more about surgical procedures and practices than he has in his entire life. Even raided the biology department’s library, surrounding himself with the comfort of books and files and filled his head with the soothing monotony of medical terms and safety protocols. 

But once noon has come and gone he finds himself staring into the bookshelves across from where he sits on the floor, among stacks of textbooks, with an epiphany trying to make itself known to him. Despite his every attempt to ignore it. 

His phone is back in his hand, there’s an email correspondence from Ms. Garcia that only briefly says Still nothing. And that makes up Spencer’s mind. 

[]9/23, 12:49[] I’ve thought of something.

What he types next makes it hard to breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, and it all comes flowing out of him much like before. His fingers keep moving, his emotional part of his brain steam-rolls over the rational one, and then he’s done and he’s tacked on six extra messages and Spencer has to put his phone away before he rereads it beyond what is deemed healthy or sane. 

Because he’s done what he could, and all he can do is believe that will be enough to… subliminally keep Hotch fighting. The day is only half over, and Spencer feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. 

It would be hours before he got the message that would send relief through his spine like a shot of Novocain. Just three words from Ms. Garcia, sent in haste in a text instead of an email.

{}9/23, 14:58{} He’s in recovery.

--

Hotch wakes up just barely the first time, the room spinning and hit with that familiar smell of anesthesia he can always taste as it fills his senses, before he slips back under. 

The second time is to a small pencil light being flashed in his eyes, staccato movements meant to test his pupil reactions, and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs saying his name and calling to him. He hums an affirmative, even though he isn’t fully returned to a working state of mind. Instinct, more than clarity.

“Welcome back, Agent Hotchner.”

“About damn time,” he hears Prentiss say from somewhere across the room. Probably leaning the wall, if that faux drone is anything to go by. The nurse gives her a look but his agent isn’t even fazed by it, as far as Hotch can see. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust that far. But he knows the look well enough he doesn’t actually have to see it. 

“Where is everyone? Is anyone else hurt?” Hotch can feel the words form on his tongue, droned out in a haze, his mind slowly coming back to him. 

“Good to see you, too, boss,” Prentiss says in mild exacerbation, coming up to the side of his bed but not taking a seat. She must have been waiting a long time, her whole stance jittery just like after long flights on cases. “Everyone is fine, you’re the only one that got into a knife fight with an unsub who’s into biological warfare.” Hotch blinks at her, trying to make her words make sense without asking it of her. He remembers going to a warehouse to follow a lead, but not much else after that. It’s coming back too slowly to keep up with her. Prentiss just sighs, and repeats herself. “Everyone is fine.” 

She regales him with a play by play, his own memories appearing like raindrops on a windshield to accompany her commentary. Slowly beginning to form a picture of what had happened. He’d been stabbed before, more than he cares to think about, and he’s been dosed with military-grade drugs before as well -- but never both at the same time. No wonder he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

“You’re lucky to be alive, honestly,” she points out, hip resting against the plastic side panels of his hospital bed. 

“Yeah, I’m gathering that.”

“And your phone has been blowing up like crazy.” 

Hotch is finally able to sit up enough and see straight without his vision swimming, to find that his agent does indeed have his cell phone in her hands. 

“What?”

“Yeah, eight missed calls and three voicemails, and--” she squints at the screen before looking at him in astonished confusion, “eighty-seven missed text messages, from a whole bunch of people. I’m not reading through all of them. I didn’t know you were that popular.” 

“I’m the Unit Chief, popularity has nothing to do with it,” Hotch deadpans, more himself. Wanting to reach for his phone but his arms are still dealing with pins and needles sensations, sluggish to lift and his fingers uncooperative. “Who called me eight times?”

“Let’s see,” she unlocks his phone -- somehow, god damn it Prentiss -- and scrolls through his notifications. “Two calls from Jessica, one from me, three from Strauss (Jesus), one from Dr. Reid, and one from Garcia. It doesn’t say who the voicemails are from.”

Hotch suddenly feels much more alert, his heart rate monitor picking up but he does his best not to draw attention to it, instead looking up at Prentiss as carefully guarded as he ever is. 

“Dr. Reid called?” he tries to keep his voice even, and unaffected, but the aftereffects of the drugs in his system leave a little more hitch in his voice than he would have liked. 

“Yeah, he’s been talking to Garcia,” Prentiss says without much comment, still scrolling through his phone and making Hotch a little more than nervous. “Busted the case wide open, and saved your life while he was at it. We never would have known you were dosed with something if he hadn’t figured it out. Think you owe that old man a fruit basket.”

“Can I have my phone back?” 

“Don’t think you’re supposed to have it,” she says without looking up, still scrolling through his notifications. “Lots of junk e-mail…”

“One of those voicemails is probably Jack, I should call and let them know I’m alright,” Hotch tries to reason with her.

“He and Jess are already on their way up, they’ll land in an hour,” Prentiss tells him, but looks over her shoulder for that nurse as she makes to hand Hotch his phone anyway. Still hesitant despite her predilections to breaking every rule she can get away with.

“I still want it back,” Hotch insists, regretting saying it as soon as he does.

It catches Prentiss’ attention a little too sharply. “...why?” But at Hotch’s steady stare and solid silence, unwavering like he hadn’t just been in surgery for hours on end, she finally relents and hands it over, still giving him a suspicious look. 

“It’s important,” he finally admits, when she doesn’t stop staring for a good couple of minutes. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raise near to her hairline, the profiler in her connecting more dots than should be humanly possible. 

A small smile teases her lips, though not fully forming there. “Now I wish I’d read them.” 

Hotch just gives her a reprimanding look of his own, but it’s short lived.

“Thank you, for staying.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Prentiss assures him, her smile going softer. “I’ll leave you to your mystery woman.” A beat, another raised eyebrow. “Person.” A knowing look, but then she exits and Hotch is able to look at his phone at his own discretion. 

- 

Hotch goes through the text messages with a brief glance; there’s so many of them. Other agents and agencies, his team in a group chat Garcia had started, Jessica left fifteen before someone got a hold of her, and Jack’s school sending reminders about soccer and parent teacher conferences. 

But 39 are from Spencer, and his heart constricts in his chest at the worry he must have caused the man. Aches next to the scars on his chest and the blood that doesn’t belong to him in his veins. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it’s coupled with a torturous feeling of longing. Even subtle jealousy, because even half drugged out of his mind Hotch hadn’t missed the precise word choices Prentiss used. Garcia has been talking to Spencer -- talking. 

Garcia got to hear him.

She talked to Spencer, when he still hadn’t, because of some unspoken rule Hotch isn’t even sure when they decided upon. He still knew so little about the man, and Spencer’s voice could tell him so much with just a few words. He could fill volumes with what he would learn from just a single message --

Without much further thought, Hotch pulls up his voice mail. Listens to the automated voices and the three messages there. None are from Spencer, although his heart had beat a little harder in anticipation -- enough his heart monitor beeped audibly next to him. Embarrassing as that was, like a lovestruck teenager. He’d glared at it and centered his breathing until his heart rate slowed back down, not wanting to alert the nurses station. Two of the voicemails are from Jessica’s phone, one of her worried out of her mind, and the other of Jack telling him they are coming to see him and he hopes he feels better soon. Just listening to his son speak more strongly than his aunt had or anyone else should in his situation, telling his daddy he loves him while the sounds of a commercial airline filter through the background, makes Hotch want to smile and sob all at once.

The last voicemail is from Garcia, telling him a similar story to what Prentiss had earlier, but with a bit more detail on her end. How ‘Dr. Reid’ called her out of the blue, because there had been no time for his usual emails, and gave them the information that saved his life. He’d been working the case diligently, ever since, and was checking up on him a lot. More than a lot. ‘Let him know you’re okay, when you wake up and get this. The poor guy is worried sick, and my updates only give him so much comfort.’

Spencer had actually called Garcia, when he hasn’t physically spoken to anyone in Quantico the entire time he’s consulted for them, just to save a few precious seconds to relay what he’d found. He’d even broken their rule, probably before hand, and called Hotch -- just to make sure he was okay. Hadn’t stopped working to help, the moment he found out he wasn’t.

It’s a strange thought, that if not for Spencer -- Hotch would be dead. That Jack would be flying up here for a very different reason. 

Hotch switches over to the text messages with a lump in his throat. Not at all prepared, emotionally, but needing to know.

The 39 messages start from the night before, when they were supposed to have had their usual online chess date. They range from playful banter, teasing edged in worry, and escalate to panic as the night wears on. Anxious worry bleeding through the single sentences, building and building until that lump in his throat feels like it might block off all air soon. 

Please be okay.

God, that alone starts to set a tone -- and reveals something Hotch hadn’t expected to find. Those three words give way to his speech pathology training, and all indicate that Spencer is… very likely younger than he’d originally thought. Some of Hotch’s assumptions might be close, even the teasing ones he’d only said because he’d been sure they were wrong. The other man is obviously beyond worried about him, as well. Petrified, despite knowing the risks of his job. They had become so close the past few months, were most definitely past the flirting stage and into something so tentative and wonderful Hotch can barely believe it some days. But they had never talked about this, about the possibility that Hotch might walk into a situation one day and not walk back out of it. 

Spencer’s messages soon give way to him just… talking at Hotch. Relaying what was happening, philosophical rants meant to ease his own mind and Hotch finds himself smiling softly at the man’s constant stream of thought, lectures at genius levels that he still feels so compelled to share with Hotch. Because they are that close. They really, truly, are -- and it brightens the fluttering feeling in his chest all the more. How Spencer is trying, subliminally, to draw Hotch back to the light. Three thousand miles away.

Please come back.

Hotch hears it loud and clear, the come back to me. Even unwritten. And it makes his heart skip a beat, aching as it does.

Then…

[]9/23, 15:49[] I’ve thought of something.

[]9/23, 15:52[] I’m 29.

Hotch doesn’t understand, at first. But then it hits him.

Years.  

29 years. 

Spencer is 29 years old. Proven, further, by the following messages sent after that.

[]9/23, 15:56[] I’m a certified child prodigy, on a registry and everything. I graduated high school at just twelve years old, and had my first Ph.D. by 15. Youngest in CalTech history.

29.

Jesus Christ, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell Hotch his age. 29 is… far younger than he expected. 

When Spencer was born, Hotch was getting his driver’s license. 16 years difference in age…

He keeps reading, despite the numb aftermath of a bomb going off inside his head, trying to process it and also hear the younger man out.

Younger. Spencer is 16 years younger than Hotch, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up further as he reads what Spencer sent.

[]9/23, 15:57[] I turn 30 at the end of October, and I was trying to wait until then to tell you. 

[]9/23, 16:00[] I’ve noticed a prominent dynamic shift in perception, between listing my age as in my 20’s and ‘almost 30’. It’s a numerical allusion our brains can’t help. You hear 29, you think 21. It happens with decades, too, once someone is outside the familial range of 10 years. +/- either side.

[]9/23, 16:02[] An age gap doesn’t sound as bad when I’m 30. That’s why I wanted to wait, just a little while longer, but if that universal affirmation phenomenon actually works for us -- I don’t mind dealing with the consequences.

[]9/23, 16:03[] Just please come back. 

[]9/23, 16:07[] Please be okay.

[]9/23, 16:10[] I miss you.

His heart is about to be ripped to shreds. 

Hotch feels terrible, because Spencer is right. 29 sounds so young, and it keeps repeating in his head over and over. But 29 isn’t the same as 21, he isn’t some college student still stumbling around trying to figure out his life. He has five Ph.D.’s, runs three departments at one of the best universities in the country, is consulted by the FBI and Homeland Security and very obviously has a reputation he upholds to the highest regard. Hotch had guessed Spencer was 32 not so long ago, what was the big difference between that and his actual age? From what little Spencer just shared of his life story, he’s never gotten to be a kid, so who was Hotch to consider him one? What gave him the right to be floored by this, did it actually change what he thought of Spencer? How he felt about him only moments prior to reading that?

I miss you.   Come back.   Please be okay.

I’m 29.

It could be the recent flirtation with death, the anesthesia or the morphine, even the gratitude that Hotch will get to see his son again and not leave him without both his parents -- there’s so many reasons for him to take pause as he considers the messages in front of him. 

But it feels a lot like the months of talking, and the countless late nights spent together, that pile up and up in his chest. A rising pressure that reminds Hotch that he and Spencer have something, and it’s not a normal, regular situation for either of them. Something that precedent, and everything Hotch has ever been told to hold to standard, doesn’t seem to fit. He and Spencer don’t seem to fit, when looked at afar or even on paper -- but they do. They really do. It was never supposed to be something that could be this easy, or normal in any capacity.

But what about their lives ever was?

[]9/23, 18:26[] I’m so sorry I worried you.

[]9/23, 18:26[] I miss you, too.

[]9/23, 18:27[] If I stop answering you, the nurse took my phone away. I hate hospitals.

[]9/23, 18:29[] Hotch, you scared me to death.

[]9/23, 18:30[] I know, I’m sorry.

[]9/23, 18:31[] From what I heard, you saved my life.

[]9/23, 18:33[] I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for that.

[]9/23, 18:36[] Just get better.

[]9/23, 18:38[] Which means resting, don’t glare at your nurses too much. They’re there to help you.

There’s a long stretch of a pause in their correspondence, which picks up so smooth and easy it’s as if they had never stopped. Like the last few days hadn’t happened at all. But they had, they were both looking at the messages to prove that. He does take pause, maybe more than he should, and Hotch knows miles away Spencer is just as nervous. Staring at his phone.

-

Hotch isn’t wrong. Spencer let out such an exclamation of relief at Hotch’s name on his notifications he about sobbed with it. He never cries, hasn’t in years -- but his eyes sting with relief and worry and… an emotion he doesn’t want to name.

[]9/23, 18:44[] What day is your birthday?

[]9/23, 18:45[] October 28th.

[]9/23, 18:45[] Same week as mine. November 2nd.

Hotch pauses, again, considers his next response… and 3,000 miles away Spencer can barely blink as he stares at his phone with mounting dread. 

[]9/23, 18:49[] I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It’s alright.

[]9/23, 18:51[] Am I correct in assuming you’ve never been in a relationship with this much of an age gap?

It takes Hotch a moment to even gather the courage to type that out and send it. Knows it sounds almost too formal, for them, but Hotch also knows that he and Spencer are balanced on the edge of a knife, here, and… no matter what the outcome, everything is about to change between them.

Spencer licks his lips in nervousness, reading the line over and over although he has no need to. It feels like a tipping point, and he’s still… terrified this will be his last conversation with Hotch outside of case work. Ever. 

[]9/23, 18:55[] Never. 

[]9/23, 18:57[] I haven’t had many relationships at all. My peer groups have always been older than me, and people my own age never understood me enough to be interested. So it’s just something I was used to, going without.

[]9/23, 18:59[] This has been… the closest thing to what I’ve been told is normal that I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never had the chance to have something like this with someone, or connect in this way. I gave up, for a long while there.

[]9/23, 19:01[] I’ve been in a similar situation before, on an intellectual spectrum.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never--

Hotch pauses, again, putting his thoughts in order. Weighing it all, before taking that final leap. Spencer waiting with baited breath, all the more. 

But Hotch doesn’t regret what he sends. Not one bit.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never dated anyone younger than me like this, before, so we’ll both be on a learning curve.

[]9/23, 19:03[] But we will figure it out. Together.

Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to release it again. He can’t believe what he’s reading. What Hotch has sent him. 

He said ‘dated’.

He thought they were dating. Spencer isn’t quite sure he can trust his own eyes, despite the words being there in stark black and white on his phone screen.

[]9/23, 19:06[] Dating?

Hotch smiles, because he just knows -- from that single word text -- that Spencer has sent it not in admonishment or anything negative of the sort. But in hope. Confident that he recognizes the nuance in Spencer's voice even without ever having heard it, Hotch just knows, and it makes warmth blossom anew in his chest. Sends his heart rate monitor skittering across the machine all over again.

[]9/23, 19:08[] Hate to be the one to tell you, but all of those late nights where we talked for hours instead of playing chess? Those were dates.

Spencer has his hand over his mouth, still in disbelief that he hadn’t… fucked this up beyond repair. That his age hadn’t been the deal breaker he’d feared so vehemently for months now. That everything is still as it was, age difference and life-threatening situation, aside.

They were dating. All this time.

[]9/23, 19:10[] I should have worn nicer clothes.

Hotch laughs at his phone at the same time Spencer laughs at his own, having reread what he’d sent. 

3,000 miles away, and their quiet laughter coincides perfectly. 

[]9/23, 19:11[] Our next one I’m sure I’ll be in a hospital gown, so I think you’re in the clear.

[]9/23, 19:12[] Sounds like you’re making plans, already. 

[]9/23, 19:12[] You still need rest.

[]9/23, 19:14[] Well, I have to thank you somehow. And, I saw something about poker instead of chess? I’m actually not bad at poker.

[]9/23, 19:15[] … you remember I’m from Vegas, right?

[]9/23, 19:16[] We’ll play for fake money.

[]9/23, 19:18[] No such thing.

[]9/23, 19:19[] I do play for favors, though.

[]9/23, 19:19[] Oh? 

Hotch feels a wild, youthful thing unfurl in his chest as he types away. Mischievous, almost, in a way he only gets when he and Spencer are hours deep into conversations in the middle of the night. But it’s broad daylight, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. Getting lost in the thrill of it all. In the officiality of it, now, and another curtain unveiled between them.

[]9/23, 19:20[] Did you have something in mind?

Spencer has to be blushing seven shades of red, right about now, and he hides his face from his phone for a moment before he realizes how ridiculous that is -- Hotch can’t see him. He can stop messaging the man any time he wants to.

Except he doesn’t want to.

[]9/23, 19:24[] I’ll get back to you.

Hotch can’t help it as he grins at his phone. A wry, suggestive thing, but he manages to school it before a passing nurse can see him -- how his eyes are alight with possibility. With elation, just from talking to the younger man that had seemed to capture a part of him he thought wasn’t available to anyone any more, and types out one last -- slightly more flirtatious subtext to put a cap on their conversation. To indicate he’s awaiting more, always wanting a little more of Dr. Spencer Reid.

He can blame it on the morphine, later. 

[]9/23, 19:25[] Looking forward to it.

--

(tbc...)

--

Tagged List:  @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom​ @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat​​​ @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (10/?)

Chapter Title: Collide

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

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

Story Rating: R

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

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

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

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

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

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

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

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

Miranda was here. Living in the now.

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

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

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

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

It was something to savour. So she did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that had been the point.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, this was definitely one of those instances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, not usually.

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

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

Because they wouldn’t be alive much longer.

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

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

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

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

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

Or, if they did, then they shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Almost.

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

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

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

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

“What was?” asked Samara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her oldest daughter. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find yourself?” Samara suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

It was still warm.

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Until she saw the body above her move.

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

Without warning, it seized her left hand.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

And then the pilot opened her mouth.

And a river of maggots came pouring out.

Wriggling.

Writhing.

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

She could smell it.

She could fucking smell it.

And they just kept coming.

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

It shoved that handful of maggots directly onto her face.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

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

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

Four forty-five in the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That relentless

Fucking

Sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was just so fucking…

Blank.

Neutral.

Numb.

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

But Samara wasn’t there.

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

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

But what the hell did she have to complain about?

She was still here.

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

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

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

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

Did it matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then again, maybe she was wrong about them.

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

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

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

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

And Shepard.

Where did she even start when it came to Shepard?

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

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

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

Do you even miss us?

At all?

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

Do you even care that we’re gone?

You haven’t cried.

Not once.

Not even the faintest sting in your eye.

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

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

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

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

“Morning, Miss,” Leah Brooks greeted her.

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

“Sure is,” Rodriguez confirmed.

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

“Black market,” Rodriguez answered with a shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

Miranda fumbled her spoon.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Why?” asked Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I crossed that boundary a long time ago,” Rodriguez assured him, evidently proud that she’d finally managed to break Miranda. “I have nothing to lose.”

“How about the roof over your head,” Miranda retorted, picking up her cereal, deciding she would rather starve than continue to be subjected to this.

“Pfft. You don’t mean that,” Rodriguez brushed her off. Miranda just silently arched her eyebrow at her as she limped away. Rodriguez began to sweat, turning to her partners in crime. “She...She doesn’t mean that, right?”

Jason just pulled a face, as if to say he’d warned her.

*     *     *

“I heard a rumour about you,” Shepard began, approaching Miranda near the lounge on the second floor.

The party had gone fairly late into the evening by that point, and the energy was starting to wind down. Miranda hadn’t asked but somehow she got the sense that everyone was planning on crashing at Shepard’s for the night, since nobody had made any motions to leave yet. 

“I’m the subject of many rumours, Shepard,” Miranda dryly replied, sitting back against the armrest. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Although, if it’s the one about the incident with the drop bear, I swear that only happened one time and only three people died.”

“Drop bear?” Shepard echoed curiously, tilting her head, as if trying to work out whether that was Miranda’s serious voice or her sarcastic voice. Miranda just gave an ambiguous shrug. If Shepard couldn’t tell, then she wasn’t going to spoil it. “Nah, it was nothing that exciting. Although remind me to ask you about that later. I’ve been told you’re considering an early retirement?” 

Miranda sighed, not needing to guess where that had come from. “Kasumi...”

“Mhmm,” Shepard confirmed the source of her information. “And, from that look, I'm starting to think it's true. So, this is really it for you, huh? Once we get rid of the Reapers, you're out – you're done.”

“Well, not immediately. I'm not about to leave people dying in the streets. But yes, you heard correctly,” Miranda replied, taking a sip from her freshly refilled glass of wine. It was a relief that not every single bottle or glass had been destroyed when Garrus set up that makeshift shooting gallery. “I’m my own woman now.”

“Really?” Suffice it to say, Shepard didn't seem to be buying it. “Not working for anyone at all, other than yourself. Ever. You're sure?”

“I haven’t made up my mind about ‘ever’, but yes. As of right now, that's the plan,” Miranda answered.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but who are you and what have you done with the real Miranda Lawson?” Shepard teasingly remarked, since this was the single most uncharacteristic thing the Miranda she had come to know a year ago could possibly have said or done.

“Oh, she’s dead. I buried her under the floorboards. I probably should have mentioned, I’m also an escaped Cerberus clone. You are the fake Shepard, right? Because if you’re not, then this is a joke and you should forget I said that,” Miranda responded, her tone completely deadpan.

Shepard laughed, moving to sit across from her on the opposite sofa. “Seriously, what brought this on? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

Miranda exhaled, shifting until she was seated on the armrest, deciding to stop being snarky and start being direct. “Being on the run this past year...It's been the worst year of my life. Including all the years I lived with my father. But if nothing else, being on my own for so long made me realise that, for as long as I've been alive, everything about me has always been controlled by other people. In one way or another, I've never been free to make my own choices. Except for a few months with you. I need to take some time away to breathe. Just be me, without anyone expecting anything from me. Figure out how to be...”

“What?” Shepard prompted, when Miranda fell silent.

“I was going to say ‘an actual fucking person’ and then I realised how depressing that was,” Miranda muttered with appropriate self-awareness, earning a light chuckle from Shepard. “I guess that’s the whole point. I don’t even know who I am when I’m not working myself to the bone. I could be anybody under all this.” Miranda vaguely gestured at herself.

“And what if you can’t stand having nothing to do?” asked Shepard. 

“Then I change plans,” Miranda answered plainly. She wasn’t so attached to this idea that she couldn’t be flexible if it didn’t work out, and she wasn't sure why it mattered. As it stood, the chances of any of their dreams for the future coming to fruition were slim at best. “But how can you be so certain that I'll hate it? I'm not; I've never had the freedom to do nothing before. Maybe I'll thrive.”

“But you were always putting yourself under pressure to stay busy, even when you didn’t have to. You love how much of a workaholic you are. Don’t deny it. You were practically begging me to give you more stuff to do towards the end there. What would you even do with your time if you’re no longer devoting yourself to some kind of high-powered career?” Shepard wondered aloud.

“I don’t know. There are a lot of things I’ve never done before, and never thought I’d do.” Miranda shrugged. “Maybe I’ll try being a blonde for a while. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo. Maybe I’ll become Wiccan. Maybe I’ll get fat.”

Shepard stared at her sceptically, sensing the obvious sarcasm.

“What? Don’t think I couldn’t do it if I set my mind to it. I’m secretly a foodie at heart, you know,” Miranda pointed out, her tone drier than her wine.

“And you have a superhuman metabolism,” Shepard countered.

“Ah. Right. Scratch that one off the list then,” said Miranda, taking another sip from her glass. “Blonde, tattooed Wiccan it is.” Shepard laughed, entertained.

“Well, when Hell freezes over a million years from now, I look forward to meeting that version of you. But, until that happens, you know it’s not a two-party system, right? You don’t have to choose between going in a totally new direction forever, or staying exactly as you are right now. There's a lot you can do that isn't either of those things,” Shepard reminded her, gesturing as she spoke. “You'd excel at anything you tried. It doesn't have to involve life or death struggles over the fate of the galaxy. And, if you’re sick of bringing people back to life, you can retire from science and move onto something else. I could definitely see you taking well to life as a lawyer, or a CEO, or even a political leader.”

“Politics?” Miranda snorted, reaching out across the gap with an insincere handshake. “Hi, I’m Miranda Lawson, former terrorist. Vote for me.”

“Point taken,” Shepard conceded.

“You also realise that all the professions you listed have a higher than average ratio of sociopaths compared to the general population,” Miranda noted.

Shepard scratched the back of her head. “Sunday school teacher?” she offered.

“Can’t do that. I’m becoming Wiccan, remember?” Miranda quipped. “Did you really come and find me just to try and talk me out of this?”

“No. No, I didn't. It's...actually the exact opposite,” said Shepard, shaking her head and leaning back against the cushions. “Because the truth is I've been thinking the same thing; that this is the end for me too,” she confessed, piquing Miranda's intrigue. “If I make it through this...I don’t know if I can keep fighting other people’s battles anymore. If I can, I don’t know if I want to.”

“I guess after stopping a galactic genocide, all other conflicts start to look petty in comparison,” Miranda mused, swirling her glass, strangely empathising with that sentiment. What would be the point of Shepard saving the entire goddamn galaxy from the Reapers, only to then continue imperilling her life, risking getting shot and killed day after day over some insignificant political squabble that didn’t matter the slightest bit in the grand scheme of things? 

Shepard had been lucky enough to get a second chance at life. Literally. She had more reason than anyone to realise how precious that was. And also how fragile.

It would have been beyond tragic if Andrea wouldn’t get to savour a calm, peaceful future if the war with the Reapers ever ended - a future that would only be possible because of her. Because she was the one person who saw what truly mattered, and valued collective unity over selfish, shortsighted division.

“Don’t take anything I’ve been saying about you as an attack. It’s not,” Shepard assured her. “I'm just surprised, and maybe projecting a little, because...I have no clue what I'm going to do after this, and it's terrifying to me. I’ve never...I’ve never not been a soldier. I don’t even know how to be an...an ‘actual fucking person’, like you said. And neither do you. And yet here you are, and that doesn't bother you at all. I thought it would have been the other way around.”

“Me too,” Miranda conceded. “But things are different now.”

“You mean you're different now,” Shepard added, impressed by Miranda’s growth.

“You helped,” said Miranda. She crossed the floor and sat down beside Shepard, sinking into the seat, leaning her head back on the lounge to look up at the ceiling. “I’ve been cognisant for a very long time that I’m not a normal person, Shepard. Not only that, but...I don’t have the faintest clue how to pretend to be normal,” Miranda elected to be frank about that flaw. Though she rarely showed weakness, she felt safe sharing that with her. “My whole life, I’ve never seen the point trying to fit in with other people when I know I can’t, and don’t even want to. So, while I might not be showing it...I am more scared than you think. But I’m also just kind of over worrying about anything anymore? Maybe because I’ve spent most of this past year living in constant fear. I think I got sick of it.”

Shepard paused, considering Miranda’s words. “Can I be honest with you?” she began, after several seconds had passed. Miranda gestured for her to go ahead. “I also have no idea how to be a normal person. I think that’s what’s freaking me out about what comes next. What if I’m bad at it?”

“What a horrible thought. Being bad at mundane problems,” Miranda dryly commented, hoping her sarcasm would help Shepard put her anxieties into perspective. “What if you mix up your recyclable plastics with your non-recyclables? Perish the thought. That’s a disaster, right there.”

“I’m being serious,” Shepard insisted, though it was obvious she got the meaning behind Miranda’s comment. “Look, you get what I’m going through better than anyone. You and I, we’re both...not to sound arrogant, but we’re both fuckin’ good at what we do,” Shepard stated plainly. And she wasn’t wrong. They were the best of the best. “What if we suck at everything else?”

Miranda shrugged. “Then it was a fun experiment, both of us trying to be ordinary people for a while. I think it will be worth it.”

Shepard exhaled, and rested her head on her hand. “So...what does being a regular, everyday person look like to Miranda Lawson?” she wondered aloud. “What does a nice, safe, boring future look like to you?”

That was a question Miranda had no problems answering. She had a singular vision. “I’ve promised Oriana that we’re going to find a quiet spot on a colony world. We’ll buy a big plot of land far away from anyone else, and build our dream house. Somewhere with a view, where we can sit out on the deck, watch the sunset, drink wine and eat sashimi while we talk about our day,” Miranda revealed, trusting Andrea enough to tell her what she said to Ori before she left.

“...That sounds pretty great,” Shepard said softly. In that simple description of what life after the war meant to her, and the goal she was fighting for, it had instantly clicked into place why Miranda was so content with the idea of ‘retiring’.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, gently nudging Shepard’s knee with her own. “Where does Andrea Shepard see herself in five years’ time?”

“That’s the million credit question, isn’t it?” Shepard spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. She sat forward, electing to just give voice to what was in her heart. “Honestly, this is going to sound corny as hell, but...when I think of my future, I can’t see anything but Liara. That’s it. Nothing would make me happier than just...I don’t know, having a boring fuckin’ house with a yard and a white picket fence, and lots of little blue children running around.”

“Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my old age, but that might possibly be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Miranda commented, eliciting a sheepish chuckle as Shepard rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh, God, we are getting old, aren’t we? And we’re only in our thirties,” Shepard realised aloud, as if it had hit her that both of them had been through enough to fill several lifetimes. No wonder they both wanted to ‘retire’ so young.

“Mhmm. And I’ve got five years on you, so I can promise you it’s all downhill from here,” Miranda confirmed, taking another sip of wine. “But I meant that, though. Don’t be ashamed of that dream. Lots of people would kill for something like that.” Herself included, she thought. “And you will make an excellent…father? Father’s the correct word in this context, right?” Miranda asked aloud, earning a nod. “Take it from someone who killed hers: you would be the best Dad ever.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” Shepard gave her a light knock on the arm.

“I’m not. I’m really not. Okay, I know it sounds like I am, but…” Miranda trailed off for a moment, a thought occurring to her. “Huh. You know what? I just realised something. You and I actually both have the exact same dream,” she pointed out, turning to face Andrea. “We want a family.”

“...Yeah. Yeah, we do, don’t we?” Shepard nodded in agreement, seeing the clarity in Miranda’s words. “Ours just look a little different from each other.”

“So, that settles it. We’re both going to hang up our weapons and retire somewhere nice and dull so we can each have the families we always wanted,” Miranda reiterated. Despite her efforts to be hopeful, at those words, she couldn’t keep a pessimistic sigh from escaping her. “Now, we both just have to convince ourselves that we'll live long enough to do that.”

“I'd bet on you,” Shepard acknowledged, glancing over at her.

“And I’d bet on you,” Miranda replied with a bittersweet smile, but it lacked the conviction to reach her eyes. “Don't get me wrong; I haven't given up, and I'm going to fight for that future as hard as I can. But I can't believe that it's going to happen until I'm standing in the rubble and the Reapers are all gone.”

Shepard exhaled heavily, sinking lower against the couch. “That makes two of us.”

The more Miranda thought about it, the more it became painfully apparent that their odds of getting to lead those lives they were imagining were slim to zero. Even if by some miracle they did find a way to defeat the Reapers, it was virtually impossible that both she and Shepard would survive whatever came next. At best, it seemed like a binary choice. One or the other. And Miranda knew which of the two of them was least likely to endure if push came to shove.

Her body tensed imperceptibly. An apprehensiveness fell over her. A sense of urgency rose in her stomach. Words she couldn't leave unsaid.

“...Shepard,” Miranda began, her tone serious. “If anything happens to me—“

“Miranda,” Andrea attempted to cut her off, but Miranda ignored her interruption. She couldn't forgive herself if she stayed silent about this.

“Just listen, Shepard. If I can’t be there for her, for whatever reason, promise you'll keep an eye on Ori for me?” Miranda persisted, needing to hear Andrea give her word on that, because she understood what this meant to her, and she would absolutely follow through. Even if Andrea had to die to honour her commitment to Miranda, it wouldn’t stop her. “Make sure she's okay.”

“You can do that yourself,” Shepard replied, either refusing to fear the worst, or determined not to let her crew see that she possessed any doubts that they would live to see those tomorrows, come what may.

“Hypothetically, then,” said Miranda, rolling her eyes at Shepard’s reluctance to answer the question. “If something happened to me, whether now or twenty years from now...I need to know: would you look out for Oriana if I couldn't?”

Andrea relented, realising what she was asking, and why. “Of course I would.”

“Do you swear?” Miranda pressed.

Shepard sighed, and held up her pinkie. “I swear.” Eyeing that gesture somewhat peculiarly, Miranda eventually extended her own little finger. However, Andrea pulled away before they could interlock. “Uh uh. But before we do that, I need you to make the same promise to me. So, if--”

“Liara does not need protecting, Shepard,” Miranda reminded her. 

“You had your turn. Let me finish,” said Shepard. Miranda signalled for her to take the floor. “Thank you. Now, if anything ever happens to me...you’re the one person I trust more than anyone else to step in for me when I’m gone. No matter what, you’ll have your shit together, and you’ll do what needs to be done. So, if I can’t be here…” Instead of articulating it all in words, Shepard flicked her gaze out towards the balcony, down to the lower floor, where everyone else was. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but...just do what you can for them. Watch over them for me. Make sure they’re alright. And, if they’re not...do what you think I would do.”

At that request, Miranda softened. It hadn’t been what she’d anticipated Andrea would say, but perhaps she should have seen it coming. Shepard loved her crew like family. She was their North Star. A guiding light who united so many disparate personalities in a common cause, and brought out the best in all of them.

Shepard really was a hero.

A bloody icon.

How could Miranda possibly say no?

“What else is a second-in-command good for if not that?” Miranda extended her hand once more. At that, Shepard finally locked pinkies with her, swearing on it. “You know I’ve never done this before - pinkie promised,” Miranda noted, finding it a bit juvenile. 

“Of course you haven’t.” Shepard shook her head, not at all shocked by that. It was at that particular moment that a certain AI came up the stairs, into view. Shepard called out to her. “Hey, EDI. I have a question for you.”

“What would you like to know?” EDI asked.

“What the hell is a drop bear?” said Shepard.

Miranda arched her brow, and took a long drink, saying nothing.

“One moment.” By the time she finished saying ‘one moment’, EDI had already concluded her search of the Extranet. “Here is what I’ve found: the drop bear is a hoax Australian folklore creature. The origins of the drop bear hoax are unknown, though it appears it may have originated as a campfire story in the early-to-mid-20th century. Australians have been known to pretend the drop bear is a real creature so as to frighten and confuse tourists and non-Australians for their own amusement.” EDI paused for a beat. “It is a joke.”

“Thank you, EDI,” said Miranda, concealing a smirk. Way to ruin the fun. 

Shepard slowly turned to her, eyeing Miranda in quiet bewilderment. “...Did you of all people just prank me with a two-hundred-year-old joke?” 

“Not that I’m that attached to it, but I’m pretty sure I would be stripped of my citizenship if I didn’t do that at least once before I die,” Miranda informed her.

Shepard’s expression didn’t change. “Mhmm.”

*     *     *

“So are you gay now?” was the first thing Jack said to her the next time they saw each other, a week after their last meeting.

Miranda sighed. God damn it. Nobody could keep their mouths shut about anything, could they? “I’m something,” she muttered, taking off her wet jacket. It had been raining all day. And not the usual soft English drizzle that didn’t even warrant mentioning, but actual rain.

“Good for you,” Jack replied, not actually interested. “Let’s play.”

Miranda slumped down into the chair across the table from Jack, the raindrops pittering off the windows behind her. “Your advice was terrible, by the way,” she told her as she moved her first piece.

“Nah, you’re just a shit lay,” Jack countered, making her own opening.

Miranda flicked her eye up at her, unamused, but decided it was best not to validate that comment with a response. 

All of a sudden, Jack started laughing at something unsaid.

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

“...‘Meh’-randa,” Jack remarked, making an appropriately nonchalant gesture.

Miranda exhaled heavily, rubbing her temple in annoyance. “Jack, I need you to understand this,” she began, placing her elbow on the table and leaning forward as she spoke, eerily calm. “One of these days, you will forget that this conversation ever happened. You will go on with your life, and there will come a day when you are blissfully ignorant and happy. And on that day, I will come to wherever you live. And I will break into your room. And I will suffocate you in your sleep.”

“Fair,” Jack conceded. “Worth it, though.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair, oddly relieved to have gotten that off of her chest after biting her tongue for so long. “God, that felt good. Why did I ever stop insulting you?” she wondered aloud, starting to think she should snap back at her more often instead of taking every jibe Jack threw at her in stride. 

“Because you’re a fucking pussy now apparently.” Jack shrugged, focused only on the game. “Shut up and play me.” Miranda didn’t need to be asked twice.

She didn’t know what it was about that particular day. Maybe it was the dreary weather, and the sound of the rain making the tinnitus a little less abrasive for once. Maybe it was how long both of them were taking between moves. But, for whatever reason, Miranda found herself stifling yawns as the game went on.

She moved a pawn, and leaned her head against her hand as Jack studied the board, weighing up her strategies, keen to avoid falling into another trap.

God, she was so fucking tired.

It had been three days since she last slept. Or...wait, was it four? She couldn’t remember. Six or seven days seemed to be her absolute limit before she started passing out irrespective of willpower, and that was because she was, quote unquote, a ‘genetic freak’ as Jacob had once put it. She’d only managed two hours of thirty-minute naps the last time she got any rest at all.

Her eyelid felt so heavy. Every single time she blinked, it stayed dark a little longer, and it took a little bit more effort and time to open it again. 

What harm would it do to just rest her eye for a second, she wondered? It wasn’t like she was going to fall asleep, sitting up like she was. Although, leaning on her hand felt so fucking comfortable. She didn’t want to move.

So Miranda let her eyelid drift shut for a moment, listening to the rain.

…

…

...

“Hey, eyepatch.”

…

…

...

“Eyepatch?”

Miranda was vaguely aware that someone was talking, but it didn’t reach her in the darkness. That was, until Jack hit the table, hard, and startled her awake. Miranda’s head slipped off her hand. At that jolt, she panicked and reflexively reared back so hard that she damn near fell out of her chair.

“What? What? What is it?” Miranda took a few moments to blink and remember where she was after being shaken from her stupor. It only clicked when she found Jack sitting across from her, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Am I boring you?” Jack remarked, arms folded across her chest impatiently.

Miranda shook her head, trying to save face. “It’s called ‘thinking’, Jack. You should try it sometime,” she retorted, moving a piece quickly as if to prove she hadn’t just blacked out for a couple of minutes.

Jack glanced down at the board. “You can’t do that.”

“What?”

“That’s not a legal move,” Jack pointed out. Miranda checked the board. She honestly didn’t even know what piece she’d just touched. Jack reached across, and dragged her knight back to where it should have been. Jack sat back in her chair and fixed her with a stare.

“...Fuck me dead,” Miranda muttered under her breath, realising she actually had to stop and concentrate to figure out her next move.

“Forget it. I’m out.” Jack pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.

“No, no. I’ve got it,” Miranda insisted.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to beat you when you’re like this. That wouldn’t even count,” said Jack, gesturing listlessly towards her, having lost all interest.

“I’m not ‘like’ anything. I’m just…” Miranda trailed off, staring at the board, stuck for a move. Her head was so full of fog that she couldn’t see any options. The whole table was a blur. A featureless mush. Every piece looked the same. She couldn’t even fucking think. If someone asked her to name a single rule of the game in that instant, she would have drawn a complete blank.

“Go home. Take a fucking nap or whatever. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you look like death, by the way. More even than usual,” Jack casually observed, opening her fridge and pulling out a can of energy drink.

“I’m fine!” Miranda barked, a little too loud, willing that lie to be the truth.

“I honestly don’t care. You could jump off a bridge for all the difference it makes to me. I wouldn’t stop you,” Jack said frankly, nonchalantly gesturing with her drink in her hand. “All that matters to me is making sure you don’t have a fuckin’ excuse when I destroy you. So get the fuck out of my apartment, and don’t come back until you stop sucking at the only reason I keep you around.”

Miranda swallowed a groan, the pain in her head only growing. Jack obviously wasn’t going to change her mind. This game was over. “Alright. Fine. Suit yourself,” she grumbled as she got up, collecting her things. “See you next week.”

“Only if you don’t look like complete shit by then,” Jack commented, prepared to close the door in her face if she wasn’t going to play her at her best.

Miranda left and went out into the cold December rain, which showed no signs of easing. The problem was, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She couldn’t go home. There was nothing there to keep her awake. And she absolutely was not ready to fall asleep, and contend with the nightmares that awaited her.

She couldn’t go to the bar, because drinking would make her tired. The last time she got drunk, the nightmares were so visceral that she woke up vomiting. 

She thought about it a bit longer, and then one option came to mind. She still had a key to her office. Bailey had banned her from working weekends out of concern for her wellbeing if he didn’t, sure, but he wouldn’t be there. Even if he was, she could avoid him seeing her. Nobody else would question her presence. She ranked above them. They would just assume something had come up, and most of them were too intimidated by her to talk to her anyway.

So Miranda fell back on her one and only crutch. Her only coping mechanism. Her favourite distraction from her problems. She buried herself in her work.

“Director Lawson,” the man at reception greeted her. She glanced at his name tag to remember who the hell he was. “What are you doing here on a weekend?”

“Losing control of my life, Ian,” Miranda remarked as she limped right past him, heading straight for the lift without stopping.

He chuckled at that. “Aren’t we all? You have a good day, now.”

Miranda rolled her eye as soon as he looked away. As predicted, there were no interruptions between her and her office. Nobody thought to question her.

She didn’t even glance at the clock as the hours ticked by, and file after file went across her desk. Task after task got done. When she finished her own matters, she moved onto work delegated to her subordinates, just to stay there longer. Nobody bothered her. Even without distractions, it was hard to concentrate. Her mind was full of fog. Everything she did was lost in a haze, forgotten mere seconds after she did it. But, in the present, it was something to focus on.

It wasn’t easy, though. She had instances where she...lost time. Just drifted into space for a few seconds, here or there. When that happened, she would go and fill up on coffee. She only decided she’d had too much when she started to feel her heart beating a little too fast in her chest, and her fingers got jittery, and she had to flex her hand to keep it from shaking. If she had any more she would probably start hallucinating, as if she wasn’t on the verge of that already.

So maybe she’d hit her limit as far as caffeine toxicity went.

But she was awake.

She was fucking awake.

It was dark out, and still raining by the time she was snapped out of her work-induced daze by a text message alert. She already knew who it was. Miranda squeezed her eye shut, resting the base of her palm against her forehead, fighting off the constant, nagging pain that had become her permanent companion. She knew she shouldn’t look. But she had to. She couldn’t resist hearing from her.

Miranda opened her message tab on her computer, and clicked on Oriana’s name.

“Still not talking, huh?” said the first message. And then a second and third popped up. “Okay. That’s fine. Take your time. I’ve got more jokes.”

Oriana could see that Miranda was reading her messages in realtime. She would know that she was there on the other end at that very moment, not replying back. And yet, in typical Oriana fashion, she wasn’t calling her out on it or judging her for it or demanding a reason for her silence. Just letting her be.

“A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’ And the horse says, ‘I have crippling depression, Steven. I’ll thank you not to mention it’.”

When that joke garnered no response, Oriana sent another.

“A glazier invited me to high tea. It didn’t go well. Turns out people in glasshouses shouldn’t throw scones. Eh? Worked on that one for ages.”

Miranda felt the warmth of a single, stray tear trickling down her cheek. God, she loved Oriana. She loved Oriana so much it physically hurt. No one else could be so...bright, and radiant, and happy, and genuine about it. Her positivity and cheerfulness wasn’t faked, or feigned, or insincere. She was just like this. Just funny, and kind, and...and fucking perfect.

“Why did the funeral director need to go to the doctor?” Oriana asked. “Because he couldn’t stop coffin--okay, no, that one was atrocious even for me. I’m sorry. Please delete that. You deserve better.”

If she were in a better mental and emotional state, all of this would have brought a smile to her face. Of course it would have. Oriana always did. Miranda thought about finally texting her back. Saying something. Anything. Even started to type. Just wanted to let her know she was okay. Just wanted to talk to her. Needed that connection with the person who mattered to her most.

But she stopped herself.

What the fuck did she have to offer Oriana right now? What could she say to her that was worthwhile when she was this dour and miserable?

She could just see how it would play out. She would say something, and then Oriana would eventually start asking questions. She would need, and deserve, some sort of explanation as to why Miranda had been so quiet. So distant. Any half-hearted excuses would be recognised for the lies they were.

Oriana would ask her if she was okay, because of course she would. And, then, if Miranda started telling her the truth, that she really wasn’t, and hadn’t been for a long time, she didn’t see how she could stop the floodgates from opening. Everything she’d been holding back since the shuttle crash, Oriana would bring it out of her, like a torrent after a storm. And she just...refused to be that person. Refused to drown her little sister in her unresolved trauma.

Oriana was the Sun. She was light, and warmth. Basking in her presence for even a few minutes could make even the lowest person feel uplifted, and stronger, and brighter. She was doing just fine without Miranda. She always had.

Why bother her? Why disturb that?

In fact, all the best times in Oriana’s life had been the moments when Miranda had pushed her as far away as possible. When she wasn’t involved. When she kept herself at a distance. Ever since Miranda introduced herself to Oriana on Illium, Ori’s life had only gotten worse. Never better. A downward spiral. 

Perhaps that was a sign.

What did she really think was going to happen when they met up with each other again anyway? That they were going to spend the rest of their lives together? As if. Oriana was twenty. She would be twenty-one before too long. She was only just starting to grow into her own as an independent adult. She would want to go do things normal twenty-one-year-olds did, without anyone cramping her unique personal style, or getting in her way as she formed new connections.

The Reaper Invasion had cut short her degree and compelled her to start work earlier than expected, but she probably planned to finish her education at some point. Chances were she would want to move in with friends her own age. Eventually, of course, she would meet some boy she liked (who Miranda would absolutely hate) and she would want to find a place with him. Statistically speaking, that would happen more than once over the course of her life.

She wasn’t a kid anymore. Oriana was an adult. At exactly the age where families like theirs...tended to drift apart from one another. When young women like Ori wanted to go out into the wider world and discover themselves, and carve out an identity free of any ties to their childhood. And it was at that moment that a thought abruptly struck Miranda that had never connected before.

When she and Oriana had talked about finally getting to be a family, they probably had very different ideas of what that looked like.

And Miranda’s vision of that future was completely fucking delusional.

It always had been.

She wasn’t helping Oriana by being near her. Wasn’t protecting her, because the man who posed a danger to her was dead. With Henry Lawson out of the picture, Ori didn’t need her in her life. In many respects, she never had.

Miranda wasn’t some noble self-sacrificing big sister anymore. She was a fucking leech. Sucking her sister’s energy and her positivity, consuming it for herself. She was a chain holding Oriana down, when what she truly deserved was to spread her wings and fly wherever she wanted like the free spirit she was. 

Wasn’t that precisely why Miranda had denied herself the connection she craved with Ori in the first place? Wasn’t that why she had given her up? Because she knew it was the right thing to do? Because, deep down, she knew that the best thing she could do for Oriana was to ensure that she grew up completely isolated from her - so that she could become as unlike Miranda as possible?

She’d succeeded at that, at least.

Where Miranda was cynical, Oriana was optimistic. Where Miranda was closed-off and antisocial, Oriana was outgoing and friendly. Where Miranda was rigid and concrete, Oriana was creative and open-minded. Where Miranda was bitter and sarcastic, Oriana was lighthearted and funny. Where Miranda was cold, Oriana was warm. Where Miranda was dark, Oriana was light. Where Miranda lacked empathy, Oriana was sensitive, and the kindest person she knew.

They couldn’t have been more different.

And Miranda wanted it to stay that way.

None of her qualities were things she would wish upon Oriana. And, if Oriana did become more like her, Miranda wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.

The most loving thing Miranda could do for Oriana was just let her live her life in peace, the way she had done for her before. She really would be better off just being cut loose, without her older sister weighing her down, shackling her to the weight of despair, damage and loneliness.

So Miranda didn’t text. She deleted the message she’d started typing, and the three dots to signal that she was writing were erased. She closed the app, got up and left her desk, deciding to head home.

She didn’t see the next message her sister sent.

“Miranda? Whatever is going on with you right now, please just remember that you are my most important person. I love you more than anything. And I’m here for you whenever you need me. You do know that, don’t you?”

Miranda limped home in the dark in the rain. It was freezing. She didn’t know how late it was. She hadn’t kept her eye on the time. She dragged her weary body up the stairs. Aside from the fact that her head was killing her, parts of her body that had never hurt before were starting to feel sore, and tight, and tense.

“Hey, Miss,” Seanne greeted her when she heard her key in the door. A few of the kids were gathered together in the main lounge, watching some sort of movie on the television. “We saved dinner for you. It’s in the fridge.”

“I’ll have it later,” Miranda muttered, not hungry at all. Just tired. 

“No problem,” Seanne replied, too focused on the film to pay her any mind.

Without another word, Miranda retreated to her room, and shut herself away, prepared for another night of staring at cracks in the ceiling in the darkness in a desperate attempt to ward off her dreams.

She slumped on her bed and ran her hand through her hair, staring into space.

And that was when it hit her. She didn’t...know what she was doing with her life anymore. Or why. She didn’t have a plan. A goal. For the first time since she’d reunited with Oriana, she no longer had a future she was working towards. Because that hope, that dream, had been snuffed out. A lie. A delusion.

The one thing that had made getting up every morning worth it since the shuttle crash - believing that, one day, she and Oriana would start a new life where nothing tore them apart ever again - had been exposed as a figment of her imagination.

With that dream dead, when she pictured her future now, there was...nothing.

Absence.

An empty, black abyss. Filled only by the ringing in her ear.

Miranda lay down on her bed. Curled up. And stared. And listened to that perpetual sound. And her mind, like her future, was blank. She watched the time tick by on the clock. Barely even registering it in her fatigue. 

One hour.

Two hours.

What was the point of anything anymore?

What was the fucking point?

Three hours.

Four hours.

It was after midnight when she was disturbed from her near-catatonic state by an urgent knocking at the front door. It came once, such a strange and unexpected sound that, at first, she wondered if it was just a trick of her mind. But then it came again, even more insistent. 

Reluctantly, Miranda dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the entryway, not even bothering to grab her cane. She saw the door to one of the students’ bedrooms was open. Jason was leaning out, as if to go investigate. 

“I’ve got it,” said Miranda with a dismissive wave as she limped to the door, assuming it was probably for her. “Go back to sleep.”

Jason gave her a nod, but lingered in the doorway, just in case.

The frantic knocking came again. With an annoyed grunt, Miranda undid the lock, wondering who the hell was bothering them at that ungodly hour.

“Jesus Christ, what is it--?” The words caught in Miranda’s throat the second she flung the door open. Her weary eye flickered wide awake. “Samara?”

*     *     *

Miranda stepped over snoring bodies and discarded glasses on the floor, not keen to wake anyone up when half the crew were spread out at various points on the spectrum between ‘fast asleep’ and ‘passed out drunk’, and all of whom were likely to be very cranky if awoken. Miranda hadn’t drunk as much as most of the others, and neither was she prone to going to bed early. 

Indeed, she was very much awake, not even close to tired. And it was not her idea of a fun end to the night to hang around being as quiet as a mouse, forced to pretend to doze off because everyone else was such a goddamn lightweight. 

With that in mind, Miranda crept over near the door to where Shepard kept her keys, pinching them for herself so she could let herself back into the apartment. Shepard wasn’t going to miss them. She and Liara had gone to bed some time ago for very obvious reasons. They wouldn’t be seen again until morning.

However, Miranda’s cunning plan was not one concocted purely for herself. A thought had occurred to her while she waited for everyone else to nod off, being that there was one other person she expected might be awake. Someone who, by all appearances, had not been a drinker for centuries. Someone who Miranda was eager to spend a lot more time with one-on-one, particularly given that it was not lost on her that this might well be the last opportunity they ever had to do so - the last time they might ever see one another.

Sure enough, she found that very person meditating under the stairs.

“Samara,” Miranda whispered just loud enough to be heard. Blue eyes opened, and shifted her way. “Can’t sleep?” Samara did not respond verbally, but let her current state speak for itself. “Me neither.” At that, Miranda held up Shepard’s keys and made a signal towards the door. “Feel like going out?”

Samara glanced at her slumbering companions scattered over the lounge. After a moment, she held a finger to her lips, and silently stood.

Taking that as acceptance of her invitation, Miranda stealthily snuck over to the door, and held it open for Samara. She closed it behind them as quietly as she could. There was a faint ‘click’ as it automatically locked.

“Do not mistake my surprise for protestation, for it is not, but...to what do I owe this?” Samara asked, once they were safely out of earshot of the others. Evidently she had not been anticipating this - that Miranda would seek her out. 

“What, did you really think I’d just forget about you after a single conversation?” Miranda rhetorically remarked. “I told you I missed you more than anyone else.”

Samara allowed herself a small smile, touched by her intentions. “You did.”

“Since you and I are both still awake, and I have way too much energy to sleep, I figured, hey, the Strip is right here, and nothing ever closes - let’s go enjoy it while we can,” Miranda offered, circling Shepard’s keys around her finger before slipping them into a discreet pocket. “Nobody will even notice we’re missing.”

“No, they certainly will not,” Samara concurred, clearly not regretting her temperance when it was apparent most of the crew would be nursing hangovers come morning. “I must admit, given I saw you partaking earlier, I did not expect you to be in such a better state compared to our other comrades.”

“Good genes, plus I know how to pace myself,” Miranda casually explained. She gestured for Samara to follow her. “Come on. Let’s go be stupid for a while.”

Samara suppressed a chuckle. “An enticing prospect. Very well. Lead the way.”

“I was planning on taking you back to my favourite sushi place - you know, the one we went to before. Unfortunately, it’s not open right now.” Miranda sighed, putting a hand on her hip. “There was an incident. Shepard was involved.”

“I see. That is unfortunate,” Samara commiserated, needing no further explanation as to what had happened. For as much as they both loved Shepard, it was no hyperbole to say that trouble followed her everywhere.

Ultimately, Miranda didn’t have a preference as to where they went, or what they did. This entire venture was little more than a flimsy excuse to spend time with Samara without anybody else interfering. A throwback to those intimate moments on the Starboard Observation Deck, and a means of paying her back for all her kindness, assuming Miranda succeeded in showing her a good time.

“There is the casino,” Miranda thought out loud. She’d been there before, and didn’t mind the atmosphere of the place. Plus another drink or two wouldn’t go amiss to kick things off - she was still a fair few away from her limit. 

“After you,” Samara gestured for her to go ahead, trailing in Miranda’s footsteps. A reverse of the last time they had visited the Citadel together.

Unlike the Presidium, the Wards didn’t operate on artificial day and night cycles. Virtually everything on the Citadel stayed open at all hours, with everyone resting and working shifts according to their own personal needs and wants. Thus, when they came to the casino, to nobody’s shock, it was still as busy as ever. 

The people here had been affected by the war, of course, but there was a sense of safety and security that existed nowhere else. As all the homeworlds fell, the Citadel stood strong as the heart of Council Space - the one place most species would unite to protect. If anywhere would survive the war, this was surely it.

“Can I get you anything? The food here’s not bad, if you’re hungry,” Miranda offered as they both made their way up to the bar.

“Just water, thank you,” said Samara. Miranda ordered something much stronger for herself, and the bartender filled up their respective glasses.  

“So, how have you been, Samara? Really?” Miranda asked, keen to make up for lost time. Now that they were alone, they were free to talk as long as they wanted, which was something they couldn’t really do at the party. That was precisely her intent in sneaking out like this. It would be several hours at least before anybody else woke up and wondered where they were. The Silver Coast Casino was no Starboard Observation Deck, but it would serve well enough.

“That is a...complicated question,” Samara acknowledged, still a little caught off guard by Miranda’s genuine eagerness to catch up with her, as if she hadn’t expected to warrant her attention. “Some days have been kind to me. Others have not. Many somewhere in between. I imagine you could say the same.”

“Most of my days have ranged between terrible and awful since I left. I’m glad you had some good ones.” Miranda took a sip of her drink.

“Forgive me. I am aware this past year must have been difficult for you.” Samara bowed her head, as if she had misspoken. “As a Justicar, I am not unfamiliar with the peril of knowing there are many people who would seek to have me killed, nor am I a stranger to looking over my shoulder expecting to see a gun each time I turn my head. Although, by the same token, my status affords me many privileges. Many asari will lend me aid or support without question, for no other reason than because they see my armour, and know what I am. You do not have that luxury.”

“No, sadly,” Miranda confirmed. Hiding like a cockroach in parts of the Citadel not fit for human habitation had not been fun. Having any allies she could have safely turned to, beyond her few limited contacts with Shepard, would have made a world of difference. “But I’m out in the open now. If anybody still wanted me dead, I would have been executed days ago. I think it’s safe to say what little is left of Cerberus no longer sees the point in targeting me.”

“I hope you are correct.” Samara instinctively cast her eyes about the place as she said that, scanning for signs of any suspicious activity. Miranda picked up on that, of course. “If it would be safer--”

“Samara, seriously. It’s fine. You can let your guard down. You don’t need to be on alert. Not for my sake,” Miranda assured her, reaching out to touch her hand to make sure she understood that. Nobody was hunting her anymore. 

“If you are certain…” Samara took her at her word, despite a hint of hesitancy.

“Yes. Relax. I insist. If you don’t, it somewhat defeats the whole purpose of going out,” Miranda pointed out. At that, Samara seemed to concede she was right. Being paranoid would only spoil their time together. “Enough talk of serious subjects. Have you kept up reading human literature?”

“When I have been able, yes. Although, I must confess, I did not have such access when I was travelling in asari space. The Citadel libraries have been a source of great assistance. Tell me, I must know, was this ‘King Arthur’ a real person?” As soon as she asked, Samara just as swiftly changed her mind. “No, no. On second thought, I would prefer you do not answer. I fear I would be disappointed.”

Miranda laughed, endeared by Samara’s odd, childlike fascination with such figures. If it wouldn’t have sounded so patronising to describe a woman in her mid-to-late 900s as ‘adorable’, that label definitely would have applied.

“Oh. That reminds me. Kurosawa,” said Miranda. Samara tilted her head in questioning, not sure what that meant. “Not an author, but a director. I’ve been told, if you’re interested in samurai media, his films are the place to start.”

“I see. Thank you.” Samara nodded, taking that recommendation on board.

“What is it with you and this sort of thing anyway?” Miranda decided to finally broach the question that she had been wondering for a while, earning a curious glance. “Knights. Samurai. Why are you so interested in them?”

Samara did a poor job concealing a grin. “Yes, why would I, a lone wanderer who adheres to a strict moral code and seeks to bring justice to the places she visits, see any appeal whatsoever in stories about virtuous, heroic wanderers who adhere to strict moral codes and seek to bring justice to the places they visit?”

Miranda couldn’t argue with that logic. “I withdraw the question.”

“You did not withdraw it. I answered it,” Samara corrected.

“No, no. I withdrew it,” Miranda maintained in jest, as if she had come to that conclusion entirely on her own, without any assistance. Samara affectionately shook her head. During that pause in the conversation, the song changed.  “You know, I saw you dancing before,” Miranda said with a smirk, indicating the dancefloor. “I’m glad you listened to me about enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I did. However, if I remember correctly, you once stated to me that you would dance when I danced,” Samara reminded her. Miranda raised her eyebrows and took a drink, averting her gaze. She’d really hoped Samara had forgotten that conversation. “And yet you did not join me. How perplexing.”

“Oh, so you haven’t noticed that I’m a pathological liar until just now. Good to know,” Miranda joked, toying with the stem of her glass as she placed it down. 

“You must be. You keep insisting to me that you are not funny, even though you clearly are,” Samara cleverly countered, a glimmer of mirth in her kind eyes.

“I--” Miranda stopped before she could retort, taken aback by that comment. Nobody had told her that before. Nobody thought she was funny, because she wasn’t. According to everyone else, she was just mean and sarcastic and unpleasant to be around. Eventually, Miranda awkwardly rubbed the back of her head, managing to mumble a response. “I think you have a very different definition of ‘funny’ than everyone else in the galaxy, but...if you say so.”

It didn’t seem lost on Samara just how much that compliment actually meant to her. But she didn’t harp on it, letting it stand unchallenged. “There is still time for you to keep your promise to me before we part ways,” Samara pressed and, though her tone was lighthearted, it was evident the offer was genuine. “After all, there is a dancefloor here, and I am finding this music rather persuasive...”

“Still time for me to continue breaking my promise forever, you mean? Yes. I intend to. Glad we’re in agreement,” Miranda remarked. Samara’s enquiring gaze didn’t shift. “...Okay so I did dance at Shepard’s tonight, just a little bit.” Miranda reluctantly held her thumb and forefinger slightly apart.

“Good. I am delighted to hear it,” Samara enthused, pleased to see that Miranda had heeded her own advice and let herself go, and allowed herself to have some fun at the party. “My only regret is that I did not witness it.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Miranda assured her. “But I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“No, you did not. This imbalance must be rectified immediately,” Samara persisted, getting up from her seat and extending her hand. Miranda did not accept the invitation, quite intent on not moving anytime soon. “You made a promise to me, Miranda Lawson. As a Justicar, I must insist that you keep your word. You said you would dance when I danced, and I am going to dance. Hence...”

“No. You knock yourself out, but I am very comfortable on my stool.” Miranda shook her head, waving Samara off, making her stance plain.

“Then hand me the keys, and I will return to the apartment,” said Samara.

That got Miranda’s attention. “What?”

“You were the one who said, and I quote, ‘let us go and be stupid for a while’, and it was you who suggested we both sneak out after midnight for this purpose,” Samara noted. “That was the evening that was represented to me - one spent in inane, ridiculous frivolity. Yet, so far, you are being extremely sensible. If you are not going to do this with me, then I fear I have in fact been misled.” 

Miranda saw right through Samara’s feigned disappointment. “You’re evil.”

“In this moment, perhaps,” Samara conceded, but she still extended her hand.

“This is peer pressure,” Miranda complained.

“Yes, it is,” Samara confirmed, without shame, her mischievous smile widening.

Miranda sighed, but it was hard not to be uplifted purely from seeing Samara this outgoing and cheerful. That was a rare privilege. The last time she’d seen her like this was...well, the last time they visited the Citadel together, which must have been around nine or ten months ago by that point.

“You’re in an abnormally good mood tonight, aren’t you?” Miranda observed, certainly not complaining, but wondering what had made her so upbeat.

“Why would I not be?” Samara asked plainly. “I am with you.”

Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. Honestly, Miranda was so thoroughly charmed by that response that Samara could have asked her to do anything in that moment, no matter how embarrassing, and she would have been powerless to resist.

“...If you’re trying to butter me up to get me to dance with you...good strategy, because it’s working,” Miranda admitted defeat, seeing no point in even pretending to warn her otherwise. No doubt Samara could tell the warmth in her cheeks had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Samara was evidently entertained by that reaction, but equally quick to dismiss any notion that her words were coming from an insincere place. “It is not falsity. The time you and I spent together aboard The Normandy was the most I have enjoyed myself in many years. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”

“Oh, wow, that's depressing,” said Miranda. “Because I am not fun at all.”

“Neither am I. Perhaps this explains it,” Samara quipped. 

Miranda didn’t agree with that, but that wasn’t the point. “You’re not dropping this are you?” she deduced, realising she didn’t have a choice in this.

“I am afraid I cannot,” Samara confirmed, as if the decision was out of her hands. “Just as you have sensed that I am in a good mood, I have also been astounded by the change in you tonight. I have never seen you so unshackled from your burdens as you are now. So, if we are ever going to keep our promise and share a dance together, I fear this will be our only opportunity. We may not get another. And I cannot abide a broken promise,” she pointed out.

She wasn’t wrong. Tomorrows weren’t exactly guaranteed.

“Well, you bloody got me, alright? Now that you’ve accused me of being good company, I feel compelled to live up to the hype.” With that, Miranda threw back her head and downed her drink, determined to be ‘fun’ for once in her life. “You get one song.” She held up one finger. ��And only because it’s you.”

“One song will suffice,” said Samara, taking Miranda by the hand at long last, leading her to the dancefloor. That was all she had been promised.

Maybe it was just the drinks talking, but as she let go of her inhibitions, started moving to the music and surrendered to not caring whether she looked stupid, Miranda found herself having a far better time than she would have thought.

Most of all, the best thing about it was getting to see Samara let go of her usual restraint, and glean a rare escape from the harsh and austere lifestyle that she was required to abide by as a Justicar. It went without saying how much she deserved this reprieve. Not merely to have fun and enjoy the evening, but to have a chance to let her walls down and be herself. Her real self, beneath the armour. Just one fleeting night in however many centuries, free of worries or cares. 

If Miranda could give her that, then making a fool of herself would all be worth it.

Miranda didn’t know what had suddenly made Samara so open to things like this she would have politely declined a year ago, aside from the same ‘carpe diem’ reason that applied to everyone at the moment, nor did it really matter. The point was that they were here and they were doing it while they could. And any time spent with Samara, no matter what they were doing, was never time wasted.

One song turned into two. And two into three.

In truth, because the music all blended together with similar rhythms and chord progressions, it was hard to tell where one track began and another ended. And, for the first time, Miranda began to understand that perhaps that was the whole point. It would have been pretty jarring and moment-ruining to have the flow disturbed by each new song. So, for now, she stopped being critical of that.

It was as the music changed to a fourth song that they were rudely interrupted.

“Heyyyyy, ladies,” a complete stranger wandered up to them, making finger guns and clicking his tongue. “Can I be the meat in your sandwich?”

Miranda gave the man an unimpressed look. “Mate, if that line ever actually works on a woman...she deserves you,” she said, earning a confused expression in response as the insult went over his head. 

“...Is that a no?” he asked, clueless.

“Yeah, look, I’m in a good mood, so just save yourself some embarrassment and…” Miranda signalled for him to walk away, not particularly keen on wasting time and effort verbally destroying him when she would rather not bother.

To his credit, he took that rejection without a fight and left without causing a scene.

“Sorry about that.” Miranda turned to Samara. Unwanted male attention was something that happened to her a lot, so she was used to dealing with it.

Samara seemed more perplexed than perturbed. “He made this gesture.” Samara somewhat awkwardly mimicked his finger guns, as if she’d never seen anyone do that before. “...I assume I should not interpret that as a threat.”

Miranda blinked. Then, as soon as it clicked that Samara was in fact joking, cracked up with laughter. She’d never forgotten how funny Samara could be, but that sneaky delivery of hers still took her by surprise when it came out.

“Why are you laughing? We may be in grave danger,” Samara feigned ignorance.

“Alright. That’s it. That was the last song,” Miranda declared, taking that disruption as their cue to leave. “Since neither of us are gamblers, I think we’ve seen as much as there is to see of the casino. We should move on.”

“Where should we go next?” Samara prompted, letting Miranda take the lead.

“Hmm.” Miranda pondered that. What she would ordinarily do versus what Samara would expect of her on a night devoted to frivolity were two very different things. Fortunately, the Strip did serve the latter quite well. “There's an arcade not far from here. Did you know I've literally never been to one?”

Samara looked rather impressed with that suggestion, given that it was entirely out of step with Miranda’s usual character, and hence very much in keeping with the evening of inane silliness she had been promised. “I believe you humans have a saying that 'there is a first time for everything'.”

“Alright. Arcade it is.”

It certainly wasn’t far to get there. And Miranda wasn’t kidding when she said she had never had the simple pleasure of playing these games in her childhood. Or any games. She had been deprived of anything resembling fun growing up.

That being said, the lightgun game came pretty naturally to her, even if Miranda did maintain the only reason she didn’t score higher was because the controller was a shitty piece of plastic and the sensor must have been broken. If Samara thought otherwise, she just smiled and didn’t correct her.

By contrast, Samara definitely did recognise some of these games from her youth.

“You’re telling me that some of these machines basically haven’t changed at all in nine hundred years?” said Miranda, arching a sceptical eyebrow.

“No, they have not,” Samara happily confirmed, an audible tinge of excitement colouring her voice at the prospect of coming across something familiar.

Miranda snorted. So much for creativity.

“Oh. This. I remember this.” Samara went over to a particularly old-fashioned machine in the corner. ‘Whack The Thresher Maw’. “It was not thresher maws when I played it. I do not recall what it was. But I was very little. I could not have been more than...twelve? I remember vividly; it was shortly before my father left Thessia to come live here on the Citadel. That was the only day I spent together with both my mother and father - the only day that they ever both took me out together,” she spoke softly, nostalgic for that fond memory.

Miranda’s eyes twinkled as she stood by her, listening to Samara reminisce about her past. She said nothing as she waived her credit chit over the machine, spurring it to life. When Samara glanced at her in questioning, she leaned against the wall, and gestured for Samara to go ahead and play. And she did.

The next game they played was a version of what Miranda would have called air hockey, using a virtual puck. Miranda was winning up until Samara cheated, using her biotics to subtly move Miranda’s wrist away from the goal. 

“I would never cheat,” Samara professed, not even trying to conceal her guilt.

“Mhmm.” Miranda fixed her with a knowing look. Two could play at that game. The very next round, she used her own biotics to move the table right when Samara least expected it, allowing her to get her goal back. “I would never cheat,” Miranda echoed back to her, mirroring Samara’s false innocent voice.

“Hey!” At that, one of the arcade workers pointed at a sign behind the counter which clearly stated ‘no biotics’, giving them no further warning than that.

Keeping track of the scores kind of went out the window when they could hardly make it through the next few rounds without cracking up. They called it a draw and gave up before they did something that got them both banned for life.

They moved on. The next thing that caught Samara’s eye was the claw machine.

“I used to be very good at these,” Samara noted, examining it.

“Really? I thought they were all rigged.”

“No, not at all. Certainly made to be difficult, yes. But if you could not win, that would be illegal. There is a skill to it,” Samara explained. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead and show her. “I have no money,” Samara pointed out. “And I could not keep the prize even if I won.”

Miranda sighed. “...Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I don’t know this is a waste of money on the same level as gambling,” she said, making it clear that nobody was to know she had done this. She put credits into the machine.

Samara appraised the prize spheres to see which would be the easiest to grab. “Aim for that one,” she advised, indicating a sphere that was higher up than the others. “It may take more than one attempt, but if you line it up correctly…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” Miranda waved off her backseat driving, still sceptical that it was even possible to win.

The first time, she didn’t get it at quite the right angle, and the claw slipped off. The second time, she was sure she lined it up properly, but the claws snapped shut above the prize sphere, without picking it up, like the prize was too heavy.

“See? The machine is rigged,” Miranda insisted. “It’s not possible.”

“You are very close. And you have one play left,” Samara encouraged. Miranda rolled her eyes, reluctantly deciding she may as well use the game she had already paid for. “Try coming at it slightly more from the left.”

Miranda did as Samara suggested, and this time, the claw grabbed it. She blinked as the claw lifted the prize and took it all the way to the chute. “Huh.”

“I believe the appropriate phrase is ‘I told you so’,” Samara teased.

“Alright, alright. No need to get cocky,” said Miranda, opening up the prize sphere to see what she’d won. It was a keychain in the shape of Blasto the Hanar Spectre. She uttered a tssk. “I’ve never seen any of these movies. They look like rubbish.”

“Sometimes, that is precisely the appeal,” Samara advised. Miranda didn’t share the sentiment. “I think that triumph signals that we have overstayed our welcome here,” said Samara, aware they were still being watched by the same employee from before in case they cheated again. “Where to next?”

“Hmm.” Miranda glanced around as they left the arcade, thinking of options.

“There is a combat simulator here, is there not?” Samara piped up, as if she’d been holding onto that idea for a while. “I would be eager to try that.”

“By all means. Though what people find fun about a laser arena is somewhat lost on me,” Miranda remarked, probably because her father had subjected her to similar combat programs when she was a kid. “It just feels like training.”

“Its intent is to recreate something we experience as a regular part of our lives. It is fun for them because it is unfamiliar. For us, it is not a deviation from the norm, save that for once we have the liberty of not being in any actual peril,” Samara astutely observed. She had a point, Miranda thought. It wasn’t the most relaxing pastime, but Miranda could run combat sims in her sleep. She had no problems teaming up with her if that was what Samara wanted to do.

“Okay, that absolutely was rigged,” Miranda loudly complained as they emerged from the combat arena a while later. “I hit that soldier dead between the eyes, and he still had twenty percent health left? That's nonsense. No human being could possibly survive that,” she argued, gesturing as she spoke.

“We still did extremely well,” Samara pointed out, content with their performance.

“If this program was realistic, my name would be on top right now,” Miranda proclaimed, waving her hand towards the scoreboard. She was nothing if not competitive, when she wanted to be anyway. Her rant was interrupted when Samara uttered a quiet, amused chuckle. It was impossible not to soften, seeing the unfeigned affection shimmering in Samara’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Samara shook her head, her smile reaching her eyes. “I simply...I did not forget how much I missed spending time with you, but...in a way, I forgot just how much I missed spending time with you,” Samara acknowledged, well aware of the contradiction in her own words, but unable to say it another way.

Miranda knew exactly what she meant. Memories of the Starboard Observation Deck were no substitute for the real thing. They didn’t do justice to just how at home she felt in Samara’s company. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And do not think I did not notice,” said Samara, a very proud look coming over her. Miranda tilted her head in questioning. “Reave. You mastered it,” Samara clarified, somehow wholly unsurprised to witness that.

“Oh. Right. That.” Miranda brushed that off. It wasn’t a big deal.

“Do not undersell yourself. It is not an easy feat,” Samara told her, not about to let this go unremarked upon. “Well done, Miranda. You are the first, and I suspect only human ever to learn this ability. And it would be a great achievement even if you were asari. Indeed, I have personally never met anyone, other than some fellow Justicars, who have mastered it.”

“Well, I owe that entirely to you. So here. Present for you.” Miranda held out the Blasto The Hanar Spectre keychain she'd won from the claw machine earlier, as a token of her appreciation for Samara’s teachings a year ago.

Samara smiled, politely raising her hand to decline. “Although I am grateful, I am afraid I cannot accept this; Justicars eschew personal possessions.”

Miranda's brow crinkled, looking down at the stupid thing in her hands in abject incredulity. “...It's a keychain.”

“That is not the point,” Samara reminded her, although clearly not at all shocked or offended why someone who had not chosen a religious life might fail to understand this. The fact that the gift had no material value did not make it any less of an indulgence. “I have sworn an oath to the Goddess. I can own nothing but what you see before you - my weapons and my armour - for that is all that is essential for me to carry out my duties as a Justicar.”

“Alright. Allow me to rephrase,” Miranda began, sensing a solution to this issue. “This is a...tactical keychain,” she informed her, arching an eyebrow as she twirled the chain around her finger. “It provides an entire additional square inch of armour plating. So I insist that you take it for your own protection.”

Samara laughed, more freely than Miranda had ever seen her do so. “There is that sense of humour you maintain you do not have again,” Samara wryly commented. “I will never comprehend why you insist on claiming that you are not funny.”

“Because I'm not.” Miranda shrugged, wearing a small, self-deprecating smile. “You also described yourself as ‘terribly dull’ earlier when you’re by far the most captivating person I’ve ever spoken to, so if we’re going to start this debate right now, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to win.”

“You would not be a stranger to that, would you?” Samara sighed, realising Miranda would not relent from her position. “Very well, then. You have convinced me.” She took the keychain, clasping it in her fingers. “Make no mistake, this is still yours,�� she said, pointedly. “However, I will hold this in safekeeping on your behalf. And I will return it to you the next time we meet.”

“See? Was that so hard?” said Miranda, glad they'd reached a compromise.

Samara tried not to smile, because it was evident that she knew she was technically stretching the rules by accepting this gift, even on loan (though Miranda naturally assumed that she was kidding about intending to return it later), but despite her intentions she couldn't really fight it off. Not tonight.

“If you do not mind my asking, I know what your plans for the future are in the long term, but what of the short term?” Samara asked her, curious to know where Miranda would go when she left the Citadel.

“What else is there to do but get ready for whenever Shepard needs us?” said Miranda, leaning against a nearby railing overlooking a lower section of the strip. “I’ve taken command of a small ship and started putting together a team of Cerberus defectors. So, whatever happens, I’ll be there.” She looked over at Samara. “I suppose I don’t need to ask you, but...what about you?”

“I am as I am,” Samara answered, confirming Miranda’s assumptions. “When the day comes, I will walk into the fire, alone, with nothing but what you see before you, and fight to my last breath. And, should I die, I can only pray that my final acts honour the memory of all the Justicars who perished before me.”

“...I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Miranda said softly. “I mean, you’re you.”

Samara didn’t respond to that. “Miranda, I...” Samara hesitated. Her expression was unsettled, but she swallowed, quickly finding an equilibrium and settling on what she intended to say. “Though I imagine we will be fighting on the same battlefield in the near future, it has not eluded me that we may not get a chance to speak like this before that time comes to pass. Or...ever again.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, glancing down. The same thought had been swirling in her head even before Shepard’s party. She wasn't sure if they were meant to address that, or if that looming spectre of death was an open secret they weren't supposed to confront, but she was glad Samara had raised it. The problem was, there were too many things she wanted to say if this was going to be the last conversation they ever had. Thoughts she hadn’t even put into words in her mind, and could never fully express. “...I really am sorry about Rila,” was where Miranda chose to begin. It would have felt wrong not to tell her that.

Samara swallowed and nodded her head, trying to stay strong. Then her resolve cracked, and the tears came. Her hands went to her face, unable to stem the tide. Even the strongest woman in the universe could only carry so much.

For a split-second, Miranda thought she had made a mistake bringing this up, seeing how much Samara was hurting over her recent loss. But then it occurred to her. Maybe Samara breaking down in front of her didn’t mean she’d done anything wrong. Maybe it showed just how much she needed this moment of connection with someone she trusted - to allow herself the vulnerability to be hurt.

Had anyone even comforted Samara at all since it happened?

Had anyone given her the chance to grieve for her daughter?

“I did everything I could to save her. Even though I should not have. Even knowing it might mean putting myself in the position of choosing between my children and The Code. Even while the rest of my Order gave their lives to save so many on Thessia.” Samara drew a deep breath, but it wound up shallower than she intended in her sorrow. “...I violated one of my Oaths, Miranda.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, not knowing enough about the Justicars to understand what that meant. “You mean you broke The Code?”

“No. No, I would never...never break The Code. Not while I draw breath,” Samara insisted, making that clear, even through her tears. “But the first step to becoming a Justicar is to take the Oath of Solitude. That means you are forsworn from any family, including children. I did not utter a single word to Falere or Rila in four hundred and thirty-one years, save for when I wrote to them a year ago to let them know Mirala was dead. However, when I heard their monastery may be under threat...I did not go to them as a Justicar.” Her breath hitched as the moisture trickled down her cheeks. “I went to them because I am their mother.”

“Of course you did,” said Miranda, feeling nothing but sympathy for her, and a touch of anger towards the Justicars for subjecting Samara to that dilemma in the first place. For depriving her of the shattered, broken remnants of a family she had left, and making her feel ashamed for protecting her daughters from certain death. “There’s no oath in the universe anyone could swear that would make a mother stop loving her children. Not a mother like you.”

“No, there is not,” Samara confirmed, her voice breaking under the strain as her body was racked by another sob. “I saw so little of Rila before she died, but what I saw...I could not be prouder of the woman she became, in spite of the cruel hand fate dealt her. I always knew her to be the most responsible of my daughters, always taking care of her younger sisters, though she was barely any older than they were. But she was so strong, Miranda. I never knew she was so fearless. So ferociously protective. She gave her own life so that Falere could live.”

“And you,” Miranda added. “So that you could live too.”

Samara didn’t reply to that.

“How’s Falere?” Miranda asked, after Samara didn’t respond.

“She is well. Alone, but well.” Samara glanced down at her hands, her tears beginning to dry on her cheeks. “She was always a gentle and sensitive soul, so much like her fath--” Samara’s voice caught on that word. She couldn’t say it. It hurt to speak of her. “The woman she has grown into...she is so much kinder than I could possibly have imagined. She had not seen my face or heard my voice for four hundred and thirty-one years. She had every right to hate me. But, instead, she...when all was said and done, she embraced me.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” said Miranda, thinking that should have gone without saying. “She’s your daughter. She loves you.”

“That is more than I deserve.” Samara’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Miranda couldn’t stand to hear her talk about herself that way. “Samara--”

Samara raised a hand to silence her. “Respectfully, Miranda...It is no fault of yours, but there are some things that are beyond even your understanding. I believe this is one of them. I would prefer not to argue with you.”

Miranda sighed. She hated to admit it, but Samara had a point. If she felt that way, it wasn’t like it was a poorly-considered opinion. She had lived her own life for nearly a thousand years, and the disconnect between Samara and Falere had been there for centuries. It wasn’t Miranda’s place to debate with her about her perception of herself, or where she stood with Falere, much as she wanted to.

“...But you weren’t lying before, right?” Miranda pressed, unable to leave that thought alone. When Samara said things like this, it made her worry about her. “You are going to keep seeing Falere, aren’t you?”

“My Oaths say I should not,” Samara acknowledged.

“But you will,” Miranda intuited.

Samara held back the last of her tears, the first signs of a conflicted, broken smile coming to her lips. “I have no choice. In truth, there is no power in the universe, nor within myself, that could force me to stay away,” she said honestly, recognising she did not have the willpower to resist seeing her daughter again, especially knowing Falere had nobody else to look after her.

“Good,” Miranda forcefully enthused. For as much as she respected Samara, she might have had to slap some sense into her if she said otherwise. “No offence, and I know this is easy for me to say because I don’t have a single religious or spiritual bone in my body, but any oath that would compel you to stay away from the one person in your life who makes you happy isn’t an oath worth keeping. For me, that person is my sister. For you, that person is Falere.”

At long last, Samara allowed herself to smile again, her eyes glistening from her tears, but shedding no more. “She is.” Her voice was soft, perhaps even fragile, but Miranda had never heard it filled with so much tenderness. “I should not permit myself to feel this way, but...if you thought you perceived a change in me tonight, Miranda, you did,” she admitted. “Though losing Rila broke my heart, and my wounds for her will bleed until my dying days...even so, I have never felt more at peace than I do at this moment. Or, if I have, then I cannot remember it.”

Miranda could only imagine. In her own life, she had gone without seeing Oriana for nineteen years. And, the moment they met on Illium, it was like a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. That was nothing compared to what Samara had endured.

Going four hundred and thirty-one years not seeing her daughters, the people who mattered most to her...it must have been torture. Now, that torment had finally stopped. Even though Rila hadn’t lived long enough to be part of this new reunion, Samara had still regained a connection with Falere she never thought she would have again. She had some semblance of her family back.

That was life-changing.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Miranda said sincerely. After everything she’d lost, Samara had more than earned her just reward. "And, for what it’s worth, I hope this is merely the start of newer and brighter things for you and Falere.”

After recollecting her composure, Samara faced her. “Thank you, Miranda.” 

Miranda was not anticipating that shift in focus. “For what?”

“For this. For tonight,” Samara clarified, gesturing at their surroundings. “For allowing me to enjoy myself more than I have in centuries. And for reminding me to savour these effervescent glimmers of happiness while I still can.” She paused for a moment, averting her gaze down towards her hands on the railing. “I think, perhaps, on some level, you sensed I needed this. But perhaps you do not appreciate just how much I did. So, again, I thank you for spending your night in the company of this poor, tired old woman, when it was not required of you.”

Miranda hesitated at that. Of course, it meant a lot for Samara to tell her that she had gotten so much out of their time together, and that it had helped her in some way. But Miranda never liked it when Samara made those resigned, self-defeating comments about herself. They made her sound like some washed up, retired old racehorse about to be put down with two barrels behind the garden shed. And that was the furthest thing from reality.

Samara was amazing. Beyond compare. She had not lost a step. Aside from being a matriarch and continuing to get stronger with every passing year, she did not show a single sign of age. It certainly hadn’t hindered her yet, and probably would not for many decades yet to come. Asari regularly lived to be over a thousand years old. Hell, although hitting eleven-hundred was rare by most accounts, even that wouldn’t be unheard of. Not by a long shot.

Not that Miranda was an expert, but just from knowing her, she would guess Samara was still a long way off from the natural end of her life. About as far off as any of the human members of The Normandy. So why did she so often talk about herself like she was past the point where she had anything of worth left to offer - a broken relic of a bygone age to be carelessly discarded and cast aside?

Did she think Miranda was just doing this because she felt sorry for her?

“...I didn’t invite you out with me because I pity you,” Miranda broke the silence, glancing over at Samara. That had never been what this was, and she would correct any such mistaken assumptions as promptly and frankly as possible, so that there was no chance for misinterpretation. “I wanted to spend time with you because I like you, and I care about you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Samara confirmed, returning Miranda’s gaze. “And I hope you know that I did not spend time with you because I was merely seeking some distraction from what has come to pass in recent weeks.”

“I do,” Miranda replied in kind. She folded her arms across the railing, seeing no reason not to continue being so transparent. “This probably isn’t going to be a shock to you, because there aren’t exactly a lot of contenders for the title, but did you know you might very well be the best friend I’ve ever had?” 

Jacob may have been her friend for longer, sure, but they butted heads a lot, often on pretty fundamental things. There were some things she hadn’t told him, and may never tell him. Some things she couldn’t go to him about. Whereas Samara just...knew her so intimately. She got her on an entirely different level. One that didn’t even require words, a lot of the time.

Samara’s eyes dipped slightly. “It...occurred to me, some time ago, in fact, that...I could possibly say the same thing about you,” she replied. Miranda was taken aback by that, and it must have shown on her face. “You doubt me, but you have a stronger claim to that position than you know.”

Miranda brushed that off, finding it too hard to believe. Samara had been alive for over nine centuries. She’d definitely had better friends. “You’re just being nice.”

Samara squinted at that comment, visibly perplexed. “I do not know where you have garnered this impression that I am ‘nice’, or would say things I do not mean just to be thus. I can assure you, I have never at any stage of my life been renowned for being particularly ‘nice’ to anybody. Quite the contrary,” Samara assured her, wanting to clear up that mischaracterisation. “I mean no offence, but...in that regard, you and I are more alike than you seem to think.”

“None taken,” Miranda nonchalantly replied. She supposed she understood where Samara was coming from by not accepting that description. If anyone tried to tell Miranda she was ‘just being nice’, she would have looked at them like they had grown a second head. “And I guess you do have a point. I mean, the first time I met you, you crushed a woman’s skull with your foot.”

“You would have used a gun,” Samara noted.

“Yeah, probably,” Miranda conceded. “You were always nice to me, though.”

“Not always. There were times when I challenged you. Like you, I am not prone to remaining silent when I disagree with someone. If I am less stubborn and stern than I once was, it is only because experience has humbled me, and I have spent many centuries practicing patience and mindfulness,” said Samara. 

Samara wasn’t wrong about any of that, Miranda thought. Samara had indeed called her out on her bullshit a couple of times, although whenever she did offer advice she had always treated it as something constructive rather than an exercise in judgement, which was largely why it had been so effective.

“However, if despite all that you perceived me as being especially nice to you...I probably was,” Samara admitted with a small sigh, willing to concede that wasn’t misplaced. “It is easy to be nice to a person you are already fond of.”

“Why though?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask, earning a confused look. “That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out. Look, I know I’m not the most self-aware person, but I’m better than I was. And, God, I could be fucking intolerable sometimes.” Miranda grimaced in annoyance at her own memory of herself, eliciting a faint smirk from Samara. “But even at my worst, you never had a problem with me. So, why did you like spending time with me?”

“How long do we have before our absence will be noticed? Because, if I answered that question comprehensively, we would be here a very long time,” Samara stated. That was, without question, the most heartwarming thing Miranda had ever heard another person say about her. “If I am being truly honest, I have often wondered the same thing about why you chose to spend your time with me.” 

“Is that a joke?” Miranda asked, not sure how Samara could even question that.

“You know very well that it is not,” Samara said astutely. She wasn’t a liar.

“Well, then, you and I remember things very differently, because you had countless things to offer me. Wisdom. Insight. Friendship. A place where I could just sit in silence for a while. You've taught me so much, but somehow you never made it feel like you were lecturing me. Even when you clearly were,” Miranda remarked, with a hint of teasing to her tone. “The only problem is that I've gained so much more out of knowing you than you have from knowing me.”

“That is not true,” Samara firmly insisted, the quickness of her response catching Miranda somewhat off guard. “The life of a Justicar is a solitary one. We meet many people, but have no companions. I had no companions. Until you. The connection we share is unlike any I have known in centuries. Or...even before that. You have enriched my life. I am better for having known you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Miranda instinctively replied. Samara was...well, she wasn’t a ‘perfect’ person per se, because they didn’t exist. But she was as close as Miranda had ever seen to one. She was a perfect version of what she strove to be. So how could Miranda make her better than she was? How could she possibly do anything to improve upon such sheer mastery of the self?

“Goddess, you do not even know…” Samara’s suddenness took Miranda by surprise. She watched as she let her fingers fall across her face, sighed deeply and shook her head, choosing her words carefully. “Forgive me. It is difficult for me to say this, but...when we travelled together, there were times where I thought…” Samara stopped herself, as if reconsidering what she intended to say. “Perhaps I did not always recognise it then, but in hindsight there were days where I do not know how I could have withstood my burdens if you were not with me.”

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that. It just...didn’t make sense. Samara was so strong. “But I didn’t do anything,” Miranda pointed out. 

At that, Samara uttered a quiet sound, almost like a short, sombre laugh. “But you did,” she said, meeting Miranda’s gaze once more. “You were there. And you have shown me nothing but kindness from the moment we met.”

Miranda still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. Besides, she didn’t remember doing anything that would strike a normal person as especially compassionate, because that wasn’t who she was. “But I’m not kind,” she said.

“No, perhaps you are not,” Samara acknowledged, never blind to the person Miranda was. She was not known for being sensitive or sympathetic, for good reason. “But you were to me,” she stated plainly. That was all that mattered.

Miranda didn’t completely agree with that. But she was glad Samara thought so. And, if nothing else, it was true that Samara did make her want to try to be a better person than she was, and had brought different shades out of her in a way that nobody else had, irrespective of whether they came naturally to her.

That was the thing about people like Samara, Miranda thought. When a person had a special connection with someone else, a special relationship, then they got to know a version of them that didn’t exist for anyone else. Parts of them nobody else ever saw. Truths nobody else ever knew. So maybe the Miranda reserved for Samara's eyes only really was gentler than the one everybody else had met. But, if so, that was only because their friendship brought that out of her.

As the silence lingered, the memory of one very unkind thing she had done emerged in Miranda’s mind. It wasn’t lost on her that there was still one regret she had in their friendship. One mistake for which she’d never made amends.

It was not something she had forgotten about. She recalled with discomforting clarity how she’d never taken her numerous chances back on The Normandy to confess to Samara about looking into her past without her consent. She’d never apologised for it, though she had intended to do so, eventually. She would have done it after The Collector Base but, when the Alpha Relay was destroyed, the thought had genuinely completely fallen from her mind amid so much death. By the time she thought about it again, it was too late. They had already parted ways.

So many months had passed since all of this transpired that part of her just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and not raise the subject now. But Miranda knew this was the only chance she would get. If she was ever going to apologise, this was her moment. She had to take it, or live with being a coward.

“...Samara, can I say one more thing?” Miranda broke the silence.

“You may always speak freely with me, Miranda. Indeed, that you always say precisely what is on your mind is perhaps my favourite thing about you. Certainly, one of them,” Samara said with a charming twinkle in her eye.

“Okay, then.” Miranda took Samara’s encouragement at face-value, and elected to come out with it, even if it was a heavy subject. “What happened to your family wasn't your fault,” Miranda began, deciding to approach the topic from that angle. The unexpected shift in the conversation caused Samara to stiffen visibly. “And you know I'm not the sort of person who'd say something I didn't think was true purely to make you feel better, no matter how much I like you. But you didn't do anything to make that happen. None of it is your fault. None. So please stop blaming yourself for what happened four hundred years ago.”

Samara didn't seem to know how to react to Miranda’s words, as they were the last thing she had anticipated. It was obvious it was a message she struggled to accept, even after all this time. Of course, she had no idea how much Miranda knew about her past, beyond the broad picture she’d painted. Not yet.

“Has anyone ever told you that before?” Miranda asked, curious.

“...They have not,” Samara answered, no less taken aback. From prior conversations, Miranda knew she had scarcely spoken about her past. Her daughters’ diagnoses made her a pariah as soon as they happened, leaving her nobody to turn to, and Justicars did not discuss the people they were before they swore their Oaths. Samara had carried her burdens alone every day since.

“Then I'm glad I said it,” Miranda replied, already feeling a sense of relief just from stating that out loud, though she knew she was far from finished when it came to things she had to get off her chest. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“Then may I also say something I should have said a long time ago?” Samara cut her off, speaking rather quickly. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead. If she was being that abrupt, then it must have been important. “I wish you loved being Miranda Lawson as much as everybody else believes you love being Miranda Lawson,” Samara spoke plainly. “Because she is and has always been a far, far better person than you seem to think she is. And there is not a single thing about her that makes her a ‘failure’. It wounds me whenever you think otherwise.”

Miranda was totally blindsided. She hadn’t expected Samara’s response at all, since she would never say anything unless she truly meant it. In fact, any prior thoughts Miranda had were completely ripped from her mind.

Samara didn’t need to ask whether anybody had told Miranda that before. She knew they hadn’t. Evidently, that knowledge bothered her a great deal.

“Miranda, I...” Samara reached out and touched Miranda's arm, as if considering saying something more. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before meeting Miranda's eyes. “I think we have been gone longer than we ought. We should return before our absence becomes a cause for concern,” she said, mustering a faint smile, sensing they had both lost track of time.

“Of course,” Miranda concurred, too dumbstruck by Samara’s confession to remember that there were words she had left unsaid. “After you.”

With that, Samara led the way back towards Shepard's apartment.

As she trailed behind her, Miranda discreetly wiped at the corner of her eye, maintaining her composure, masking any lingering signs that betrayed any frailty, and just how much Samara’s words had touched the core of something she hadn’t even known was as raw and vulnerable as it was.

It may have been a scant two hours that they’d shared there alone on the Silversun Strip, but stealing that precious time together felt like the best decision Miranda had ever made. It may have been over sooner than she would have liked but, if nothing else, at least she could look back on this night in the coming days and feel content with the way she left things between them.

She wanted to part ways with Samara on a high note. After all, deep down in her heart, Miranda knew it was the last time Samara would ever see her again.

*     *     *

Of all the people Miranda had expected to be banging on her door in the middle of the night, Samara was not high on that list. She hadn’t expected to see her anytime soon, given she had left only two weeks ago. And, when they eventually did meet again, Miranda hadn’t imagined Samara would look like this.

“Samara, what are you doing here? It’s freezing out, and you’re drenched--”

“I must speak with you,” Samara cut her off, her voice firm, and her eyes ablaze with a strange intensity Miranda had never seen in her before. It seemed as though Samara didn’t even feel the ice-cold rain on her. “It cannot wait.”

Judging from her tone, that wasn’t a request.

“Uh...Of course,” was all Miranda could mutter as she held open the door for her, closing it behind her. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her to say no. Not when Samara was in such a state, moving with such urgency. “In here.” Miranda gestured towards her room. Samara marched in without hesitation.

Suffice it to say, Miranda was a little stunned. What the hell was happening?

She followed her inside, and clicked the door shut. There wasn’t much space in her small room, but Samara found enough to pace back and forth. She was uncharacteristically wringing her hands as she wore wet tracks in the floor. These were things Miranda had quite literally never seen her do before.

“Samara, what is this? What’s going on?” Miranda asked.

“Forgive my intrusion. But I needed to see you. I could not...the way we left things, I…” Samara paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. “I fear that perhaps you already know what has brought me here, and what I wish to discuss.”

Miranda said nothing, too disoriented and sleep-deprived to be capable of doing anything other than staring at her in a dazed silence. She had no idea what she was talking about, or what could make her act so out-of-sorts. Miranda had never seen Samara so dishevelled. So discombobulated. So...frazzled.

“Oh. Oh, I see. You do not. I see. Very well, then. I…” At that realisation, Samara resumed her pacing, running her hand along her crest. “I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning, then. I do not know why I expected to avoid this.”

“Samara, please slow down.” Miranda raised her hand, her mind far too clouded with fog to make sense of any of this. Even just watching her march back and forth felt like running a marathon, which would have been an exhausting prospect even if she had slept in the past four days. Her request fell on deaf ears.

“Miranda, I was...I was dishonest with you the last time we spoke,” Samara began. “No, worse than dishonest. I have been deceiving you, for no other reason than because I have been too craven to admit the truth. What is worse, I fear that you have sensed my deceit, and that this is what has damaged our friendship. I cannot...I cannot abide this. I cannot continue to lie to you.”

Miranda could barely even make out what she was saying as she paced. She was speaking so quickly, and with such adamance that it felt like she might spontaneously combust from internal friction if it weren’t for the rain soaking her skin. Miranda had never seen Samara in this state. She was like a completely different person. A stranger wearing the face of someone she knew.

Samara was so restrained. So dignified. So elegant. She was a woman who had walked alone, unflinching into mortal peril thousands of times with no regard for her own life, and somehow emerged unscathed, even where countless others had fallen around her. She was the most fearless individual Miranda had ever met. 

There was none of that here.

She was...overcome.

Her proverbial armour had cracked.

“Samara, respectfully, you’re a category five hurricane right now. I need you to bring it down to a stiff breeze,” said Miranda, gesturing for her to cool her frantic energy just a little bit, because right now this was impossible to follow.

At last, Samara halted, and stood still. “...Yes. Yes, of course. You have my apologies,” Samara replied, no less anxious, but at least she seemed able to recognise what an incoherent onslaught her words must have sounded like. 

Miranda leaned back against the chair that was tucked into her desk, gripping it with her hand to take some weight off her bad leg. Whatever could have left Samara so shaken, it had to be serious. Nothing ever rattled her.

Except apparently this.

“What have you been lying about?” Miranda asked, that being about the only thing she had managed to make out of Samara’s hasty, jumbled rant a moment ago.

At that question, Samara held her stare, a distant expression falling across her face. “...After all this time, you truly do not suspect, do you?” she asked aloud, the realisation sinking in, as if that was a possibility she had not contemplated.

“Suspect what?” was all Miranda could say, tempted to utter a desperate laugh as she shrugged her good shoulder, not because there was anything remotely funny about this, but because she was so fucking tired, and so fucking lost.

“Why I abandoned you as I did. Why I fled this city and deserted you. Why you have been forced to contend with so much pain, suffering and death alone, when I ought to have been here to share those burdens with you, and taken care of you when you needed me by your side,” said Samara. Her voice was shaking.

Miranda softened when she heard that. Did Samara really think she was angry at her for leaving? “Samara, no.” Miranda shook her head, unconsciously gesturing with her amputated arm as if to strike that thought from history. “Of course I understand why you left. You’re a Justicar. You have your Code--”

The moment that word left her lips, Samara laughed a humourless laugh, laced with turmoil and despair. Miranda was struck mute by that. It was so unlike her.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, you truly still believe that about me?” said Samara, her hand on her forehead, as if she couldn’t fathom what she was hearing - that even now people still trusted her at her word. “No. No, my dear, it is a fiction. A comforting lie. A shadow I hide behind.”

Miranda damn near recoiled in abject confusion. “But you are a Justicar.”

“Yes, but that is not why I acted as I did. When I turned my back on you, it had nothing to do with The Code,” Samara unburdened herself at long last, revealing a secret that had been silently killing her. “When I left, it was for one reason only. And that was because I...because I could not be here to watch you die…”

Samara’s voice cracked on the last word, and her hands covered her face as tears began to swell from beneath the surface.

Miranda was dumbfounded - rendered speechless from utter astonishment. She had only seen Samara break like this twice before. Had only seen her cry twice before. That was when she killed Morinth. And when she opened up about losing Rila. Only the deaths of her daughters affected her like this.

Samara trembled, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with remorse as she met Miranda’s frozen visage across the room. “I am so sorry,” Samara told her sincerely, her words cut by the hitch of a breath. “I know my contrition means nothing, but I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I do not blame you if you despise me. You should. I know I deserve it, because the truth is that I failed you. I failed you because I am weak, and I am broken, and I could not...I could not lose you.”

Miranda’s heart tore in half when she heard that. Her head fell, and she pressed her palm to her eye, squeezing it shut. Was this why Samara thought Miranda had snapped at her the last time they spoke? Was she responsible for hurting her like this? God, she regretted that day even more now than she already had before.

“You didn’t fail me, Samara,” Miranda quietly assured her. “You saved my life.”

“That, too, was selfishness,” Samara confessed, owning up to her sins. “When the dust settled, I saw you had not returned. When I realised how close you had been to the Conduit, I went searching for you. And only for you.”

“That’s not true,” Miranda interjected, refusing to let Samara denigrate herself for what had been unparalleled heroism. “You saved dozens of lives in the wasteland.”

“Because The Code demanded I must, and my life would be forfeit if I did not. Every time I came across another survivor, I had to stop and render aid. But, though The Code compelled me to do everything in my power to rescue those in need, I tell you plainly I did not want to. I did not care about any of them. I would have abandoned every single one of them if I could,” Samara said starkly, stripping bare her truth. That revelation hit Miranda like a shockwave. It was something Miranda would have said. Not Samara. “People thought me brave, but I was not. People thought I was saving lives, but that was never my goal. My deeds should not entitle me to praise, but rather scorn, because I was selfish. I was so selfish. My only reason for going out there again and again was to find you.”

Samara swallowed. Miranda would have, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

“...And I did,” Samara continued, her features softening as she gazed upon Miranda. “You were caked in blood and dirt when I found you. So much so that I could barely recognise you. And then you...and then you stopped breathing.”

Samara took a moment to compose herself, affected by those painful memories. She drew a deep breath, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“I did not merely believe that you would die. I knew it. I was certain of it,” Samara quietly admitted. “The infection had already reached your blood. It was shutting down your organs. There seemed to be no hope that you would survive. The only reason you were breathing was because machines were doing it for you. Your pulse was so weak. Your condition showed no signs of improving. As I sat by your bedside, I came to understand that I was doing nothing but watching your life slip away before my very eyes. Every day, you were slowly dying in front of me. And I could not endure it. I...I broke. I ran away, rather than face it.”

“But you left me that message,” Miranda pointed out, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces together in her clouded head between things she already knew, parts of the story she had been told by others, and what Samara was saying now.

“A lie,” Samara said bluntly, her voice too strained to speak louder than a whisper. “To convince myself that I had not forsaken you. That I was not hiding in the shadows from my fears. That I was merely doing as I ought to, as a Justicar. A lie that rang hollow.” Samara glanced down at her feet, ashamed of her actions. “If I truly believed that you had any chance of recovering, I tell you from my heart, I would not have left. Never. And, if I had sincerely been forced into some temporary departure by my Code as I claimed, I would have placed a much better message beside your bed for you to find when you awoke. But I did not do so. I did not do so, because I could not bear to step into your room again. I was afraid each time I went near you, it would be the moment you would…”

Samara couldn’t even finish that sentence. She didn’t have to.

Miranda didn’t interrupt her, too overwhelmed to respond. 

“This is why I have returned now. To apologise for my selfishness. Not to seek your forgiveness. Just to apologise,” Samara explained, repentant for her recent failings. “You have earned nothing less than that.”

“I…” Miranda didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t...form the words. It was a lot to take in. She could scarcely process it in her heavily fatigued state. She couldn’t think. She was so tired. So confused. “I still don’t understand. You’ve seen death before. Why couldn’t you be here? Why did you have to leave?”

“Goddess…” Samara turned away, facing the wall. “You truly do not know…”

“No, I don’t. So tell me,” said Miranda, growing exasperated with how Samara kept doing things like that. Acting like there were things she should already know, which she didn’t. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read her mind. Obviously not. Samara had come all this way to throw this confession at her feet out of fucking nowhere. Why hold back now? “You’ve already said so--”

“Because I could not bear the pain of losing you!” Samara snapped back, her voice sharper and louder than before, as if she had to force the words out, fighting against herself to speak them. But, once they were said, they couldn’t be retracted. “I did not trust what I would do. How I would withstand it. Goddess, Miranda, I was coming apart. I had already broken The Code for you!”

Miranda’s eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“You know this. You said it yourself.” Samara faced her once more, moving a step closer. “I...I threatened to murder doctors, because they wanted to turn off your life support,” Samara confessed, hard as it was for her to say. “You were functionally dead, and I was prepared to harm innocents rather than accept it - to use violence against healers so I could keep you hooked to those machines.”

Miranda’s heart stopped in her chest.

Wait, what? That wasn’t something Jacob had just misunderstood? Her weary mind went black. She couldn’t even comprehend that revelation. 

“I breached two tenets, in total. Not only by threatening innocent medics, but that I lied about The Code in order to compel them to spare you,” Samara confided in her, exposing her transgressions, her shame. “This is not permitted. I was unjust. Had I any sisters left to judge me, I might be expelled from the Order for this. At worst, perhaps even executed. Though, if there is but one small mercy to be found, it is that my words, evil though they were, were only words. I took no violent act, drew no weapon, and made no attempt to carry out my threats. Had I done so, The Code would not suffer me to live. Nor should it.”

“...You…wait…” Miranda couldn’t hear herself, her ear was ringing so loud.

What the fuck was happening? This couldn’t be real.

“In what small part of me was still capable of thinking rationally, I knew my behaviour had made me a danger to myself and others,” Samara continued. “If you passed, I could not take the risk of what I might do. At least, that was what I told myself. In truth, by that stage, I was simply too afraid to stay. Afraid of how much it would hurt when you...” She trailed off into silence, her meaning clear.

Miranda didn’t even catch all of that, her thoughts blank. No, this didn’t make sense. Samara was a Justicar. A servant of her Code. She was the embodiment of her way of life. She stuck to it rigidly. She never bent the rules, much less broke them. She would never do that. She was so disciplined. So loyal to it.

Samara hadn’t even broken The Code when it came to her own daughters. An Oath, yes. But not The Code. From what Miranda understood, that was the difference between breaking a promise, and breaking the law. She had told Miranda straight to her face that she couldn’t do the latter. That she would never.

And yet now Samara was standing there in front of her telling her that she had not merely violated The Code, but that she had done so consciously. For her.

Twice.

“Now you see me for what I truly am. Frail. Weak. A fraud.” Samara glanced aside, accepting that what she had done would forever tarnish her in Miranda’s sight, as it should. “So, like a coward, I ran. As far as I could. Every day thinking, is this the day she died? Is this the day? Surely, she must have passed by now, Samara. Just go back. Just go. Confront this. Be with her. But I could not. I could not return, because I was not ready to know. Because I was not ready to feel--”

Her voice caught, rendering her unable to finish that bleak thought.

Miranda felt a heavy tide rising inside her. Like she was swimming in a maelstrom. Sucked in under the water. Unable to breathe. Unable to think or react. It was so much all at once. It was as if she’d been consumed by a tsunami.

“...Why are you telling me this?” Miranda asked through the haze.

“Because you do not deserve to believe you are at fault,” Samara insisted, taking another step towards her. “I abandoned you in your hour of need, not because you mean nothing to me, but because you...you are so important to me it scares me. But that is my burden, not yours. You should not have to suffer for my lack of bravery. I could not bear it if you thought that I have treated you so carelessly because you have slighted me in some way. You have not. I am to blame. Only me. The failure is mine, and mine alone. I am the monster here. Not you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Miranda. It hurt to hear Samara berate herself like that. She was the opposite of a monster. “I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”

“But I should have been here.” Samara took another step. As the space between them shrank, Miranda felt a shiver pass through her body, but not because it was cold. “I should have watched over you. Cared for you when you awoke. Been by your side as you rebuilt this city. Weathered the terrible news with you when you learned what became of our friends. But I could not. Instead, I left you. I let fear take hold, and surrendered to despair. Worst of all, I gave up hope. I did not have faith in you, when I should have known you are beyond extraordinary.”

“You don’t owe me anything--”

“Please.” Samara quietly cut her off, refusing her forgiveness, feeling unworthy of it. Even so, she could not refrain from reaching out, curling stray strands of hair back behind Miranda’s ear. Miranda’s pulse spiked, thundering like a drum. “I was distraught for so long. Too paralysed with sorrow to return, and face the news. So convinced that everything I dreaded had come to pass. That I had been too late when I found you in the wastes. That you had succumbed while I was away. That I would find nothing here but your grave.” Samara’s eyes shone as she looked upon her, a warm smile coming to her face. “I do not know how I ever doubted you would defy the odds. You are truly incredible. You always have been.”

Miranda didn’t dare to breathe, Samara was so close. All those bottled up feelings came flooding to the surface. It felt like somehow Samara should just know. That she should be able to lay eyes upon her, and glean from a single glance how easily Miranda came undone in her presence.

God, the things it did to her for Samara to be this near, her fingers on her skin. It was too much. She should have withdrawn and pulled away, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want Samara to stop. She needed her, with every fibre of her being.

Miranda couldn’t take it. For her own sanity, she had to force herself to turn her head away. To look somewhere else. Anywhere else but Samara.

"Do not hide from me.” Samara’s fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her head, compelling Miranda to lock her eye on Samara once more. “I know I ran before, but it was not because of you. Do not think it was ever to do with you.”

She realised then that Samara must have assumed the reason Miranda averted her gaze was because she’d felt self-conscious in that moment. Of her wounds. Of the scars on her face. Little did she know that had nothing to do with it.

It became achingly apparent then as she got lost in that shimmering sapphire stare that Samara had no idea what Miranda felt towards her. And that those feelings were so powerful and intense that they were threatening to devour her. 

How could Samara not see what she was doing to her? 

She was laid open. Bare. Exposed.

Samara’s fingers combed through Miranda’s hair until they grazed the cord that held her eyepatch in place. Miranda was so transfixed that she almost didn’t even feel her touch it. “May I?” Samara asked her permission to remove it, gauging whether Miranda trusted her enough to show the extent of her scars.

Miranda swallowed and nodded, giving her consent. That was never the problem. Least of all with Samara. Miranda stood stiff against her desk, knuckles turning white against her chair as Samara carefully slipped it off.

Samara released a slow exhale as she set that black cloth down on the table, a wave of heartfelt warmth washing over her features as that barrier fell by the wayside. As if on instinct, her fingers reached out to touch her face, but she stopped her hand just short of Miranda’s scarred cheek. “Will it hurt if I…?”

Miranda shook her head, almost too tense to speak. “Not if you’re gentle,” was all she could manage. And when was Samara ever anything less?

With Miranda’s tacit approval, Samara softly cupped her cheek. Miranda’s breath hitched. How could she be so on edge that such a feather-light caress could make her feel like her entire world was on the verge of exploding? 

“I have been devout in my faith for a very long time, and yet...Believe me when I tell you, the only time in my nine hundred and seventy-one years of life that the Goddess has ever answered my prayers was when I turned around on that balcony, and saw you standing there in front of me,” Samara professed.

If she moved so much as a single muscle, Miranda wasn’t sure there was any power on Earth that could stop her from crashing her lips against Samara’s, no matter how wrong she knew it was, or how bad of an idea. She willed her body to stay stone still, because it was all she could do to control herself.

If Miranda hadn’t been leaning so heavily on the desk and chair behind her, she was certain her legs would have given out right from under her. Samara’s skin was still so cold from the rain, but her touch was hotter than fire, and Miranda like wax beneath her fingertips. She could have melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I know I should not, but…” Without another word, Samara tilted Miranda’s head down, and pressed a tender, savouring kiss to her forehead. Miranda’s palm shook against her desk. She was trembling like a leaf. When she parted from her, Samara let her head rest against Miranda’s, cradling her jaw. “...I am sorry, but that is all I have wanted to do ever since I learned you were alive.”

Miranda’s heart wasn’t just pounding. It was screaming.

Somehow, she just knew, if she dared to utter a single sound, she wouldn’t be able to keep from shouting the truth at the top of her voice. The desire to say those five pivotal words seeped from every pore. She was bursting at the seams. 

“No, I should not have done that.” Samara shook her head, taking a step back. It was only then that Miranda realised she hadn’t taken a single breath in the last minute, and sharply gasped for air. “I have been selfish. Allowed myself to…” Samara stopped herself, as if suddenly coming to her senses. “Forgive me, Miranda. I have said all I needed to say. I should--”

The instant she turned to leave, Miranda’s hand shot out and seized Samara by her wrist, grabbing her as tightly as she’d ever held onto anything in her life.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” Miranda growled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Samara hesitated, caught off guard. “...I thought you did not want me here.”

“Why would I not want you here?!” Miranda shot back, her tension built to breaking point. She felt like she was going insane, trying to find her balance on shifting sands. Nothing made sense anymore. For all Samara’s honesty, she still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

“Because I abandoned you,” Samara answered. That had been the whole reason for her confession. Her apology. “Because I hurt you. Because you hate me.”

“Hate you? Samara, you idiot, I’m in love with you!” the words tore themselves from Miranda’s chest before she could stop them. Samara froze. Miranda released her tight grip on Samara’s wrist. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to stuff that confession back in.

God damn it. She’d really just said that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Fuck…” Miranda cursed under her breath, realising there was no going back. It was out there now. She had to confront it. “I’ve never...you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this way. It’s like a kind of madness.” She wasn’t sure what to say, or whether it was even a good idea to keep talking. But she had to. Now that she’d said it, she had to. “That was why I asked you to leave me alone before. Not because I hate you, but because...I feel the exact opposite.”

Miranda pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting off the incessant pain in her skull. The insomnia that made it so hard to think. To put these complicated feelings into words. She was so not in the right frame of mind to have this conversation.

Yet here they were.

“I’m pretty sure I have for a long time, actually. I was just too bloody stupid to figure it out any earlier. But...” In place of adding anything further, Miranda simply gestured, leaving her feelings out there, in the open, for Samara to do with as she wished. It was a horrible position to be in. She hated every second of it.

“...No,” was the first thing Samara said. Her voice sounded so distant. And it was tinged almost with a sense of...dread. “No. You do not. You should not.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I do. I think about you all the time. And I don’t...I don’t know what to do about it,” Miranda admitted, shrugging her shoulder. 

“No,” Samara repeated herself, more insistently. Her suddenness startled Miranda a little. “You...you are mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Miranda reflexively answered back. She couldn’t help but get defensive, hearing Samara tell her she was wrong about her own feelings, when she knew painfully well she wasn’t. “I tried to convince myself that I was, but--”

“You do not know what love is. And you do not know who I am,” Samara coldly shut her down, refusing to hear this. “If you did, you would know there is nothing about me that is worthy of you.”

“Fucking hell, Samara…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair. This was not how she would have planned this to go. For one thing, she never anticipated she would have to contend with Samara being in staunch denial about her dramatic love confession. But then she paused, as the final part of Samara’s sentence gradually registered in her tired mind. “...I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

“You…” Samara swallowed heavily, realising she had perhaps revealed more than she ought. Maybe because she thought her own feelings had already been blatantly obvious, and it hadn’t occurred to her to think Miranda wouldn’t have realised them by now. But she didn’t take it back. “No, I cannot do this.”

Samara moved for the door as if to leave. In response, Miranda extended her hand, biotically lifting Samara six inches off the ground, holding her in place.

“No,” Miranda sternly commanded her, not letting her run off and hide again. She was getting pretty bloody sick of that. “We’re talking.”

Samara could have overpowered her easily if she wanted to. Miranda was no match for her biotic prowess, especially not in her current state. She could have broken out of this grip with little more than a shadow of a thought. They both knew that. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t resist.

After a moment, Samara just gave her a nod, as if to confirm she would stay. Miranda let go. Samara’s feet hit the floor. She didn’t so much as stumble.

“You were saying,” Miranda prompted, losing patience for her evasiveness.

“...You heard what I said. It is as it seems,” was all Samara could bring herself to say, not denying Miranda’s suspicions. She would not lie to her.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Miranda asked, forcing her to acknowledge it out loud. To put it into words. There was no room for misunderstanding here.

“That is not the point,” Samara responded, tersely.

Miranda sighed heavily, intuiting what she meant. “Of course. You’re a Justicar,” she said. It didn’t matter what Samara felt about her, if The Code forbade it.

Samara’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I...am uncertain what you mean by this.”

Miranda’s expression mirrored Samara’s, equally bewildered. “Doesn’t the Justicar Code forbid...?” Miranda didn't finish that sentence, simply glancing down at the space between them, choosing to be deft in her words. Using any specific term that entered her mind might be perceived as demanding or presuming too much, or too little, and she wouldn’t risk that. 

Samara stared at her, the open-ended meaning not lost in the silence. It was obvious from looking at her expression that she wished her status as a Justicar permitted her to speak falsely. That would have made things so much easier. “...It does not,” she replied to Miranda's myriad unspoken questions, and the words running through her mind. It was the same answer for all of them.

At that, relief dared to trickle through Miranda’s skin. 

“That was never the problem,” Samara continued, not allowing Miranda to think that information changed anything. It didn’t.

“Then what is?” Miranda replied. “There’s obviously a connection between us. We both feel it. And if your Code says there’s nothing wrong with that, then--”

“Because I deserve to be alone!” Samara professed. “That is my penance.”

Miranda recoiled. It actually, physically hurt to hear that. “How can you say that?”

“Miranda, listen to me,” Samara implored her, holding her focus. “You are a remarkable woman. You are brilliant and exceptional, in every respect--”

“So are you,” said Miranda.

“No, you are not listening.” Samara raised her hands, determined to continue. “You are so young. You still have so much life ahead of you. So much potential. When others see you, as I have seen you, the entire galaxy will fall at your feet. As it should. You have nothing to gain from me. I am...I am regret, and ruin,” Samara told her, a faint glint of unshed tears in her eyes. “If you truly saw me for what I am, you would know there is only death and misery for you here.”

“I do know you, Samara,” Miranda spoke quietly. “I know that, despite all the tragedy you’ve endured that would break a lesser person, you somehow still manage to wake up each day and choose to be warm, and kind, and good--”

“I am none of those things,” Samara assured her.

“You are to me,” Miranda persisted, undeterred. “I know you are, because you found me when I was at my most jaded, my most cynical, my most closed off--”

“Miranda, no.” Samara shook her head, pleading with her not to feel this way.

“And, instead of rejecting me, you...you reached out to me,” Miranda continued, talking right through any interruption, or resistance. Because this needed to be said. “You made me smile more than anyone has ever made me smile. You showed me that...that opening up to someone you trust and letting yourself be vulnerable around them isn’t a weakness, but that it takes bravery and strength.”

“Please stop this,” Samara begged her, her voice a whisper.

But Miranda didn’t stop. “You single-handedly made me a better person than I was before I met you.” There was no denying that. Without Samara, she wouldn’t have learned from her past mistakes. She would have kept perpetuating the same cycles, and never stopped to reflect on her preconceived notions about what mattered to her, and what made her happy. “So, if you’re unworthy of love, then what does that make me? Because, from where I’m standing...Samara, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe you.”

“Enough!” Samara swept her hand across her body, signalling for this to cease.

But Miranda wouldn’t.

“No.” Miranda pressed forward. She was pouring her heart out. She’d never done this before, because she’d never felt this way about anyone. And, now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? You’re it. You’re it for me. I will never feel the way about anyone else that I feel about you, and I know because I’ve tried, and those efforts failed so hard I didn’t even think the ability to fall in love with someone existed in me, until I met you. You’re not just beyond comparison to everyone else. God, you’re...you’re fucking transcendent.”

“Do not...say these things!” Samara cut her off, her voice so loud and forceful that there was no doubt it bellowed through the whole apartment. Miranda had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone like that. “You know not of what you speak. You love a shadow. Nothing more.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed. “What is it you think I don’t know, Samara?” she challenged, determined to prove herself. “I know more than you think.”

“I killed the last person I loved!” Samara shot back, refusing to subject herself to that indescribable agony a second time. She would never let that happen again.

“No, you didn’t, Samara. She killed herself,” Miranda curtly replied.

“You know nothing of it!” Samara insisted through her teeth.

“I know everything,” Miranda interrupted, unshaken by what Samara thought were secrets. They weren’t. “I know every little fucked up detail you didn’t want me to know. I know you tried to kill yourself too, and the only reason you failed is that your neighbour found you. I know you blame yourself for Mirala becoming Morinth because you think whatever you said to her the night before her test scared her into running away and melding with her best friend to prove she wasn’t an Ardat-Yakshi. I know the police blamed you and wanted to charge you with something, anything, and that you broke down during your interrogation and told them you blamed yourself for everything too. I know the whole world turned against you for something that wasn’t your fault. I know it all.”

Miranda’s response thrust Samara into stunned silence. Miranda had the decency to look contrite, already seeing the fire of betrayal in steely blue eyes. Exactly like she expected. Exactly why this admission had been so easy to put off.

“There’s nothing about you that’s a mystery to me,” Miranda continued, quieter than before. “I looked into your past when we were aboard the SR-2. I’m surprised you didn’t already assume I did. I mean, this is me we’re talking about.”

As that slowly sank in, Samara stepped away and shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Miranda. Yet I suppose you are correct; I cannot claim this was a shock,” said Samara, in a tone Miranda had never heard before. “After all, you have at all times been nothing if not transparent about your duplicity.”

Miranda’s eye darkened. That hurt.

“Fuck you, Samara. You don’t get to turn this around on me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, between the two of us, I’m not the one lying.”

“Yes, how very dare I be hurt by your treachery,” Samara countered, looking her in the eye once more, her words laced with biting sarcasm. “I should know better than to criticise you, or confront you with consequences for your actions. After all, you are Miranda Lawson. You can do nothing wrong.”

“I’ll apologise as much as you want later. But that’s not what this conversation is about. So don’t change the subject,” Miranda snapped. 

“What more is there to say?” said Samara, her arms folded across her chest, unwilling to discuss it further. This hadn’t helped. “You know my answer.”

“There is so much more to say, because you’re pulling away and I don’t even know why. To punish yourself for some imaginary sins? Is that it? Look…” Miranda crossed the distance between them, reaching out and gently clasping Samara's hand, guiding it to rest upon her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat. “Whatever this is, I...I want this,” Miranda assured her. “Do you?”

Samara withdrew, resisting the temptation. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?” Miranda pursued her. “You’re a person, Samara. An incredible one, but still just a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. You've spent four hundred years being selfless, to a greater degree than your Code required you to be. You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to feel things. To want things. To need things. You’re allowed to...to move on with your life.”

“Move on?” Samara echoed incredulously. She turned her body away, refusing to look at her, visibly caught up in a tempestuous tumult of conflicting emotions.

Hurt.

Anger.

Grief.

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to, you would understand what an insult it is to me that you would tell me such a thing,” said Samara, shaking her head in contempt and disbelief. “‘Move on with my life’. The audacity...”

“I'm not saying that to get something from you. Genuinely, I'm not. You don't have to...” This wasn’t working, was it? “What I’m trying to say is that, whatever this is between us, this doesn’t have to go the way I want it to. I’m not even sure what that is, or what that would mean. I was so convinced this could never happen. But don't you deserve a bit of happiness?” she asked, trying to catch Samara’s eyes, though she was intent on avoiding her. “If I bring that to you, then—“

Before she could finish, Samara exhaled heavily and stepped closer, until the space between them virtually evaporated. Miranda trembled as she stumbled backwards on instinct, until she could go no further, and hit the wall near the door.

“Do not speak of happiness.” Samara pinned Miranda in place without exerting any force whatsoever. Without touching her. Whatever Miranda had intended to say before swiftly fled her mind. “My happiness died centuries ago. And I promised myself -- I promised myself, I would never...never betray that.”

Miranda moved to protest, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent Samara wasn’t really talking to her, but rather that she was arguing with herself.

“But, I...you were not...you were not part of that plan. I did not foresee how much I would...how much I would come to...” As her dilemma tore at her soul, Samara grimaced and braced herself on the wall, as if in physical pain. “I do not know what to do. I know I do not deserve this, but...perhaps we can, without...”

“Yes,” Miranda all but whimpered. Whatever she meant, her answer was yes.

She wanted this. So bad. Even if it might have been a terrible mistake. Even if it might have ruined everything they already had. At that moment, she didn't care.

Miranda wanted to kiss her. To sink her teeth into her neck, and tear her armour off. Her body was screaming at her to do those things, desperate to touch her, and powerless to resist if this was what Samara chose. But, in what little part of her brain could still think, she knew she had to let Samara take the initiative for whatever happened next. If she didn’t, she would push her away forever.

They probably only stood like that for a few seconds, but time moved so slowly it felt like minutes. Miranda could see the cogs spinning in Samara’s head. The conflict. The indecision. Temptation. Torn between resistance and surrender.

Samara’s fingers brushed her bare arm. She’d leaned so close Miranda felt her breath against her lips. Then, blue eyes went black. And Miranda felt the magnetic sensations she recognised as a meld beneath Samara’s fingertips. 

In an instant, everything changed.

A wave of sheer, uncompromising despair crashed over Miranda, plunging her into the deepest, darkest, blackest abyss she had ever known. It felt as if her very soul had been ripped from her body and murdered in front of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty shell. Any memory of happiness or joy was stripped from her mind, and shattered into a million pieces at her feet.

She had never felt more devastatingly, crushingly alone.

Bereft of hope.

And, although it had come over her as suddenly as the blink of an eye, it felt like she had never known anything else.

Abruptly, Samara glowed blue, her biotics repelling Miranda, like a barrier between them, pressing her back against the wall. The meld ended only a fraction of a second after it began, leaving both of them visibly shaken. The moment they separated, Miranda's hand flew to her lips, trembling as tears spilled from her eye, coursing down the unscarred side of her face, beyond her control.

Samara staggered backwards, as if she had seen a ghost. “No, I...I cannot.”

“No, don't...” Miranda could hardly speak, overcome by a grief that she could not name. She shook her head. What was happening? She never cried, unless her sister was involved. But this sorrow. It had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was intense and crushing and it dwarfed any sadness she had ever felt. So much so that it hurt just to breathe. Just to be alive. “I'm sorry, I don't...I'm not...I'm not normally like this. I don't know why this is happening.”

“Because it came from me,” Samara answered, her lips scarcely moving.

“...What did you say?” Miranda lifted her head, staring at Samara, shellshocked. But she hadn’t misheard. Whatever she was feeling, these weren’t her own emotions. In that brief instant that they had started to meld, Samara had inadvertently transferred whatever she was currently feeling onto her. 

“I did not mean for this to happen. I am so sorry. I...I thought I could contain myself. My boundaries. I never wanted you to experience this...” Samara whispered until her words trailed off into silence, confirming it to be true.

That realisation struck Miranda to her core, that agony still permeating her being.

“...Is this how you feel about me?” Miranda asked, a deep, dull ache pooling like lead at the base of her heart at the very thought - that this was how miserable she had made her by putting her in this position. Samara didn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

“It does not matter. This cannot happen,” Samara stated, her voice hollow.

“Samara.” Miranda reached out for her, but Samara raised her hand, signalling for her not to come closer, convinced this had been a terrible mistake.

“In another time, or another life, this would have been...” Samara didn't finish that thought, shaking her head. “I cannot contemplate this. I must not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to run off again?!” Miranda’s shout was enough to momentarily stop Samara in her tracks. Her throat was strangled with emotions that weren’t entirely her own. But some of them sure were. “Tell me, Samara, when did the strongest woman I’ve ever met turn into such a pathetic coward?”

“This is what I have always been!” Samara hissed in response, despising herself for this horrible misdeed. There was no hint of the stoic, composed, restrained person Miranda previously knew. “I have always been a coward. A fraud. A monster. A mistake. A worthless, selfish waste! I have the blood of over a thousand murders on my hands! I am nothing! I should not even be here!”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go!” Miranda shot back, lashing out in pain.

Samara took her at her word, looking at her one last time before she stormed out. Miranda heard the front door slam. The instant it did, Miranda slid down the wall, tears spilling from her eye, the weight of what just happened combining with Samara’s despair, still coursing through her body.

She felt so cold. Like everything right, or good, or light was just...absent.

There was only shadow.

Only grief.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips. What had she done? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She’d told Samara the truth, and pushed her away forever. They would probably never speak again. Not after this.

She didn’t even realise that the door to her room was still open until a few heads peeked around the corner to see her. Obviously, they’d been roused by raised voices, and the door slamming. The walls weren’t that thick. They probably hadn’t heard everything. But they would have heard enough.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Reiley asked, visibly concerned.

Miranda wiped her eye and picked herself up to her feet, refusing to let herself look vulnerable in front of them. Even though it was too late for that. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking her eyepatch off the desk and putting it on.

“You don’t look fine,” Jason pointed out as Miranda limped her way past them.

“Samara left in a hurry. And we heard fighting,” Rodriguez noted, not really sure how to approach this. “...Did you fuck things up between you?” she asked, in what sounded like an effort to be understanding and comforting. It wasn’t. Jason chastised her insensitivity with a light slap to the back of her head. “What? It’s fucking obvious they just had a fight…”

Miranda ignored them, grabbing her things, pulling on her jacket and scarf.

“What are you doing?” said Jason, shaking his head at her. For a second, it almost sounded like he was the responsible adult in the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Miranda answered stonily.

“It’s 1:00am,” Jason pointed out, as if convincing her to see reason.

“I don’t care.” Miranda slipped on her shoes, and took hold of her cane. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t lie there and think about this. Couldn’t feel this.

“Are you coming back?” said Reiley, confused.

Miranda was tempted to lash out at them and say no out of sheer bitterness and spite, but she couldn't. Unlike Samara, she didn't run from her problems.

“...I'll see you in the morning,” she said, before she closed the door and left. None of them knew it then, but they would not, in fact, see her in the morning.

And, when they did see her again, they would wish they hadn’t.

So would Miranda.

*     *     *

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/30-10/31 (IT AIN’T OVER YET!): DISCONNECTED (1984) + PERSONAL SHOPPER

One night on a double date at a local night club, sweet, shy Alicia (Frances Raines) tries to tell the foursome about a strange experience she has had that day: She let an old man into her apartment to use her telephone, but he mysteriously vanished before she could let him back out. Her friends are not interested. Her boyfriend Mark (director Gorman Bechard), a smug radio DJ, dismisses her story as some sort of misunderstanding, and her vivacious twin Barbara Ann (Raines) cuts her off entirely by flirting openly with Mark, insinuating that she was with him that afternoon. This is the last straw in what appears to be an ongoing problem for Alicia. Outside in Mark's car, she refuses to accept his denial of sleeping with Barbara Ann, beginning an agonizing breakup process that drags out for days. Even at her job, Alicia can't seem to establish any personal boundaries; an awkward young stranger called Franklin (Mark Walker) visits during her shift at the video store, and reveals that he doesn't even own a tape player--he just found out who she was and where she worked from other club patrons the previous evening. Alicia rebuffs his unseemly advances at first, but with the insulting drama still festering between Mark and her manipulative sister, loneliness sets in. She could use some company to help insulate her anyway, since their town is plagued by a killer of young women...and stranger still, Alicia's telephone has taken on a mind of its own, broadcasting otherworldly sounds into her apartment, slowly driving her mad. She has a difficult decision to make about who or what she can trust, but it may be that there is no correct choice.

Gorman Bechard's atmospheric 1984 oddity DISCONNECTED follows in the footsteps of CARNIVAL OF LOST SOULS, joining a subset of subdued psychological thrillers about women alone. In Herk Harvey's 1962 classic, Candace Hilligoss plays Mary Henry, a withdrawn young woman who moves far from home after a traumatic accident. Where she hoped to find peace, she is stalked by a spectral male figure, and receives no help from the locals, who are all suspicious or covetous of her. The boundary between the living and the dead begins to dissolve, mirroring her increasingly ambivalent relationships with other human beings. Mary is torn between her longing for solitude and her fear of impending doom, having to choose between an intrusive suitor, and being left alone with her cadaverous stalker. Mary's unforgettable journey through her desolate surroundings, her isolation interrupted only by enemies both open and hidden, describes an experience that many female viewers have found familiar. Social life portends various threats--judgmental elders who pick at your morals and appearance, jealous females, emotionally and physically violent males--while solitude offers obliterating blankness, like a desert whose expansive monotony renders meaningless the defining lines of past, future, and self. In modern times, this distinctly female experience is complicated by the evolution of personal communication media. The telephone in particular--which has been historically and rather demeaningly associated with girls--is both a channel through which to reach out and touch someone, and an opening through which unwanted attention can insinuate itself into our lives. Two years ago, I saw DISCONNECTED--a loopy microbudget slasher movie from Waterbury, Connecticut--and one of my first thoughts was that it was somehow just like PERSONAL SHOPPER, Olivier Assayas' heady cyberpunk-flavored thriller from 2016, in which a servant to the stars receives threatening text messages from someone who may or may not be among the living. I've been trying to put the two together in writing ever since.

In PERSONAL SHOPPER, Kristen Stewart plays introverted American Maureen, the virtual slave of supermodel Kyra (Nora von Waldstatten). Maureen is a stranger in a strange land, travelling relentlessly around Europe to procure garments and jewels for her boss in Paris, and on her personal time, conducting a psychic survey of her late brother Lewis's mansion. Twin mediums Maureen and Lewis promised one another that whoever died first would send the other a sign from across the divide; Maureen has been waiting since his untimely heart attack for him to hold up his end of the bargain. So far she has only witnessed some scattered poltergeitic activity, along with the manifestation of a ferocious, unknown female specter, but the clock is ticking, as the manse is mid-sale to Lewis’ friends. Furthermore, it is her employment with the tyrannical Kyra that allows her to stay in Paris and wait for a sign from Lewis, so Maureen’s freedom also is dependent on the resolution of this situation. When she meets Kyra's arrogant lover Ingo (Lars Eidinger), he inappropriately insists that he can get her a better job elsewhere, but she explains that she can't change her life until she has closure with her brother. Shortly after this unpleasant encounter, Maureen begins to receive intrusive texts from an unknown caller. Due to her unusual relationship to the dead, she can't be sure if her new stalker is a part of her world, or not.

PERSONAL SHOPPER has very much the flavor of William Gibson’s speculative fiction novel Pattern Recognition, in "cool hunter” Cayce Pollard has the extra-sensory ability to detect what new designs will become popular next. Cayce’s special power manifests as a crippling allergy, and so she tries to remain in timeless, fashion-neutral clothes and settings whenever possible. Psychic Maureen feels a similar kind of existential ambivalence toward the super luxe materials she excels at curating for her client.

Maureen spends much of her screen time alone. Most of her personal contacts are with salespeople; she virtually never sees Kyra in person, and her boyfriend Gary (Ty Olwin) lives in Oman, which may as well be another world. Her chief relationship is to her dead brother, who is literally in another world, and who responds with frustrating ambiguity to her pleas for a clear message, even as his mansion rumbles with unexplainable activity. This void of connection seems somehow related to Maureen's tenuous sense of personal identity. With no close connections, she cannot accurately detect her own contours. Maureen is totally sublimated into Kyra's life, simply an extremity that grasps for whatever Kyra needs. At the same time, she is subject to Lewis's will, unable to make any moves--even to protect herself--until her late brother deigns to give her peace. Maureen's identity is entirely determined by other people, including the mystery caller who lures her into a confessional conversation with him. Although this third figure is the most predatory of them all, he is also the one who teases out the threads of Maureen's fraying individuality. When she admits to trying on Kyra's clothing, just because she's not allowed to, he entices her to stay in Kyra's bed while she's away, further feeling out her own limits. This is the only way Maureen can establish a self that is independent of the context of others: by violating the taboos established by those others. The rule-breaking method of finding oneself is an integral part of the human condition, as explained by media theorist Marshall McLuhan in a discussion of the self in the age of social media:

"Yes, all forms of violence are quests for identity. When you live out on the frontier, you have no identity. You are a nobody. Therefore, you get very tough. You have to prove that you are somebody. So you become very violent. Identity is always accompanied by violence. This seems paradoxical to you? Ordinary people find the need for violence as they lose their identities. It is only the threat to people’s identity that makes them violent. Terrorists, hijackers - these are people minus identity. They are determined to make it somehow, to get coverage, to get noticed."     

By breaking Kyra's rules just on principle, Maureen moves toward self-actualization. Unfortunately, this comes at a cost, as the mystery caller who encourages this process wants to possess her just as much as Kyra and Lewis already do.

Maureen's phone has become a ouija board-like portal to another plane, through which alien forces can cross over and affect our fate. In DISCONNECTED, Alicia suffers from a similar problem. Alicia's social isolation, and the increasingly meaningless division between life and death for her, is underlined by the fact that she lives on the edge of a cemetery. Her phone is her connection to the world--to the ambiguous Franklin, to her sister who she can neither accept nor reject, to Mark who she can't quite leave behind. She can't get rid of this device, even when it starts to ring almost constantly, with a horrifying, vaguely vocal-sounding barrage of electronic noise on the other end. As in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Alicia is largely seen alone, pacing in her apartment, wandering teary-eyed in the depopulated streets of Waterbury, and eyeing her phone with nervous anticipation. She finds herself living out an appalling version of the classic Twilight Zone episode "Night Call," in which Elva, an old widow longing for her late husband, is harassed by increasingly disturbing phone calls from beyond the grave. Like Elva and Maureen, Alicia also suffers from the conflation of companionship and otherworldly threat: Just as she doesn't understand the source of the distorted calls, she also doesn't know that Franklin--her potential savior from this dark chapter of her life--is a serial murderer, planning to have her for his next victim. When Barbara Ann makes a move on him, perpetuating the cycle of sororal abuse that started with Mark, Franklin kills her instead, removing one of Alicia’s few contacts with the rest of humanity.

BTW, even though Alicia eventually takes a liking to Franklin (center), her experience at the video store--here, trapped between an aggressive suitor and a similarly aggressive porn consumer--forms the most realistic portrait of retail hell for girls that I have ever seen in my life. When Franklin first arrives, announcing that a) the movies there aren’t good enough for his refined tastes, b) he doesn’t even own a video player, and c) he’s only there because he’s stalked Alicia from her local watering hole, his intensely condescending attitude and presupposing come-ons gave me a hardcore PTSD reaction from the many years I spent behind the counter of a comic book store. Yuck.

While Alicia doesn't understand what is happening until it's almost too late, Maureen's situation escalates horrifically when her latest jewelry delivery brings her face to face with Kyra's mutilated corpse. As she reels from this gruesome sight, she also detects a malevolent presence vibrating deeper in the apartment that sends her fleeing in terror. When she goes to the police, her mystery caller suddenly becomes more sinister, demanding to know whether she has told the cops about him. In short order, the caller tries to blackmail her into meeting him in a hotel room, but this climactic union is circumvented by the police: It was Ingo guiding Maureen's journey of self-discovery, and Ingo who killed Kyra. The revelation is enormously painful, not because Ingo is so important, but because he managed to victimize Maureen using her most uniquely personal characteristic: her relationship to the supernatural. She believed that something personally significant was happening to her, according to her special understanding of the world, but she was merely being preyed upon by a violent narcissist. Her profound belief in her own paranormal sensitivity--the one thing she is sure of, that distinguishes her from others--is what made her vulnerable to the insistent texts begin with: She wondered if it was Lewis texting her. Ingo exploits Maureen's convictions about herself to perpetrate a deadly fraud, leaving her violated and humiliated. Even though we witness the presence of an unseen entity (Lewis? Kyra?) moving through the hotel, perhaps influencing Ingo's capture, Maureen is left to suffer for being gullible and vulnerable, to mourn her own privacy.

Of course, Maureen's journey is not over yet, and Alicia receives a similar shock with a full half an hour to go in DISCONNECTED. She is rescued by her own screams on her last date with Franklin, as the sounds of their skirmish draw the police to his apartment where they summarily execute Alicia's would-be killer. Now she is left with almost no worldly connections at all--save for the malign presence that keeps calling her phone, blasting her with waves of mind-melting noise. To make matters worse, there seems to be a new victim in the rash of murders previously tied to the late Franklin. Alicia plunges into a spiral of nihilistic despair, in which her closest relationship is with her conniving ex--mediated by the phone, and by his radio show where he dedicates songs to her--second only to the mystery caller who dials her number several times an hour. Craving a human connection, Alicia eventually relents and lets Mark take her out again, and things seem to be on the upswing...until Alicia returns home to find that something worse than electronic fuzz has entered her home, to put an end to her misery. We don't share her final vision, but we do see the mysterious old man (William Roberts) from the beginning of the movie, the fellow she let in to use her telephone, strolling into the cemetery--presumably, from whence he came.

Like Alicia in the aftermath of Franklin’s death, Maureen also has to find a new way to survive after an episode of shocking violence. For Maureen, the only way through is out. As she prepares to leave Lewis' mansion, she encounters his widow's new beau, Erwin (Anders Danielsen Lie). This encounter crystalizes the movie's themes regarding time. Early in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Maureen is turned on to the visionary paintings of Hilma af Klint, a 19th century painter who claimed that she made her art at the behest of ghosts. She mandated that her work only be revealed to the public after her death, creating a communication channel between the deep past and the distant future. Maureen argues with her doctor about the future; he insists that her brother's heart attack was purely anomalous, but Maureen sees no reason why the same thing couldn't happen to her. She sees no future for herself, and is chained to the past by the ghost of her brother, who withholds the spiritual message that would allow her to move on. Lewis thought a lot about the future, Maureen remarks cynically to her doctor, despite the fact that he was ultimately deprived of one. Later, Lewis' widow Lara (Sigrid Bouaziz) explains that she feels the future is in flux and unknowable--a desirable quality, in her book--and so she is moving on to be with Erwin. So, when Maureen encounters Erwin on her final night in Paris, they have a pointed conversation about the shackles of the past and the fossilizing force of guilt on one's life. Lewis's ghost cruelly teases Maureen at the end of the scene, demanding attention but refusing to reveal himself. With nothing to show for her devotion to her brother, she flees Europe.

In both DISCONNECTED and PERSONAL SHOPPER, the archetype of the twins is used to describe opposing states of being, and the threat of having one’s life usurped by another version of oneself. Alicia's sister Barbara Ann is lively, sensuous, and self-serving: everything that Alicia is unable to be, and the consumer of everything Alicia wants for herself. With her unrealistic desires for honesty and compassion, Alicia is the more death-oriented twin: cut off from social life, deprived of pleasure by more ambitious people, and vulnerable to parasitic attacks from both sides of the mortal veil. Alicia even dreams of Barbara Ann murdering her, and literally taking her place in bed with Mark. Maureen's twin Lewis is described by his survivors as passionate and living on the strength of his own convictions; Although Maureen still lives, she is inert, somehow chained to him, slavishly waiting for him to grant her release, though he is content to torment and manipulate her. The protagonists of both films are subjugated to these duplicates who refuse to stay on their side.

Maureen flees to Oman to reunite with her boyfriend Gary--heretofore only a pixelated image in a video chat who begs her to give up her commitment to the kingdom of death, insisting that only the material world exists and is waiting to embrace her. Of course, when Maureen arrives in Gary's placid and spartan world at what may as well be the end of the universe, her problems have followed her. We will never see Gary in the flesh; he has left a written note of welcome for Maureen, which she reads just as she detects a supernatural presence in his dwelling. Hoping against hope that Lewis is finally reaching out to her, she asks out loud: “Is it you? Are you at peace? Are you not at peace? ...Or is it just me?” And, hauntingly, she hears a ghostly knock in the affirmative for every question.

The ambiguity of this ending has troubled some viewers, although multiple interpretations present themselves which are not mutually exclusive. In the most literal sense, Maureen can be seen as a terminally frustrated Carrie White-like figure who causes material disturbances with the power of her own inner turmoil. The paranormal phenomena she perceives are, indeed, “just her”. On a more metaphorical level, we can see that Maureen is haunted by her own grief, over her brother, and also over her failure to forge a life of her own. In her mind, her brother was a superior life force to which she remains subservient; she identified herself entirely as a receiver for his message, and without his active participation in her life, she loses all sense of purpose. She scrutinizes ghostly disturbances and the spiritual conduit of the telephone to inform her place in the world. Without an internal, independent reason for being, people like herself, and like Alicia, are forever haunted.

[newstfionline]

Saturday, June 26, 2021

Florida Keys faces stark reality as seas rise (The Guardian) Long famed for its spectacular fishing, sprawling coral reefs and literary residents such as Ernest Hemingway, the Florida Keys is now acknowledging a previously unthinkable reality: it faces being overwhelmed by the rising seas and not every home can be saved. Following a grueling seven-hour public meeting on Monday, held in the appropriately named city of Marathon, officials agreed to push ahead with a plan to elevate streets throughout the Keys to keep them from perpetual flooding, while admitting they do not have the money to do so. If the funding isn’t found, the Keys will become one of the first places in the US—and certainly not the last—to inform residents that certain areas will have to be surrendered to the oncoming tides. “The water is coming and we can’t stop it,” said Michelle Coldiron, mayor of Monroe county, which encompasses the Keys. “Some homes will have to be elevated, some will have to be bought out. It’s very difficult to have these conversations with homeowners, because this is where they live. It can get very emotional.” The islands’ porous limestone allows the rising seawater to bubble up from below, meaning it just takes high tides on sunny days to turn roads into ponds, while global heating is also spurring fiercer hurricanes that can occasionally crunch into the archipelago.

Death toll in Florida collapse rises to 4; 159 still missing (AP) With nearly 160 people unaccounted for and at least four dead after a seaside condominium tower collapsed into a smoldering heap of twisted metal and concrete, rescuers used both heavy equipment and their own hands to comb through the wreckage on Friday in an increasingly desperate search for survivors. As scores of firefighters in Surfside, just north of Miami, toiled to locate and reach anyone still alive in the remains of the 12-story Champlain Towers South, hopes rested on how quickly crews using dogs and microphones could complete their grim, yet delicate task.

Study: 29% of tourists are looking forward to enjoying Mexico City’s beaches (Worldcrunch) A quick look at a map of Mexico will tell you that its capital, Mexico City, lies pretty much smack dab in the middle of the country. With the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico a five-hour drive in either direction, Mexico City is as landlocked as they come. Unlike many other major cities, it doesn’t even have a river. So this may come as a bit of a surprise that a study on tourism in the Mexican capital, conducted by the city’s business association COPARMEX, found that almost 30% of potential foreign visitors to the bustling megalopolis said they were particularly looking forward to enjoying "its beaches." As daily Publimetro reports, most respondents to the study, hailing from 17 different countries, even named names—citing "Cancún and Acapulco" (respectively 1,600 and 400 km away) as the beaches they couldn’t wait to go to. Alberto de la Fuente, the head of Moratti Strategic Business which compiled this “Macro Study on Reactivating the Tourist Economy” study, said the results showed the "potential" of tourists who know very little about Mexico but could be attracted with the right advertising campaigns.

Helicopter carrying Colombia’s president attacked; all safe (AP) Colombian President Iván Duque said Friday that a helicopter carrying him and several senior officials came under fire in the southern Catatumbo region bordering Venezuela, in a rare instance of a direct attack on a presidential aircraft. Duque said everyone on board the helicopter was safe, including himself, Defense Minister Diego Molano, Interior Minister Daniel Palacios and the governor of Norte de Santander state, Silvano Serrano. A video released by the presidency showed several bullet holes in the Colombian air force helicopter. Duque did not provide the time of the attack or say who he believed carried it out, but several armed groups are known to operate in the area.

3 dead, hundreds injured by rare tornado in Czech Republic (AP) A rare tornado tore through southeastern Czech Republic, killing at least three people and injuring hundreds, rescue services said on Friday. The tornado formed late Thursday as strong thunderstorms hit the entire country. Seven towns and villages have been badly damaged, with entire buildings turned into ruins and cars overturned. Over 120,000 households were without electricity.

Russia’s northern passage (WSJ) Melting ice in the Arctic Ocean is bringing a centuries-old dream closer to reality for Russia: a shipping passage through its northern waters that could put it at the center of a new global trade shipping route. After one of the warmest years on record, the Kremlin is near to realizing its controversial plans for a global shipping route in its high north—plans that have put Moscow at odds with the U.S. and could create friction with China, two countries that also have designs on the Arctic. Warming in the Arctic is happening twice as fast as the rest of the planet. Last year, ice coverage reached some of the lowest levels ever recorded, and it is only expected to shrink further in 2021. That is pushing Moscow to build infrastructure along the route, which can cut the distance of trips between Europe and Asia by a third compared with shipping through the politically fraught South China Sea or congested Malacca Straits currently used for cargo.

Russia vs. U.K. in the Black Sea (Foreign Policy) Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Sergei Ryabkov said his country would respond aggressively to any attempts by other countries to enter waters off Crimea that it deems Russian territory. Referring to Russia’s allegation of measures it took to deter the HMS Defender, a British ship that sailed close to Crimea on Wednesday, he said Russian forces “may drop bombs and not just in the path but right on target.” Speaking to the BBC, the Defender’s captain, Vince Owen, said the vessel’s path was deliberately taken to uphold its right to navigation in an area it deems part of Ukraine’s territory. Ukraine and the United Kingdom deepened naval ties on Wednesday, when the two countries signed an agreement to boost Ukraine’s naval capabilities and create new naval bases in the Black Sea and Sea of Azov.

Russia mandates vaccinations for some as virus cases surge (AP) They tried grocery giveaways and lotteries for new cars and apartments. But an ambitious plan of vaccinating 30 million Russians by mid-June still has fallen short by a third. So now, many regional governments across the vast country are obligating some workers to get vaccinated and requiring the shots to enter certain businesses, like restaurants. At east 14 Russian regions—from Moscow and St. Petersburg to the remote far-eastern region of Sakhalin—made vaccinations mandatory this month for employees in certain sectors, such as government offices, retail, health care, education, restaurants, fitness centers, beauty parlors and other service industries. Moscow authorities said companies should suspend without pay employees unwilling to get vaccinated. As of Monday, all Moscow restaurants, cafes and bars will admit only customers who have been vaccinated, have recovered from COVID-19 in the past six months, or can provide a negative coronavirus test from the previous 72 hours.

Myanmar fighting since coup has displaced 230,000 people, UN says (Reuters) An estimated 230,000 people have been displaced by fighting in Myanmar and need assistance, the United Nations said on Thursday, as a major armed ethnic group expressed concern about military force, civilian deaths and a widening of the conflict. Myanmar has been in crisis since a February 1 coup ousted an elected government, prompting nationwide anger that has led to protests, killings and bombings, and battles on several fronts between troops and newly formed civilian armies. The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), said relief operations were ongoing but were being hindered by armed clashes, violence and insecurity in the country.

Parts of Sydney going into lockdown as virus outbreak grows (AP) Parts of Sydney will go into lockdown late Friday as a coronavirus outbreak in Australia’s largest city continued to grow. Health authorities reported an additional 22 locally transmitted cases and imposed a weeklong lockdown in four areas, saying people could leave their homes only for essential purposes. “If you live or work in those local government areas, you need to stay at home unless absolutely necessary,” said Gladys Berejiklian, the premier of New South Wales state.

WHO warns of ‘humanitarian disaster’ in Syria if no cross-border aid renewal (Reuters) Failure to renew a cross-border aid operation into Syria which expires next month could result in a new “humanitarian disaster” for the country’s rebel-held region in the northwest, a World Health Organization spokesman said on Friday.

Child soldiers carried out attack that killed at least 138 people in Burkina Faso, officials say (Washington Post) The deadliest massacre that Burkina Faso has suffered since extremists invaded the West African nation was perpetrated by mostly children, officials said, injecting fresh tragedy into the six-year conflict that has killed thousands. A group of young boys helped carry out the early June attack that claimed at least 138 lives in the northeastern village of Solhan, government spokesman Ousseni Tamboura said. “The attackers were mostly children between the ages of 12 and 14,” he told reporters this week in the capital, Ouagadougou. The announcement comes as 10 percent of Burkina Faso’s schools have shuttered due to rising insecurity.

The art of Belgian zen (The Economist) Allowing a soldier to go AWOL is a misfortune. Allowing a soldier to go AWOL armed with stolen machineguns, four rocket-launchers and a pledge to “join the resistance” and kill Belgium’s top virologist looks like carelessness. The tale of Jurgen Conings, a 46-year-old army sharpshooter, who disappeared in May, has diverted Belgium. A month-long manhunt featuring special forces from five countries, drones and sniffer dogs turned up nothing. Instead, Mr Conings’ body was found on June 20th by a local mayor. He was mountain-biking nearby and noticed a smell.      Stuff happens in Belgium. From the outside, it is a grey country famous for fries, Magritte, chocolate and as the home of the EU—a project whose entire ethos is making European history one of dull process rather than bloody war. From the inside, it is chaos, to the point that a tooled-up anti-lockdown terrorist nicknamed “Belgian Rambo” roaming the woods seems par for the course. This is, after all, a country where someone sabotaged a nuclear-power station in 2014, without causing too much of a stir. Sometimes the disorder is merely amusing—trains being delayed because of a fire at a waffle factory, for example. Or when officials blamed the destruction of blueprints for Brussels’s tunnel system on hungry (and undiscerning) mice.      Surviving Belgium requires a certain state of mind. Call it Belgian zen: an ability to cope with a way of life that is sometimes disturbing, sometimes wonderful, but always weird. The country has survived happily without a federal government for up to two years at a time. It is the world’s most successful failed state. Belgians are almost as rich as Germans and better off than Britons or the French. Their health care is excellent. Property is cheap; wages are high. A Belgian life is, on average, long and prosperous. In such circumstances, a heavily armed soldier roaming the woods can be brushed off with dark jokes. As long as Belgium avoids true tragedy, nothing will disturb Belgian zen.

[rotten-zucchinis]

Part 2: “I choose to prioritise...”

This is part of a series exploring the language of “I choose to...” and “I am prioritising...” (and avoidance of “I should...”) as it is regularly used in a particular Relationship Anarchy/Anarchism community... and some the ableism in how I’ve seen that play out (particularly insofar as it impacts folks with limitations related to chronic illness and neurodivergence).

Introduction (contextualising this conversation) [text]

Part 1: The meaning of “can” (or “I often do things I can’t do”) [text]

Part 2: “I choose to prioritise…”

Part 3: Alternative meaning of “should” [text]

Part 4: Navigating the costs… [text]

Part 5: Choosing between a rock and a hard place [text]

Similar to how the meaning of “can” is relative to both abilities and costs of doing things (disscused in Part 1 [text]), one of the limitations about “prioritisation” is that it's inherently relative. I might value attending a certain event, for example, just as highly as someone else who doesn't share my limitations, but prioritisation isn't about how highly people absolutely value things, it's about where they rank those things relative to other things. This hierarchical ranking is necessary because of the limitations of space-time— we cannot simply “choose” to be in two places at once for example: we have to choose one (or neither). But the language of “choose to prioritise” focuses only on the hierarchical ranking and not the absolute value that things are each accorded, which is weird for a group of people who are explicitly all about deconstructing hierarchies.

And more importantly, it ends up reinforcing a lot of ableism, in ways that are often rendered even more “taken-for-granted” because when people don't do stuff, this model says it's because they're “choosing” not to prioritise it (i.e., and not because the world is shaped such that there are barriers that make “choosing to prioritise it” too costly or that result in that choice incurring negative consequences specific to people who face certain types of barriers). “I choose to prioritise __” is all about me and doesn't consider anything about the circumstances in which I make that choice— circumstances that are often profoundly harmful and that collectively people often can change (i.e., if they were to prioritise that), even if there's no way for me to change them myself through the power of my own individual choices.

Interestingly, the naming of collective choices and priorities tends not to be part of the project of naming choices to highlight agency. Even in spaces where people routinely speak their choices and priorities explicitly, this tends to be limited to their individual choices and individual priorities. I don't think I've ever encountered people systematically naming and making explicit their moment-to-moment choices to participate in collective resistance against structural violence and harm (including ableism), or alternatively their moment-to-moment choices to participate in the collective perpetuation of these things (though sometimes we name these for each other).

While people critique these systems in moments of analysis, they rarely name the ongoing praxis of these critiques (or their failures to behave in ways that align with their politics) as they move through the world. Instead, in the swing of things, people routinely take these violent systems and their effects for granted, as immutable context, without the recognition either that our collection in/actions sustain these systems or that together we do have the power to change them to some degree. 

There are limitations of language that make it somewhat unwieldy and awkward to name our participation in collective choices, actions and priorities. But I would argue there is still value in making those attempts and in trying to figure out a viable way to shine a proverbial spotlight on our collective choices and priorities which are typically concealed by the shadow of “taken-for-grantedness” (and thereby implicitly positioned beyond our capacity for change). Doing so makes it possible to start envisioning and discussing alternatives— makes it possible for us to make different choices, including choices we wouldn't have otherwise imagined.

At the same time, whether or not people do this, the issue of individuals prioritising individual choices is also less than straightforward when considering access barriers or limitations of ability. It might be entirely true, for example, that I will not attend or do stuff because I am prioritising “other things” over that stuff, but those “other things” might be my ability to function and make choices at all about a lot of things for the next day or week or month. It doesn't mean I don't value the stuff that I'm relatively “deprioritsing”. And it certainly doesn't mean that I value it less than do other people who are choosing to priorities it (as is commonly assumed). It doesn't mean that I don't want to attend or do the stuff that I might miss and it doesn't mean I want to attend/do it less than other people who attend/do it. It just means that there are other things that are also very high priority for me, and that I might “choose” to prioritise because I might face significant / devastating natural consequences that other people do not face if I don't make those choices.

With my limitations, me not doing stuff is not an indication that I don't value it. It doesn't mean it's a “low priority” for me. It might just mean that no matter how high a priority for me it is, my basic survival is higher and in jeopardy in this moment in some way. It might just mean that there are some less obvious accessibility barriers that make participating even more costly for me than for a lot of other people (i.e., barriers either about the stuff per se or about my life more generally). Sometimes it means that I need help in completely unrelated areas of my life because my capacity is limited so exceeding it on one front (i.e., in terms of physical exertion, sensory overload, etc.) pushes the whole system beyond what it can handle. Shovelling more snow than I can shovel doesn't just mean my legs will give out— it probably means my words will give out too. And that doesn't make sense to so many people who have never experienced it.

But that brings us to a meaning of “should” that isn’t about any kind or moral obligation or commitment: Part 2 [text].

[technonish]

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[the-final-straw-blog]

Palestine and Challenging Settler Colonial Imaginaries

This week on the show, we’re airing a portion of our 2018 interview with filmmaker and activist Yousef Natsha about his film about his hometown, Hebron, and the Israeli occupation of Palestine. We invite you to check out our full interview with him from March 25, 2018, linked in our show notes and we’re choosing to air this right now because of the flare up in violent evictions, home destruction and the assassination of around 100 Palestinian residents of Gaza by the “Israeli Defense Forces”. Podcast image by Yousef Natsha. [00:10:24]

Then, we’ll be sharing a panel from the 2021 UNC Queer Studies Conference called “No Blank Slates: A Discussion of Utopia, Queer Identity, and Settler Colonialism” featuring occasional Final Straw host, Scott Bransen alongside E. Ornelas and Kai Rajala. This audio first aired on Queercorps, on CKUT radio in Montreal. If you’d like to engage in this project, reach out to noblankslates@riseup.net [00:24:05]

Also, Sean Swain on aparthied [00:01:48]

No Blank Slates: A Discussion of Utopia, Queer Identity, and Settler Colonialism

Presenter(s)

Scott Branson, E Ornelas, Kai Rajala

Abstract

Under the neoliberal regime of multiculturalism, the settler colonial project has relied on the assimilation of certain subaltern communities into its project for the effective dispossession and control of indigenous lands. This discussion will present ideas from a book project we are collaborating on in order to invite conversation around the intersection and tension around ideas of liberation and forms of appropriation and oppression. Our main challenge for radical queers is to rethink the kinds of futures we try to include ourselves in, and how our liberatory work can subtly replay exclusion and erasure. How do neoliberal utopian gay politics perpetuate settler colonial erasure and genocide? How do politics that seek inclusion and representation--in other words assimilation--disavow the work by indigenous self-determination movements, which are also poised on the frontlines of planetary self-defense? The workshop will be divided up into short presentations by each writer, followed by a structured discussion facilitated by the presenters.

Description:

The utopian project that underwrote the Canadian/American settler colonial states that still exist today was eventually transmuted into a neoliberal utopian sense of identity. The entire concept of space and self that we inherit is imbued with utopian longing for a time and place that we can fully be ourselves. This kind of rhetoric is largely at play in mainstream identity-based movements, like gay rights. But this longing often works in favor of the regime of violence and dominance perpetrated by the modern nation state. We can see how the attempt at inclusive representation of queer cultures leads to assimilation and appropriation. What gets included in regimes of representation ends up mimicking the norms of straight/cisgender heteronormativity, in terms of class aspirations, behaviors, and family structures. This therefore contributes to systematic erasure of Black and Brown queer folks, who are still the most targeted “identities” for state violence and its civilian deputies. With images of diversity that appeal to bourgeois urban gays, businesses and governments can pinkwash their violence.

A radical queer politics that relies on unquestioned utopian and dystopian visions risks aligning itself with a settler colonial imaginary of terra nullius or “blank slate” space. On the one hand, dystopian and apocalyptic visions perpetuate the unquestioned assumption that a societal collapse is impending, as if the continual degradation of human and more-than-human communities has not already arrived. Particularly dangerous in this assumption is the kind of crisis rhetoric that fosters opportunities for settler colonial sentiments of insecurity and, in the face of this insecurity, assertions of belonging and sovereignty in land and lifeways. Furthermore, visions of radical utopias as-yet-to-be-realized (or, as-yet-to-be-colonized) discount the ongoing presence of Indigenous alternatives to the current settler colonial dystopian reality, and instead preserves a view of geographic and social space as blank and ready to be “improved” with a “new” model.

Here we have a problem of erasure of the oppressions and resistances that have been ongoing in different iterations, in favor of the blank space of the utopian frontier. We argue against these linear progression narratives of societal and environmental collapse which promise to bring about a future idealized world of rainbow-diverse identities. Instead, we propose ways for radical politics, particularly those espoused by non-Indigenous people, to disavow such settler colonial mindsets. There are a few ways to offer a glimpse into the lived realities—what we might still call utopian moments—that make up the non-alienated, revolutionary life: queer and indigenous histories of resistance, rituals and moment of community care and mutual aid, and science fiction revisions of the world. We argue that this other world does in fact exist—has existed and has not stopped existing—if only in the interstices or true moments of communing and inhabiting the land alongside friends and family.

This is not an argument in favor of utopia, but one that seeks to bypass the utopian/dystopian divide. The world we inhabit is clearly dystopian for most, and utopian for some, and in many estimations, constantly on the verge of ending. The disaster scenarios, repeating the puritanical eschatology that helped settle the colonies in America, perpetuates the history of erasure of ways of life that aren’t in fact gunning for that disaster. We still argue that the purpose of dreaming, of envisioning alternatives, is to make action possible today, through recognition of the power we do already hold. Our discussion will interrogate the settler-utopian impulses that get hidden within apparently liberatory movements, such as radical queers and strands of environmentalism, as well as the way these identities and politics are represented in narratives of liberation that rely on the same logic they claim to oppose.

Bios

E Ornelas (no pronouns or they/them) is a Feminist Studies PhD candidate in the Department of Gender, Women, & Sexuality Studies. As the descendant of a survivor of the Sherman Institute, a Native boarding school in Riverside, California—and therefore robbed of cultural, linguistic, and tribal identity—E’s research interests focus on the continued survivance and futurity of BIPOC communities, particularly through the use of literature. E's dissertation illuminates community-based, abolitionist-informed, alternative models of redress for gendered, racialized, and colonial violence by analyzing Black and Indigenous speculative fiction. When not on campus, E can be found reading feminist sci-fi, making music, baking vegan sweets, and walking their dog. [00:45:06]

Kai Rajala (pronounced RYE-ah-la) is a queer, nonbinary, white-settler of Finnish and mixed European descent. They are a writer, and an anarchist anti-academic working and living on the unceded territories of the Kanien'kehá:ka peoples on the island colonially referred to as Montréal, and known otherwise as Tiohtià:ke. They are currently pursuing studies as an independent researcher and are interested in sites outside of the university where knowledge production occurs. You can find Kai on twitter at @anarcho_thembo or on instagram at @they4pay. [00:57:28]

Scott Branson is queer trans Jewish anarchist who teaches, writes, translates, and does other things in Western so-called North Carolina. Their translation of Jacques Lesage De la Haye’s The Abolition of Prison is coming out with AK Press this summer. Their translation of Guy Hocquenghem’s second book, Gay Liberation After May 68, is due out next year with Duke University Press. They edited a volume of abolitionist queer writings based on two iterations of the UNC Asheville queer studies conference, due out with PM Press next year. They are currently working on a book on daily anarchism for Pluto Press and researching a book on the institutionalization of queerness in the academy. They also make books of poems and artwork. You can find Scott on Instagram @scottbransonblurredwords or check out sjbranson.com for more of their work or on twitter at @sjbranson1. [00:30:41]

. ... . ..

Featured tracks:

Dabkeh Melody by Mecky from The Combination Soundtrack

Born Here by DAM from The Rough Guide To Arabic Revolution [00:20:21]

Check out this episode!

[curious-minx]

A ranking of four 200 Hundredth Episodes: Bob’s Burgers’ recent victory lap stands above the rest

The Bicentennial. How many among us get to be a part of something that get’s broadcasted for over 200 episodes? In the world of animated sitcoms it is a small, Fox dominated burrow. Bob’s Burgers is the latest series to become bestowed with this particular honor, and is possibly the best of the Fox line-up to do so. Family Guy’s 200th episode, Season 11 - Episode 12,  is the only Fox series to be given a full blown on-air anniversary treatment. The episode is a Valentine themed Brian and Stewie lark and like all of the other entries on this list celebrates it’s 200th episode anniversary in a more casual, blithe fashion. Family Guy is the only show Fox has bothered to air an entire half hour  special, but months before the actual airing of the 200th episode in Februrary. I am deliberately skipping over Family Guy and South Park’s 200th episodes. In the former’s stead I chose to watch American Dad’s 200th episode, because McFarlane is such a titan in adult animation that deserves recognition. The South Park episode is too exhausting for me to get into. South Park’s 200th episode, Season 14 - Episode 05, is the one that evoked the wraith of a  New York based Radical Muslim organization that would soon be “shut down” (i.e. members arrested) a few months after the episode aired on April, 2010. The 200th episodes of South Park and the Simpsons are the only two series to have received Emmy nominations, and in Simpsons case a win, due to their 200th episodes. Here’s hoping for Bob’s Burgers to get a similar recognition, because I think its 200th episode is pretty special and straight to the point.

///

1.) Bob’s Burgers - “Bob Belcher and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Kids” 

Out of all the 200 episodes is episode the most consciously in conversation with itself. The 200th episode has been treated with a reasonable amount of respect with The A.V. Club bringing their Bob’s Burgers coverage out of retirement and Variety and Salon also got into the mix. Gotta be honest a part of me over at The Curious Minx would prefer if the Bob’s Burgers recap lane was kept on the narrower side, but on the other hand this is a fabulous series that should be written about by as many different publications. 

In a recent  tired and routine zoom Variety interview (https://variety.com/2020/tv/news/bobs-burgers-remote-recording-200th-episode-1234830796/) BB’s creator Loren Bouchard touches upon how this 200th episode is supposed to serve as something of a pilot. An episode so fully realized that even if you are someone with no active bank of knowledge about the Bob’s Burgers minutiae of the Belcher family dynamics and still enjoy this episode as much as a full blown series fan. The episode is written by Steven Davis, a producer and writer with an extensive amount of episode writing and producing credits on Bob’s Burgers. The quality of a Bob’s Burgers script in the pandemic era  is becoming more relevant, because of the diminished role of improv, and this episode definitely feels crafted by a creative team fully in touch and aware of their characters and how to put them in satisfying situations.

Compared to any of the other animated sitcom families, the Belchers are noticeably the more lower middle class. There is a pervading sense of an overall struggle for survival and prosperity that is cooked right into the series pilot debut. Season 1 - Episode 01 “Human Flesh” sets the tone of the series, despite the overall writing and characters being sharper, the stakes have not changed much. Bob’s Burger’s like any American restaurant not under the protective aegis of a Big Franchise is in a state of perpetual turmoil. In the pilot episode the difficulties of running a standard American restaurant are made even more complicated by dysfunctional family hijinks. 

The 200th episode differs from the pilot in one dramatic way and that is the presence of the extended Belcher family member Teddy. In the original pilot Teddy is completely absent, whereas in the 200th episode Teddy’s role as surrogate family member is made even most distinct by having Teddy being invested above and beyond in helping save his pal’s Bobby’s restaurant. The return of the ornery and quirky Health Inspectors Ron and Hugo are serving as the most obvious form of echoing of the pilot. I highly recommend rewatching the pilot after viewing this episode, because I had completely forgotten that the Belcher’s saving grace is that Hugo and Linda were once in a relationship together. The pilot is noticably very contained setting wise, focusing exclusively in and around the Belcher family restaurant. Whereas, the 200th episode explores more settings with the Belcher children going across town to find a replacement for Bob’s broken oven part, an oven that they feel they are entirely to blame for destroying. A couple of celebrity guests Stephanie Beatriz and SNL’s Kyle Mooney that true to Bob’s Burgers spirits are usually just playing characters of little to no consequence. Unlike the other Fox family in this list that really leans in on having celebrities playing themselves, the best celebrity guest appearances on Bob’s Burgers tend to be the most anonymous, and Kyle Mooney’s put upon hardware store clerk is a great example of this. 

Finally, I’d be remiss if I didn’t dwell on the satisfying Linda contribution of the episode. Linda makes the critical set piece that ignites the restaurant fire. Linda’s gnarly mermaid sculpture is a great visual metaphor for the series. Especially when the Mermaid Statue is used to build up a very well constructed song-based gag. The whole episode made me feel really good about the state of the series and especially the Movie (And Loren Bouchard backs this up by giving interviewers the impression that the film’s delay has only improved its quality). As far as 200 episodes of long running animated sitcoms go, you certainly can’t go wrong with this one!

////

2. King of the Hill - Hank’s Bully

By all accounts the most unremarkable episode on this list. An episode that also has a trollish spirit that gets a sadistic glee in tormenting the fuddy duddy Hill patriarch. This is the also the 200th episode with the lowest stakes, the least of a spectacle, and most unassuming 200th episode. While trying to research anything of note to include in my review of the episode all I could find was this reddit post (https://www.reddit.com/r/KingOfTheHill/comments/bpl235/hanks_bully_was_near_impossible_to_watch/) where a user is criticizing the way in which Hank it mistreated. When I was rewatching this episode my partner also found this episode hard to watch and sympathized with Hank’s plight against a Clifford-like malicious imp of a hateful child who’s sole purpose is to make the lives of everyone else around him more difficult. 

To me what most stands out about this episode is the fantastic direction by longtime King of the Hill animator, former Bob’s Burgers animator, and current Rick and Morty director, Kyoung Hee Lim. A seemingly badass woman  working in a field that is not particularly kind to women or to women of color. I am pretty shocked that no one in all of her years as a director on some pretty important shows has brought her up or did an interview piece on her. Maybe this is something the good folks at The Curious Minx can aspire to? I am definitely going to be taking a further dive into the 22 episodes of King of the Hill that she directed and revisit the 15 episodes of Bob’s Burgers to see if I can discern what makes a Kyoung Hee Lim episode. 

One major ploy detail that I noticed in this episode, a detail that is also oddly prevalent on the other two 200th episodes, is the trash talk. And by that I do mean literal trash talk. The B-plot of this episode is what makes the episode pop for me in that the pairing of Dale and Peggy is a really successful one. The episode finds Dale frustrated with the Arlington Waste department and how they won’t take his refrigerator full of dead squirrels and his freeze full of dead crow. Dale then takes advantage of this dead blessing in disguise by getting into the world of competitive taxidermy with Peggy’s creative eye complimenting Dale’s gruesome technical prowess.   Both of these characters operate on such an oddly similar wave lengths that watching the two of them embark on a taxidermy journey together was strangely touching and fun to watch. And I am a vegan that feels weird about killing animals in video games, but the ending visual gag of the episode is especially inspired. My one complaint is that the episode is severely lacking in Bobby Hill. Probably because I just recently finished watching Better Things and basically want every show to be the Pamela Adlon show all the time. 

/////

3.) American Dad - “The Two Hundred”

Visually and conceptually this 200th episode really impressed me. As previously mentioned at the start of the post, I am not someone that is particularly warm to the McFarlane brand of comedy, but American Dad really is where he saves his best work for. This 200th episode got the complete opposite treatment of Family Guy. Airing on a Monday night on TBS this episode was pretty much given a shrug, but that does not tamper down any of its ambitions. The whole episode is basically a pastiche of Apocalyptic Dystopian alternative timeline tropes centering around an alone and traumatized by his past Stan. The episode has one of the most clever ongoing visual gags I have seen on a show where flash backs are teed up by Stan’s ridiculous new post apocalyptic tattoos. The core family and ancillary characters of American Dad are all given terrific moments to shine in this heightened post apocalyptic hellscape, and the key to any enduring series success if whether or not you can tell that the creatives involved respect and enjoy the characters that they are writing for. This being a McFarlane project there are a couple of embarrassing lines of dialogue from the show’s respective gay and Black characters and an over indulgence on Rodger based humor, but overall this 200th episode left me with more appreciation for this series as a whole. I will still always make sure to appreciate whenever a long running creative property takes stylistic swings and risks.While there is nothing particularly fresh or novel about a cannibal laden post apocalyptic wasteland this 200th episode managed to find some find fun character beats to subvert tropes or double down on them. The visual of a consistently on the move runaway train that is also mysteriously always on fire was also especially well executed. This episode could easily have been a series finale if the series hadn’t already played around with alternative timelines like in their Christmas specials. 

This episode also features more trash talk! One of Stan’s tattooed regrets revolves around Francine failing to get the trash picked up on trash day because Stan had purposely neglected to take it out. This rather odd pattern is about to make a whole lot of sense with the fourth and my least favorite 200th episode by the Simpsons.

////

4.) The Simpsons - Trash of the Titans

How many more times can I impress upon you that the 200th episode  of your animated sitcom is an  an occasion for trash talk? One more time. This 200th episode of The Simpsons is by far the most trash centric 200th episode of them all. The first animated adult sitcom to get over the 200th episode hump, the 200th episode  “Trash of the Titans” has some fun real-world trivia attached to it, but other than that this is one of the lesser “Golden Era” Simpsons offerings by a long shot. 

My primary source on contention with the episode lies in the direction Homer takes in most of the episode. A 2016 Uproxx (https://uproxx.com/media/simpsons-donald-trump-hillary-clinton/) article gained traction and a Wikipedia citation by comparing Homer’s antics to that of possible former rising Dictator Donald Trump. The episode involves Homer acting at his absolute most abhorrent in an election to boot, and his behavior in this episode is some of the most irredeemable Homer has ever been. The article oddly neglects to make note of the fact that Homer in this episode also makes similar slights against Mexico, referring it to an inherently “dirtier” country.  The episode ends on a truly groan inducing aged as fine as old socks in the cheese drawer with a crying Native American gag. Ah 1998 when we could pretend that the Crying Native American commercial was just silly social commentary and not racial minstrelsy. 

There is also one other instance that didn’t sit well with me and that’s when Homer is seen physically assaulting a woman working the booth at a U2 concert. I could handle the bullish descent into crooked politician, but watching Homer violently push a woman out of the way felt out of place. A retread of all the growth and development we’ve seen him go through over the course of 200 episodes. Of the other three patriarchs discussed on this list a Homer Simpson centric plot tend to not work as well for me especially if you compare him to the other animated TV fathers. 

The episode also features two celebrity guest spots. One made by Steve Martin who does a good job becoming more or less unrecognizable as the original Springfield Sanitation Commissioner Ray Patterson. The other celebrity guest appearance is more of an ill-portent of signs to come with U2 playing themselves. Whenever a celebrity is playing themselves on The Simpsons it usually does not work out. Not everyone can be used to advance a plot as seamlessly as Barry White. Although it is funny, funny in a “oh, we were so much simpler” sort of way that this episode garnered controversy and a ban on UK television over U2 and Mister Burns’ use of the word, “wanker.” Flash forward to 2009 and Bono is once again throwing around his favorite cheeky pejorative this time in reference to fellow earnest bland frontman Chris Martin (https://www.music-news.com/news/UK/24741/Read). 

Resting Wanker Face

The other fun factoid about this episode once again is not related to the show, but the show’s influence spilling out into the real world. In the late 80s and throughout the 90s, Adams Mine was an abandoned pit located somewhere in Ontario situated in a term I’m learning for the first time, the “Canadian Shield.” An exactly similar proposal is made by Homer Simpson during his reign of Sanitation Commissioner. This sweeping of trash under the rug does culminate into a satisfying visual gag as a climax that feels like a Garbage Pail Kid/Toxic Avenger version of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. More bizarrely and unfortunate, this episode also aired a week after the passing of Linda McCartney. How messed up is that? Couldn’t they just have waited at the end of the season or at least on an episode that doesn’t involve wallowing in filth? 

The episode features another developing bad habit in terms of the inclusion of songs and song parodies. There is virtually no connection to Willy Wonka in this episode other than the fact that both “Candy Man” and “Trash Man” have share a similar pronoun. Unlike the use of songs in Bob’s Burgers where they tend to be unique to the character’s reaction to dramatic consequence, on the Simpsons it’s more often than not a  a song for the sake of a song. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but why not go for a joke about parodying real musical trash titans, The Cramps, or even trash up a U2 song? On the episode’s Wikipedia entry in the Production section Matt Groening is quoted to saying that the visual gag of a department store sporting the slogan, “Over a Century Without a Slogan,” wasted a lot of man hours. So much effort and reach for a joke with a fraction of a minimal of pay off is essentially the Simpsons ethos in one visual gag. 

Once again, it bears repeating that this episode is also rewarded for an Emmy. If you break down the episode as starting off as a satire of Holiday Commercialism with the creation of the cynical Love Day holiday and ending the episode as a foreboding parable about the very real ecological repercussions of improper waste management. This clearly sounds like classic Simpsons reverse engineering management. Instead this is a classic case of an episode of the Simpsons being more interesting to think about than it is to actually watch. This is also the 200th episode that least honors its central cast of characters. Marge and Lisa are both afforded meager moments of wisdom and decency, but Bart is more or less even more irrelevant to the plot than Bobby Hill was on his 200th episode. 

As for today it seems like the only Simpsons anniversary that will likely rouse any more attention it’s way will be the 1,000th episode.. Think how much more trash we as a collective species will have made by the time that milestone roils around!

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In Conclusion:

When you start to make 200 episodes of anything the one feeling that seems to creep up is one of, “taking out the trash,” or you’re making art out of trash. Trash being a metaphor for the entire medium of Television. The TV market is an ever growing landfill, one of America’s Rapiest Dads made a whole cartoon about kids living and learning life lessons in a junk yard. So much of Television is only a means of  mass marketing  ground up pieces of detritus. Then you’re supposed to be grateful that your detritus gets to be a bumper for advertisements and the occasional merchandising. You’re an adult, you’re not supposed to take cartoons seriously. They are empty calories, brain noise, and at best background noise. Yet they are the only types of shows that can consistently manage to get over well over the 200 episode mark. At least back before the Netflix business model of show’s only deserving 1.5 seasons. 

Bob’s Burgers is reaching its 200th episode in an unfathomable media landscape, one that is completely demolished and in the process of being rebuilt from the aftermath of the coronavirus. The 2020s could be a turning point for animation going forward, animation is a severely grueling and technically difficult sector. This newfound interest in the medium may finally be  the financial boost and support that it dearly needs in order to properly pay artists for their work. The creators of these series may not think of what they do as art and to keep themselves afloat have to think of the act of bringing an animated sitcom into the world as necessary as taking out the trash. Our trash is a mirror. Inside the landfill we see our own morals and values reflected right back at us. Bringing forth life means a lot of shit. With every year you keep an infant human alive that means (x) amount of disposable diapers piled up. I suggest we make like the Belcher children and try to salvage our trash, put a wig on our trash, put a crop top on our trash, paint some lashes on your trash, because we’re all in the end up going to be put into the ground (beef). 

[kyndaris]

Time is an Egg

Following on from Alan Wake, I was ecstatic to see Quantum Break available on Steam. I’m not sure when they first became available but I was definitely going to buy it on sale. It didn’t matter that I had never owned an Xbox, I was now able to finally play a console exclusive that had interested me for years. With its time travel concept and two actors from the Animorphs franchise, I was eager to see where the journey would take me. Plus, Remedy was also trying to push the fold when it came to video by inserting a television show between major plot points. To many, it might have seemed like an overly long cutscene except with real actors. Akin, perhaps, to old full motion video. I, for one, was just excited to see if Remedy could manage to pull it off the perfect blend between video games and other forms of media.

In Quantum Break, players are put into the shoes of one Jack Joyce. After six years, he has returned to his hometown of Riverport after receiving a message from an old friend: Paul Serene. I loved the environmental storytelling as I navigated the university to meet my friend. The conversation with Amy Ferrero as well as the the posters decrying the aggressive purchasing of land from the shady Monarch company, all served to highlight an ongoing struggle between corporations and the history and culture of hardworking individuals.

It was not long before Jack arrived at the Physics Research Centre, where Paul Serene had set up his Project Promenade and the time machine hidden beneath. Unlike its depiction in other forms of media, time travel in Quantum Break is regarded as a loop. There are no branching timelines or alternate worlds being created. A person cannot go back in time to change the past. In addition, a person can only go as far back as when the time machine was first activated. So, there would be no visiting of dinosaurs or killing Hitler.

Quantum Break sticks to its guns that the past is immutable as it has already happened. But it also implies that when Paul travels to the future and witnesses the End of Time that this fact cannot be changed. Why? Because the event now lies in Paul’s past and defines his entire character arc.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After Jack helps Paul in his less than legal demonstration, something goes wrong and time begins to fracture. He is joined by his brother and men from Monarch. They attempt to escape and in so doing, Jack discovers that he is imbued with time powers. He takes advantage of this, but cannot stop his brother from being crushed (or at least, that is what he thinks happens). From there, Jack is set on the path of stopping his old friend and restoring time.

On the way, he is joined by Beth Wilder and either Amy Ferrero or Nick Masters (depending on your choice when playing as Paul Serene during the first junction point). Speaking of these Junction Points, while they provide choice to the player, the end result is the same. The final confrontation between Jack and Paul is predetermined. None of the changes made to the game changed this fact. Whether the player chose a Hardline or PR approach, whether they trusted Hatch or Amaral - it did not matter. 

I suppose that made sense from the rules of the world and how the narrative set up the concept of time travel. Instead of spiralling into infinite worlds and alternate timelines, Quantum Break continued its spiel that time was a loop and that a character’s desire to change it would have only perpetuated the event that they were trying to stop. This was particularly evident when Beth was sent into the future and tried to kill Paul Serene during the End of Time. Or how despite warning the proper authorities, 9/11 still occurred.

It also meant that the ending for Quantum Break remained open-ended. The majority of the game is set in the year 2016. Paul, having seen the End of Time, knew that the catastrophic event would occur in 2021. However, as the events of Quantum Break unfold, it is clear that Paul’s estimate of the breaking of space-time as most people understood it, was happening much more quickly than predicted. So, when Jack was able to use the Countermeasure and stop the stutters, I waited for the other shoe to drop.

Sure enough, Quantum Break teased that there was more to the ending that met the eye. First of all, the interview styled questions that peppered the game were revealed to be at the end. Martin Hatch, who was shot in the eye, was back. Jack looked like he was seemingly joining up with Monarch. The ambiguous ending, thus, clearly hinted at a sequel and that Jack might have been the actual cause for the End of Time.

I also have a theory that Beth Wilder might actually still be alive despite being killed by Paul. How could she not have become chronon-active after being exposed to the Countermeasure in Ground Zero? 

Gameplay-wise, I very much enjoyed the aspect of controlling time. I was quite young when Blinx came out. But seeing that I owned a PlayStation, I never got to enjoy a romp with the cat that could control time. This time, I could stop enemies for a select few seconds as I peppered the air around them with bullets and then duck to cover by running as quick as the Flash. I loved these new ways to tackle combat as they presented something different than the usual third-person over-the-shoulder action that I was used to.

What disappointed me, though, about the game was streaming the live-action episodes. Always, I encountered buffering issues with the show stopping and starting. It didn’t matter how good my internet speed was, the connection with Remedy’s servers refused to work as I had hoped. 

The Quantum Ripples also proved disappointing because they only added a line or two of dialogue between characters. It never seemed to serve a greater purpose other than to appear as a fun Easter Egg.

I also dearly wanted Brooke Nevin and Shawn Ashmore to share a scene together. Alas, that never happened. At least in my playthrough of the game. The actors that played cousins in the Animorphs series never got to share a scene together. 

Gripes aside, I very much enjoyed the time I spent playing Quantum Break. The concept behind the narrative proved to just as intriguing when I was playing it as it had been in the trailer. While many mediums have explored time travel, this one was a much more interesting take on the premise. 

I also liked the ability to control time.There was no reversal and making different choices like in Life is Strange, but as a game mechanic, it definitely opened up new ways to navigate the environment and approach combat situations. Unfortunately, the choice of weapons at Jack’s disposal was less than imaginative.

[missjosie27]

Year 2 Part 6- Bill Weasley

Hey, guys! Sorry about the late chapter. Being in self quarantine has actually caused a degree of 'apathy' so to speak and it's tough trying not to let that infest your creativity.

But in any case I am back with a new installment and I'd like to say a few words beforehand.

For the first three years of this series, Slytherin isn't going to look good. But there's a reason for that (not the least of which includes shipping my MC with Merula xD) and it will reveal itself in good time. To all my Slytherin readers, portraying your house as the 'bad guy' is not my endgame. Not even close.

Anyway on the with the story!

The party following the triumphant victory over Slytherin could only be described as pandemonium. In one fell swoop the Gryffindors had opened up a huge lead in the standings and were already being favored to win the entirety of the Quidditch season. Hufflepuff was no serious obstacle and only the Ravenclaws stood as the last major threat to their title chances. It was also the first time in three years the lions had beaten the snakes in a major match such as this and dancing on their misery tasted almost as sweet as the butterbeer.

David and company could hardly keep track of anything during the celebration, but they didn’t care. He had never seen such a spectacle and though listening to Quidditch was always a popular pastime, to actually witness it in person in addition to crushing your biggest rival went far beyond expectations. Though he didn’t say it openly, he privately imagined Merula and the rest of the Slytherins sulking in their cold, black dungeon.

Let them. It’s no less than they deserve

He made his way through the crowd in search of Charlie, seeing as he was the hero of the day (seekers usually were) and also a roommate in need of basic congratulations. Along the way he passed Adolphus Blishwick and Henry McLaggen who were engaged in a chugging contest of sorts though the substance did not look like butterbeer. In addition, he encountered the fearless chaser herself, Skye Parkin.

“Great game, Skye!” he yelled out to her.

Looking around, she spotted her admirer and gave a cool thumbs up before resuming conversation with a crowd of Gryffindor boys and girls who sought her attention.

She’s going to be the talk of the whole school for a week after this. Let her have the moment.

Resuming his search, it didn’t take long to spot Charlie. The second eldest Weasley brother was being hoisted up in the air by several older Gryffindors, broom still in hand, chanting his name repeatedly.

“CHARLIE! CHARLIE! CHARLIE!”

“Come on, mates! I’m going to get bloody sick!” he laughed, clutching his stomach.

David could only watch in amusement as the crowd finally let him down onto his feet, breathing heavily from the day’s excitement.

“Butterbeer for the rookie of the day?” he offered.

“Ha, no thanks, Dave. If I have another one of those things, I think I might actually vomit.”

“Mate, you didn’t just win today. You crushed Slytherin into the dirt. No one will let you buy another drink again.”

Charlie laughed good naturedly.

“Wasn’t just me, Dave. Team effort won the day. In case you haven’t noticed, we have a pretty good chaser over there,” he said, indicating Skye.

“She’s as confident as they come,” David observed. “Didn’t seem to know who I was, though or anyone else besides her Quidditch mates.”

“She has to be,” Charlie shrugged. “With the family she hails from nothing less than winning is acceptable. As for the second part, don’t take it personally, she keeps to her own crowd. Likes the attention but not really a people’s person if you catch my drift.”

A glance back and David saw Skye flick the blue colored braid back almost as if it were an act of God himself. Several of her ogling fans ate it up, whilst the Parkin girl gave a small smirk but no audible reply.

“Yeah, you don’t say.”

The second born Weasley chuckled before turning serious for a split second.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice which was just audible above the noise of the ongoing party. “I heard about what happened on Halloween.”

David’s eyebrows became sharp.

“What did you hear?”

“Relax, Dave,” Charlie reassured him. “No one told me anything, just rumors. But from what I gathered you and Rowan are still searching for that cursed vault? The one with the cursed ice that’s been entrapping people.”

“And if I were to say ‘yes’?”

“Mate, it’s not exactly a well-kept secret. There was no sign of you or Rowan at the feast. Many people around here still remember when your brother was chasing the vaults, they expect the same from you.”

Memories and headlines flooded David’s brain, ones he did not want to think about at the moment.

‘Aw, but Jacob why won’t you tell me?’

The older boy shuffled a vast assortment of papers into his drawer, his appearance slightly disheveled.

‘Pip, what I’m working on is top secret and cannot be revealed to anyone. You have to trust me on that.’

‘But-’

‘You’ll understand someday when you’re older.’

“I’m not my brother,” David responded quietly. He did not want to discuss the matter further as he pushed the guilt ridden feelings into the darkest recesses of his mind.

“I know you’re not, that’s why I want to help. Or make a suggestion rather,” Charlie responded, no malice or ulterior motive in his hazel eyes. It was then that David realized he may have spoken too harshly.

“Fire away,” he said, the light, jovial tone returning. “Better be good or I’ll have those blokes lift you up and down in the air again.”

“If you want some assistance in your search, talk to my brother.”

That gave David some pause.

“Bill? Why would he want anything to do with this?”

“Are you kidding? He’s almost as obsessed with breaking curses as I am with dragons…well maybe not quite that obsessed but it’s a goal of his and make no mistake,” Charlie explained.

“You’re sure? I can’t exactly go around telling everyone what I’m doing, lest I get expelled,” David spoke candidly.

“He’d never rat on you, that’s one thing I am certain of. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s caught me doing loads of things I shouldn’t have, and he’s always had my back. Believe me, there’s no one better.”

“Well I’ll consider it. Thanks, Charlie.”

“Anytime.”

The new star Gryffindor seeker was led back over to the center of the party leaving David to ponder in the middle of the celebration. He did not want to risk trying to bust down that door again at least not without help. Two second years weren’t strong enough but adding Bill to the team might prove to be the deciding factor.

He would have to ask Rowan what he thought of the idea.

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“Are you kidding? That’s a great idea!” Rowan exclaimed at lunch the following Monday. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

“A good question considering you talk about him more than you do about your tree farm.”

Rowan lightly swiped at him with his book (and missed) before continuing.

“In all seriousness, think of the possibilities. He’s older, he knows more spells than we do, not to mention he has an interest in what we’re doing according to Charlie. What’s there to lose?”

In truth, not much. But that didn’t mean it was a sure thing.

“I plan on asking him today,” David shrugged. “Just don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

“Why not? He likes you, already. He taught you a few spells last year.”

The twelve year old Gryffindor took a massive bite of shepherd’s pie.

“Dat was ifferent,” he said before swallowing. “Merula was terrorizing the entire first year class. This is ten times as risky.”

“Since when has that ever stopped, you?”

“It never does, and it never will,” David proclaimed. “That also doesn’t mean I go looking for trouble. It just happens to find me most of the time.”

“Well we could save a lot of trouble if we could get him on board. I can read an entire book about potential curses in this school but if we don’t have the know how or power, then this ice could spread even further by year’s end.”

Rowan was never short on logic and he couldn’t fault him this particular time either. The worst Bill could do was say ‘no’ and that would be the end of it. As if to confirm his own intentions, Charlie suddenly came up behind him.

“Hey, David. Bill is waiting for you at the training grounds. Says he has an hour before his next class if you want to talk.”

“Wait, he’s already waiting for me?”

“I put in a good word for you,” Charlie said with a sly grin. “I think you’ll find he’ll be very interested in what you have to say.”

Rowan gave him a look as if to shout ‘what are you waiting for?’ before returning to his grilled cheese sandwich.

“Suppose now is as good a time as any,” he muttered getting up from the table. “Make sure Charlie doesn’t steal my pie, Rowan.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the red head called back, digging his fork into the pie and shoving it into his mouth.

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The route to the training grounds was simple enough, one simply had to traverse two stories and past the dungeons to reach the outside door that led to the cold, autumn outdoors. David was hardly giving much attention to his surroundings as he adjusted his hat and scarf, very eager to see what Bill had to say.

Suddenly, he stopped in the middle of the dungeon corridor, instincts going haywire. Though this part of Hogwarts was always dark and gloomy, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.

“Hello?” he called out into the empty nothingness.

His natural reflexes kicked in as he just barely ducked a sickly-looking purple jet of light that created sparks on the stone walls.

“Goddamn it, what the hell?!”

Out of the shadows stepped a pale, black haired girl, one eye shrouded by the perpetual greasy mass of mop that never seemed to move. David immediately recognized her as Ismelda Murk, the same girl who had given him that creepy smile the previous week.

“So, you are going to see that blood traitor, Bill Weasley,” she said in a quiet, but deadly tone. “No doubt to discuss the cursed vaults.”

Her wand was trained on him, but David did not reach for his. At least, not yet. Any sudden movement would likely trigger another curse being sent his way.

“And how did you know that?” he stalled.

Ismelda rolled her visible eye.

“Please, your voice is loud enough. It’s not hard to overhear you.”

She took a step forward wand still pointed directly at his chest.

“But it makes no difference. You Gryffindors are all the same- cocky, arrogant, always hogging the spotlight for yourself.”

“Hey, Izzy, if this is about kicking your ass in Quidditch don’t take it out on me. I’m sure there’s a small, defenseless animal somewhere around here you can torture.”

Another jet of purple light barely missed his head.

“I didn’t have to miss,” Ismelda spoke with quiet fury. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me everything you know about the vaults and I won’t have to hurt you…much.”

At this point, David had had enough. It was already irritating to constantly deal with one crazy Slytherin girl, two went beyond his patience.

“Yeah, okay let me tell you what’s actually going to happen. I’m going to hex you and I’m going to walk out that door.”

Without another second’s hesitation he whipped out his wand and fired the same spell Merula had used on him last year.

‘ Petrificus Totalus! ’

He caught her square in the chest, sending her toppling over like a four by four to the ground. However, she managed to fire off one more curse before it did, and this time he wasn’t quick enough to avoid it.

“GAH!” he winced as he felt his shoulder catch part of the blast. Still, he didn’t waste any more time waiting for Ismelda to regain use of her limbs and ran as fast he could out into the nippy, November air.

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So fast did he run that he barely noticed that after a minute or so, Bill Weasley was right in front of him. When he finally did, the older boy was already looking down on him with an eyebrow raised.

“Whoa, there David Grant. You look out of breath. What happened?”

Still panting from his recent escapade, it took a moment for the 12 year old Gryffindor to form sentences.

“Slytherin girl attacked me. Threatened me over the vaults. Managed to get away though.”

Bill leaned and took a glance at David’s shoulder.

“Not completely. Let me take a look at that wound.”

David saw for the first time the extent of the damage Ismelda had wrought. The top of his robes were cut open to reveal a nasty looking purple and black bruise which had the look of something that had festered for days.

“Ew,” he remarked dryly.

“Let me see if this helps,” Bill said as he pointed his wand at the injury. “ Episkey. ”

Much of the swelling went down and the size was reduced though there remained a remnant of the blackish/blue color in the center.

“Madam Pomfrey probably could have gotten rid of that in an instant. But I’m pretty rubbish when it comes to medicine, that’s the only healing spell I know.”

“It’s fine,” David shrugged. “No lasting damage. What was that curse anyway?”

“Only seen it a few times but it’s a nasty one, especially if a powerful dark wizard uses it. Bone bruise curse. Can cause severe internal bleeding in the hands of a real psycho. Sometimes kids at Hogwarts will use them in duels, but it’s generally taboo.”

“That explains a lot,” he muttered.

“It sounds like you were waylaid on your way down here,” Bill surmised. “Who was it?”

“Ismelda Murk. She’s my year. Makes Merula Snyde look like a flower girl by comparison.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Bill said darkly. “She apparently attacked Charlie on the train this year simply for bumping into her by accident. You were there for that if I recall correctly.”

“Indeed, I was.”

“Well in any case this might be the perfect opening into what you really came down here for. Charlie told me you needed some help with these cursed vaults.”

David nodded in the affirmative.

“I do. Rowan and I actually found the entrance, but there was some sort of enchantment on it. I don’t think we can break it, just the two of us. Charlie said you might be interested.”

“Interested? Hell, David I wish you had come to me sooner. I’m in.”

David didn’t know what to expect, but the fact that Bill accepted his request so readily was a tad surprising.

“Huh, well that didn’t take much persuasion.”

“You didn’t need to,” Bill said seriously. “This ice is becoming more and more dangerous by the week and doesn’t appear to be dissipating any time soon. If we can get through that door you spoke of earlier there’s a strong chance we can break this curse.”

His face broke into a reluctant smile.

“I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit excited too. This is my first curse breaking adventure and I’m honored to be a part of it.”

“The honor is all mine,” David grinned. “Seriously, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the eldest Weasley warned. “It’s going to take a lot of preparation and even a little pain to break into a cursed vault. We’ll need to do a lot of research and spellwork if this is going to be successful. It’ll also give us the opportunity to learn a few more jinxes for dueling, especially considering you were just attacked.”

“Rowan will eagerly take care of the research. He’ll also be pretty happy to know you’re in on this little quest of ours.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Bill laughed. “Come on, let’s get started.”

And so they did. For the next few weeks, the trio met once a week to either study in the library or go to the training grounds to learn new spells and practice them on the wooden target dummies. This became steadily more difficult as time went on as the weather became colder the first snowfall hit but it was still good practice and it also provided an opportunity for Rowan to progress in his own dueling prowess, which steadily improved over time. Now and then they were also joined by Penny and Ben, who were eager to help in any way they could. For Penny that meant assistance in brewing certain potions that they would need in a tight spot- fire breathing and pepperup potions came to mind. For Ben, it meant assistance in some of the research and moral support…and the occasional training session.

“Remind me why I have to learn the fire making spell again?” he asked one cold December morning between the crunch of white powder on the ground.

The snow was also a good outlet to begin practicing a spell that would be quite useful in keeping warm and potentially knocking down the giant snowflake that fired concentrated freezing spells at those who tried to enter its domain (Bill did a double take when he was told that story). Incendio would create large blasts of red and blue fire, though it was still somewhat difficult to control, especially for second years, and so Bill supervised their progress.

“A freezing day in December is almost as bad as the sensation you’ll feel inside the vault,” David told him as he shifted his scarf to reveal his pink, rosy nose, clearly whipped by the slight wind. “What better way to practice?”

“No offense, David, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to go inside the vault with you,” Ben said glumly.

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it,” Bill interjected. “For now, being prepared to break the protective enchantments is the best way to go. We’ll need a full arsenal to do so.”

Penny beamed underneath her hat, coat, and mittens.

“I’m just glad we’re finally learning something that could be considered proper defense. This year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is complete rubbish.”

“Yeah, well I’d be lying if that also didn’t factor into it,” the red head muttered. “I also figured the fire making spell would be a top priority based off what Dave and Rowan told me about this vault.”

“Speaking of curse breaking, I actually brought you something,” David said, remembering suddenly his gift. “I bought this through mail order a week ago.”

He stuck his mittens into the bag and presented it to his friend.

“ Patricia Rakepick: A Guide to Cursebreaking,” Bill read aloud his eyes lighting up. “Wow, David this is amazing. You didn’t have to get me this. Madam Rakepick is one of the best in the world.”

“Good practice for when you become a cursebreaker yourself,” he replied with a wink. “Not to mention it’ll be good for all of us when we enter the vault. Rakepick has been around the globe and back again. Seen and done it all.”

“We’ll pour through it once we get back inside. In the meantime, let me see your fire one more time.”

David point his wand in the air.

“ Incendio! ”

A large stream of flames issued forth, crackling the air before ceasing altogether.

“You really have a talent for this stuff, don’t you?” Bill chuckled. “Took me a lot longer to learn that spell. Penny, you next.”

The blonde obliged, sending a lesser but still decent amount of flames into the frigid December day.

“Not bad. You need a little bit more power but otherwise you’re coming along fine,” Bill encouraged.

“I know,” Penny said a bit sheepishly. “I’m just afraid I’ll burn one of you guys.”

“You can burn me any time you want. Feels like my ass is about to freeze off,” David quipped.

“Well we certainly wouldn’t want that,” Bill responded dryly but with a cheeky grin. “One more from Ben and then we’ll grab some hot cocoa.”

Shaking heavily from the cold, Ben nevertheless loudly proclaimed the incantation.

“ I-Incendio !”

The amount of fire that issued from his wand was so vast that David actually had to grab Penny and duck to avoid minor injury. Even Bill took a step back, a look of shock plastered on his face.

“Well that’s one way to do it,” he offered in his gentlest tone. “Maybe say it a little less loudly next time.”

David began laughing as he picked himself up from the frost bitten ground, putting an arm around his friend.

“That could have melted the entire door down. And you say you’re not worthy of going into the vault,” he ribbed him.

Ben only offered a weak grin.

“Heh.”

The rest of the month continued like this, with spell learning sessions occurring inside rather than the increasingly frigid outdoors of Scotland. As they continued to meet together outside of class, at lunch, and in the library the group also took extra pains to ensure the Slytherins were not following or attempting to sabotage them. After the embarrassing loss to their rival, Merula and her ilk were becoming more vocal again and more than a few times, David caught her messing with his potions again. She constantly whispered about how she was closing in on key information on the vaults to distract him, which he did his best to ignore. Merula loved to exaggerate her own achievements so it wasn’t particularly concerning. Nevertheless, he made a point to keep an eye on her and her prime lacky, Ismelda Murk.

As December wore on and the holidays grew closer, David grew more anxious to revisit the vault, especially with all the planning and preparation they were doing. Bill, however, aired on the side of caution. He too was eager to visit the first cursed vault but opined it would be more prudent to wait until after they returned from Christmas break. It gave them all time to practice their spellwork and would throw off the scent of anyone on their trail, namely Filch, who was always scouring the 13th corridor at night with Mrs. Norris. In the end, the group largely concurred with such thinking.

It wasn’t until the last day before the holidays that the pressure to enter the vault ramped up a notch. The three boys were on their way back from their final class of the day, a potions extravaganza that featured pre-Christmas goodwill from the Gryffindors and Slytherins tossing acid pops into each other’s cauldrons, until they noticed a crowd stood outside the 9th corridor. Though no one was panicking as of yet the murmuring became louder as David, Rowan, and Ben approached.

“What’s going on?” David asked aloud. “It’s not supposed to be this busy. Not until the train leaves Hogsmeade station anyway.”

“No idea,” Rowan shrugged.

“Can we find out what this is later?” Ben said nervously. “Ismelda threw an acid pop in my cauldron and I think some of it burned through my robes.”

But curiosity overrode the other two Gryffindor boys as they slowly weaved their way through the crowd and towards the front.

“You guys! It happened again!” Tonks said to them. But there was no need to expound further. Reaching the front, they witnessed a fourth year Ravenclaw covered nearly head to toe in the cursed ice, face dangerously blue, eyes barely open. It was quite a revelation and also quite disturbing. No student, not even Ben had been entrapped so thoroughly. The only part of his body that remained free was his head and neck, everything else remained submerged.

It didn’t take long for the whispering to turn to proclamations.

“The ice won’t stop until it gets us all!” a random girl shouted.

Thankfully, any mass hysteria was quelled by the sudden arrival of Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape.

“Students, remain calm!” the deputy Headmistress shouted over the low hum of gossip. “Please be on your way to prepare for the train. Those who are staying at Hogwarts over Christmas break, return to your dormitories until further notice. Prefects, see that everyone is accounted for.”

“You heard her!” Snape barked. “Away with you!”

The intimidating leer of Severus Snape was more than enough to disperse the crowd, but not before David overheard the professors commenting on the situation.

“The ice has never spread this far before,” Flitwick said with a note of anxiety in his voice. “Should we not alert the Headmaster to return?”

“Dumbledore has enough on his plate,” Snape replied. “He will not come back to Hogwarts until after Christmas. We can handle things until then. If the ice is getting stronger, we should not allow that information to spread beyond these walls.”

“I will letter Albus. But for now, let us focus on unfreezing Mr. Isaacs. Madam Pomfrey will need to attend to him for quite a while,” Professor McGonagall spoke, taking out her wand.

David, Rowan, and Ben looked at each other as Tonks and the Hufflepuffs headed towards the kitchen. All of a sudden, containing the ice was looking more and more impossible. If all of Hogwarts was threatened to be consumed by it, they had less time than originally thought.

“Happy Christmas, everyone,” David said ironically as they approached the Fat Lady to pack.

Though most holidays were spent opening presents, eating pie, and retelling school stories, this was once incident he planned to keep away from the ears of his mother and father, knowing both of them would panic if they found out he was attempting to break into the vaults himself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, David couldn’t help but wish for a quick end to December.

There was much more work to be done, yet.

[dinoswrites]

Clothed in Light || Chapter 1: Sun-Sighted

Arranged Marriage AU. Asra/Apprentice. Ongoing.

| Masterpost | Next |

The first time Asra meets her, he does not learn her name.

He’s down at the docks, a modest little shelter over his head as he shuffles a worn tarot deck in his hands. It’s not the best place to make coin, but that’s not what he comes to the docks for. Instead, he comes to see the ships as they arrive, to catch the scent of spices and salts or the colours of textiles, to attune his ear to accents and the names and faces of who comes and goes in the city he calls home.

There’s a lull in the crowd when he spots her—and he spots her first. Her gaze is looking over the crowd, towards the town. There’s a light breeze catching in her long black hair, and she’s got one hand up to her head to keep the flowers pinned there from blowing away. Her dress is bright red, long and flowing, made of a delicate and expensive-looking fabric.

He does not recognise the flowers in her hair. They look tropical, and nearly as beautiful as she is.

“My fortune?”

Asra clears his throat, and reluctantly turns his attention back to the customer he already has. Disguised by magic though he is, he still finds himself tucking his face into his scarf to hide the flush he feels on his cheeks.

“Past, present, and future,” he says, his magic layering an old and crackling voice overtop his own as he lays three cards down on his blanket.

He can still see the strange, lovely girl out of the corner of his eye—and the moment he speaks, her brow furrows, and she turns her head to look at him.

He wonders for a moment if he’s botched the spell. But his customer doesn’t seem to notice, so he continues with the reading. He tries to ignore the intensity of the strange girl’s gaze, or the way her eyes narrow as she stands there and stares at him, and does not move or seem to blink even as carts and people pass between them.

“… and I suggest you write to your mother, young man,” Asra finishes, swiping the cards back up into his hand. “She must be worried sick.”

The man in question—older by far than Asra—stands and leaves with a stiff thanks, though his eyes have the gleam of tears in them as he goes. As for the girl, Asra can see her, some fifteen paces away.  She’s standing stock still, watching Asra with an expression that is either very angry, or very confused. He honestly can’t tell which.

“A reading for the young lady?” Asra calls, shuffling his cards together.

She blinks rapidly, as if shocked she’s being addressed. She actually glances over her shoulder, before turning back to look at him once again.

“No need to be shy. Just an old man and the tarot, at your service.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she approaches, one hand on the flowers in her hair, the other holding the skirt of her dress to keep it from dragging in the dirt.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” she says, her voice low with a surprising formality. “I suspect my question may be rude, and I apologise in advance if it is, however… are you using an illusion spell? You look and sound much the same age as myself.”

Asra glances at the small mirror to his right—and sure enough, his spell is still firmly in place. A wizened old man, sea and sun weathered, looks back at him through his reflection.

“You’ve got me,” he says with a lopsided grin.

“Oh!” She kneels down on his rug and leans forward, trying to peer past his scarf and hat to see him more closely. “My illusions instructor was always scolding me, I could never see what I was supposed to be copying.”

The closer she leans, the warmer Asra’s cheeks grow. “Sun-sighted,” he says, a little breathless. One who sees through all illusions.

“I don’t know about that.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

He clears his throat. “A reading, then,” he says, perhaps a little too loudly, before she can ask why he is trying to look like an old man. “Three cards it is. Your past, present and future.”

“Oh!” she looks a little crestfallen. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”

“On the house,” he says, breezily, though her dress looks finer than any other he has seen on the docks today. He lays the cards down on the carpet between them, face down.

She hesitates a moment. “I…”

“Girl!”

She stiffens, and her eyes go wide, as a man storms out of the crowd from behind her.

“I told you to stay put!” the man snaps.

Asra only gets a quick glance of the man’s fine clothing, and his furious expression, before he grabs her arm and yanks her to her feet.

She does not fight him. She only stands as bidden, and looks down at her feet.

The man leads her towards a carriage some number of paces away—a palace carriage, one of the ones sent down to bring visiting dignitaries up the winding streets of Vesuvia to its seat of government.

Asra looks down at the cards he’s drawn—and, after a moment’s consideration, flips them one by one. The Tower, the Emperor Reversed, the Lovers.

He considers the Emperor card, and its familiar dog-eared corner. His gaze flicks back up to the carriage, slowly rattling up the cobblestones towards the palace.

Asra tucks his cards into his bag, and starts packing up.

--

Her name is Kalani. She comes from northern islands Asra has never been to, and so do the flowers woven into her hair.

The man who grabbed her arm at the docks is her father. He leads her through court and does not allow her to leave his side even for a moment, playing a worried and doting father. He is all easy smiles and friendly words; but he is also a too-straight back, and a too-tight hand on Kalani’s arm.

For her part, she is silent, and so completely removed from the curiosity and wonder he caught that small glimpse of, down at the docks. She walks stiff and stilted, and speaks little even when spoken to. Her face is frozen into a perpetually stern expression, at total odds with the sway of the wind in her clothing and hair.

“Why’s she so grumpy?” Asra, invisible, overhears one of the servants wonder.

His companion sighs. “She’s terrified,” the old woman corrects.

Her father has brought her to Vesuvia to be married.

“Her mother, lost to us many years ago, was the greatest magician to sit at my Queen’s side in generations,” he says to the count. “My daughter carries that great magic in her blood—I can provide genealogies back to the explorers who first settled our fair isles, on both sides of our great family.”

The man keeps sending significant glances to the empty seat next to Asra’s mother.

Aisha, for her part, looks entirely unimpressed. She is fixing Kalani with an intense stare, which Kalani doesn’t seem to notice. She’s standing stock still, staring off into space without looking at anything at all.

Asra’s uncle regards Kalani with an expression that is strangely… blank for the count of Vesuvia. Asra is used to his uncle’s booming laugh and broad smiles, even in the most serious of political discussions. He is known for greeting total strangers as if they have always been close friends and staunch allies.

But Asra cannot read his uncle as he regards Kalani. He cannot even guess what his uncle is thinking.

“My child?” Salim says, in the privacy of their rooms. “Marrying someone he hardly knows? I don’t care if your brother’s the count, he can’t be considering it, Aisha. He can’t.”

Aisha stands while her husband paces, rubbing her knuckles to her lips in thought. “I can’t begin to imagine what my brother is thinking,” she admits, her brow furrowing. She closes her eyes, lets out an annoyed sigh, and says, “Asra, darling, you know that invisibility spell gives me a headache, would you mind?”

Asra, already sitting on the couch, sheepishly drops it. “Thought I fixed it this time,” he says, more than a little disappointed. “Sorry.”

“It’s a little better, but your light resonance is still off by a few motes.”

“Your brother’s finally gone mad is what,” Salim snaps, rushing over to Asra. He grips his child’s shoulders firmly, while his familiar slithers off his shoulders and onto Asra’s. “Don’t worry, Asra, it’s going to be alright. We’re not going to let him marry you off for a trade deal. It’s preposterous!”

“The trade deal is hardly worth marrying anyone for.” Aisha strokes her own familiar’s head as she considers the events of the day. “And her father is certainly in a hurry to marry the poor girl off somewhere far away from home.”

Salim releases Asra’s shoulders and turns to his wife. “You think she’s pregnant?”

She shakes her head. “Too long of a journey. Whatever she did, it caused enough of a scandal to drag her halfway across the world and throw her at the highest bidder. The man’s clearly trying to recoup his losses, as quickly as possible.”

“You think so?”

“Poor thing was shaking in her sandals. Even if that awful man had let her answer any of my questions, I doubt she’d heard any of them.”

Asra feels Faust slither out from under her favourite pillow and into his lap. She coils herself happily around his hands, though he feels notes of confusion from her as she tries to understand the tension in the room.

“She did seem rather timid. What do you think will happen to her when we say no?”

She bumps her nose against his bag. She does it again, and again, until Asra takes out the tarot cards. Then she happily winds around one of his arms as he slowly shuffles the deck.

“He’ll try somewhere else. Somewhere even farther away from her home.”

“I can’t imagine he’ll care too much how they’ll treat her.”

His mother sighs again. “That poor girl.”

He loses track of the rest of his parent’s conversation while he shuffles. He loses himself in the feel of the cards sliding through his fingers, through the faded ambient magic of the deck reaching out for his own, listening for the distant voices of the figures portrayed on the cards themselves. Sometimes, he thinks he can almost hear them…

He pulls a card out of the deck at random, and holds it between two figures. The Emperor, again reversed.

Sun-sighted, he thinks, regarding the card. Remembering her reading—a great upheaval in the past, a dominating figure in the present, and a choice to be made in the future.

“We need to help her,” Asra says, tucking the card back into his deck.

 --

The first time Asra kisses her is their wedding day.

Her lips tremble—her palms are clammy where their hands are joined, and she’s so wound up that even the smallest sound spooks her.

Everything does, throughout the night. Asra stays at her side for the feast both out of obligation, and pity. She seems frozen in place, wide-eyed, an animal in a hunter’s sights—she jumps a little every time one of her (untouched) plates are cleared, or some new act starts, or the music changes a little too quickly.

Her father watches her every move with a scowl. She keeps glancing at him every time she does something—and every single time, she seems to second guess herself.

Asra feels so bad for her after the first course is cleared that he leans in to whisper, “You had it right at the beginning. Outside in.”

She lets out a small, frustrated noise through her teeth, before promptly biting her lip.

They dance only once. She steps on his feet so many times that they ache, but Asra doesn’t blame her.

The Count embraces her, and she flinches. “Welcome to the family, Kalani,” he says, with a warm smile and a soft voice. “We are honoured to have you.”

She has to take several short breaths before she can manage a reply. “The honour is mine, my lord.”

“Uncle Sahir,” he corrects her, with a lopsided grin. He throws an arm loosely over her shoulders, either ignoring her tension or oblivious to it, and Asra falls into step at her side as the count leads her towards the back of the hall. “Kalani, you are a vision in that dress, and your presence here is a blessing—but I think my nephew should show you to your rooms.”

Her jaw visibly clenches.

“Uncle,” Asra says.

But the count is undeterred, and steers them away from the party. He chats amiably with (or at) Kalani the whole way, telling her about this portrait or that staircase or which statue toppled in the last earthquake…

Outside their room—Asra’s new set of rooms, now separate from his parents’—the count pulls Asra aside, letting Kalani enter first.

“You may not understand this now,” he starts to say.

“I understand it about as well as she does,” Asra snaps, unable to stop himself.

His uncle sighs. “Asra. You are not a child any longer—and you are my heir.”

Asra rolls his eyes. “Yeah—”

“Yes. You have to think of your responsibilities to this city, instead of—daydreaming all day, or whatever it is you do. When I accepted this marriage contract—”

“That neither of us want.”

“—I did so with both of you in mind.”

“Then maybe you could have just offered her a job like Mom suggested instead of making her marry someone she doesn’t know.”

Asra can only scowl at his uncle.

Uncle Sahir sighs again—heavier, this time. “Just… trust my judgement on this,” he says, giving Asra’s shoulder a squeeze. “That’s all I ask.”

Asra rubs his palm over his face. “It’s a lot to ask.”

Sahir squeezes his shoulder, harder this time. And he leans in closer, whispering in Asra’s ear, “If you bed that girl tonight, I will never speak to you again.”

“No shit,” Asra deadpans into his palm. At his uncle’s intense stare, Asra rolls his shoulders and says, “I’m not a monster, Uncle.”

His uncle laughs—all at once booming loud, where moments before there were only hushed whispers. He claps Asra hard on the back once, and he steps back to regard Asra with a warm, fond smile. “That’s my boy,” he says as he walks away, finally leaving Asra alone at the door.

The first room is a small sitting room for greeting guests—Asra can see some of his things arranged on shelves, and he itches to take them all down and turn them over, to make sure they weren’t damaged during the move. Someone has taken pains to light candles—and Asra finds himself extinguishing them, one by one, scowling at the waste.

After a moment, one of the blankets laid across the couch shifts—and Faust slithers eagerly out from under it, vibrating with excitement.

Asra! She slithers up the arm he bends down to offer her. Pretty!

“Well I’m glad you approve,” he whispers, scratching her chin.

Party? she asks, tilting her head curiously.

He sighs. “Wish I could have just stayed in here with you.”

Faust flicks her tongue out at him—and then turns her head, and does the same in the direction of the bedroom.

The door is open, a soft light spilling out across the floor.

Friend?

Asra sighs again—heavier this time. “Not yet,” he whispers. “Maybe soon.”

When Asra enters the room, closing the door behind him, Kalani is on the bed—sitting as small as possible, her knees tucked into her chest, and her eyes impossibly wide as she stares up at him.

She’s clutching at her dress; the vibrant red fabric bunches up between her fingers. One of the flowers has fallen out of her hair, and there are soft white petals scattered over the blankets before her.

Her eyes keep flicking between him and Faust.

He clears his throat. “Faust,” he says, gesturing to the snake. “Meet Kalani. My uh. Wife. Kalani, this is Faust. My familiar.”

Wife! Faust stretches out, her tongue rapidly tasting the air. Wife pretty!

Asra clears his throat, and can feel his cheeks growing warm.

Kalani looks between Asra and the snake with an expression that can only be described as dubious. “Nice snake,” she says, her tone flat—and then immediately bites her lip, a flash of mortification passing over her features before it is replaced with the same, glowering terror from before.

Very nice! Faust insists, bobbing her head. Asra! Kalani pretty! Say!

“She says you’re pretty,” Asra blurts. “Nice! You’re—your dress is nice. Pretty. The dress.”

Kalani’s eyes grow wide, and her lips thin.

Oblivious to the growing awkwardness, Faust slips off Asra’s arm, to the floor, and then slithers over to the bed. She approaches Kalani eagerly—leaving a mortified Asra far behind her—and tastes the air over and over with her tongue.

Kalani’s feet are bare, and Faust’s tongue flicks the tip of her biggest toe. Kalani actually almost smiles, a little, and pulls her toes back under her skirts.

Tickle!

Asra finally finds his voice. “Faust!” he scolds—but he still does not approach the bed, rooted in place by just how small Kalani has made herself upon it. “I’m sorry—she’s just being friendly.”

But as Faust bobs back and forth in the air, and twists until her head is upside down, Kalani seems to relax. Just enough to reach out one hand, palm up, delicate fingers slightly curled, and tentatively offer it to Faust to taste.

Delighted, Faust tastes the air around Kalani’s hand.

“Hello Faust,” Kalani says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Faust takes the opportunity to slither up her arm. She goes much slower than she would with Asra, taking her time to pause and flick her tongue against Kalani’s skin, and clothes, before draping herself across Kalani’s shoulders, slithering in and out of her long dark hair.

At the end of it, she tickles Kalani’s cheek with her tongue.

Kalani almost smiles again. “Thank you, Faust. I’m afraid I don’t know the etiquette for... being so close with another magician’s familiar.”

Faust wiggles as she tries to contain her excitement. Chin scritches!

“She likes her chin to be scratched,” Asra informs, finally crossing the room to the spacious closet on the other side. Everything in it is meticulously arranged—Asra itches at the thought of the servants touching all of his things—one side for Kalani, and one for him. His clothes are all hung, and the trunk he’d locked with magic tucked neatly at the bottom.

Kalani’s side of the closet is nearly empty—a few fine dresses hang there, and some delicate sandals rest on the floor, but it doesn’t even look like she has anything to sleep in, let alone wear during the day.

He thinks back to the room when he first walked in. He… only saw things that belonged to him. Only his books, his trinkets and baubles.

Back in the bedroom, Faust is radiating wordless happiness as Kalani continues to dutifully scratch her chin. He thinks he hears Kalani laugh—or, almost laugh, rather. Soft and breathy.

Asra shakes his head, his cheeks warm again, and whispers the unlocking spell on the trunk.

The things he had thrown in there for safekeeping are still in place, untouched. His parents’ spell books, an aged tarot card deck, some of his childhood toys, among other things—and, buried under it all, what he was really looking for: some plain, unassuming clothing, loose fitting and comfortable.

When he’s finished changing, he leaves his gown in the closet. Kalani looks up as he closes the door behind him, startled to stillness, before she notices his clothes and her brow furrows in confusion.

“Good!” Asra says a little too loudly as he starts sidestepping towards the closest window. “You’re getting along. Great. Fantastic. I uh—I’ll be back later, Faust will keep you company. I noticed you don’t—there’s not—your things aren’t here yet so. You can use mine. Read my books. Or whatever.”

Asra opens the window and peers out. From the looks of things, a simple featherfall charm will help him reach that roof down below, and it’ll be easy enough to just climb down and sneak across the grounds from there…

“Where are you going?”

“Out?” Asra spares a glance over his shoulder, but Kalani still hasn’t moved from the bed. “I haven’t been able to see Muri—my friend—in weeks, let alone explain to him what’s going on. He’ll be worried sick.”

“Your friend?”

“Best friend. Only friend, really, except Faust, so it’s important I go see him as soon as possible.” Asra starts to climb on the window ledge, testing his weight against the frame. No good if it gives out on him while he casts the charm. “You uh—you go ahead and get some rest, don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back in the morning, promise. Won’t make you go through tomorrow morning without me, that’s for sure.”

He is met with a dubious silence. So he glances back again, half out the window to see Kalani staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Finally, she ventures, “So we’re not…”

Asra clears his throat. “Uh. Not what?”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Right. That.” He slowly climbs back into the room. “Look. You uh. You seem nice. But since this is the longest conversation we’ve had, ever, I thought we could just… table the sex thing.”

“For how long?”

He sighs. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally approaches the bed. He sits on the edge of it opposite Kalani.

She flinches away.

“Hey. I know you didn’t have a say in this—I sure as hell didn’t. So, why don’t we just… take some time to get to know one another, and figure out what we want to do going forward. Yeah?”

He still can’t read her expression, but her eyes are locked onto his.

“We’re not having sex tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Or tomorrow?”

“Possibly never,” Asra assures her.

Her shoulders slump, and the steel of her expression melts into obvious relief.

“Well I wish you’d said that!” she exclaims—and then immediately bites her lip, a subtle flush rising on her dark cheeks.

Asra, startled, can only blink at her.

“I mean—I was just so worried—not that you aren’t perfectly lovely—in a good way—you look pretty too did I say that—shit.”

She covers her face with her hands.

Asra can’t help but laugh.

“Alright,” he promises. “Next time we get married, we’ll clear up the sex thing before the wedding.”

She peeks at him from between her fingers. Flustered, he thinks, is a much better look on her than open terror.

“I apologize,” she says, clearly mortified. “That was—improper of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. Been a stressful week.”

“It has.”

“Well, you just stay here and rest up.” He gets off the bed and crosses once again to the window. “I’ll be back before breakfast, and no one will even notice I’m gone. Faust will let me know if there’s a problem and I’ll get back as soon as I can—might take me a while, though, it’s a bit of a hike through the woods—”

He’s got one leg out the window when he hears Kalani blurt, “You’re going to the forest?”

He looks back at her. She’s leaning forward on the bed, and her eyes have lit up—all traces of awkwardness gone. As he stares at her, trying to figure out why she’ so excited, she clambers off the bed in a hurry, and actually takes a few steps towards him before apparently deciding against it. “That—that big forest outside the city? The one I saw from the ship?”

Asra glances at Faust, but she only gives him the mental equivalent of a shrug. “Yes?”

She stands in one spot and practically vibrates, wringing her hands together. “What kind of trees are there? Are we far enough south for them to lose their leaves in the fall? Is it an old or medium growth forest? What varietals of moss are most common? Oh, what sort of fungus grows here? And what—”

All of a sudden, she bites her lip and stops talking. She does not cover her face, however, and as she glances at the window behind him he can see the longing in her expression, clear as day.

He looks at Faust again. The little snake seems to have caught Kalani’s excitement, and is bobbing her head repeatedly.

Asra reaches up and runs his hand through his hair—messing up the delicate styling that it’s been in all day.

She has no books. Hardly any clothes. Nothing of her own to entertain her…

“Would you like to come with me?”

He may as well have told her she could take her pick from the treasury.

“Oh, can I? I won’t be a bother, I promise, I won’t say a thing or make a sound—I’ll just look, I won’t touch anything, I swear.”

“Uh. It’s a long walk, it might get a little awkward if we don’t talk at all…”

She crosses hurriedly to the window. “I haven’t seen a forest since I was a little girl! I barely even remember what it looked like—are there bears here? Sometimes forest have bears, I’ve been told. Maybe a jaguar! I’d love to see a jaguar.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Asra tells her. “You need to change. You’ll ruin your dress.”

“I don’t care if it gets dirty. Apparently I’m only supposed to wear it once anyway.”

“We need to buy some food in town.” When she stares up at him, blankly, he continues, “You’ll… stick out. A lot.”

“We need to fit in! Of course.” She immediately deflates. “But… my father didn’t let me keep my school uniform. I don’t… I don’t think I have anything else.”

Asra mentally tucks that bit of knowledge away for later consideration. “I have lots,” he says. “More than I need, really. Let’s see what we can find.”

“Do I—do I need to disguise myself? I don’t have my spell books, my father made me leave them behind, and I don’t have any raw materials besides…” She tugs at her hair. “What if someone recognises me? What if they tell my father that we’re not up here having sex?”

“I know a never-mind-me spell,” Asra assures her, trying to steer her towards the closet. “No one will notice us. Really.”

“I need a fake name!” she blurts.

Asra sighs. “Let’s start with clothes,” he says. “A fake name won’t do you any good in your wedding dress.”

She laughs, bashful, before immediately biting her lip.

Asra’s cheeks grow a little warm. She… sounds very lovely, when she laughs.

Looks lovely, too.

“Right,” she says, awkwardly tugging a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I can uh. Probably get out of this myself, I think. If you…”

“Right!” Asra blurts. He hurries himself out of the closet, and then shuts the door behind him. “Just um. Come out when you’re done!”

Faust is still on the bed. As he looks down at her, she tilts her head up at him.

Blush?

Asra lets out a long, long breath.

--

“What,” Muriel says after he opens the door, “is that.”

“It’s pumpkin bread, Muri,” Asra says, dropping a loaf into Muriel’s outstretched hand. “I haven’t been gone long enough for you to forget about pumpkin bread, have I?”

Muriel stands blocking his doorway, however, and simply stares over Asra’s head, his lip curling and his eyes wide with open alarm.

Asra sighs, turning to look back at Kalani. She’s at the far end of the clearing, currently kneeling on the ground and… very possibly trying to talk to one of Muriel’s chickens.

“My name is Ka—Kai, my name is Kai,” she’s saying. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve never met a chicken before.”

Yes. Yes she is.

“Alright. You might want to… sit down, or something, a lot’s happened since I saw you last.”

“You’re married.”

Asra glances up at Muriel, startled. Muriel, for his part, isn’t meeting Asra’s gaze.

“You didn’t come. I looked for you.”

“I’m sorry, Muri.” Muriel finally turns, allowing Asra to step into his home. “I just—I couldn’t get away. And Faust isn’t big enough yet to send out on her own, she’d get lost trying to find you.”

Wouldn’t, Faust sleepily protests from under Asra’s scarf, where she’d been napping for the last leg of the trip.

Asra drops onto Muriel’s bed and runs his hands over his face. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Why is she here?”

Asra opens his mouth to reply—but then closes it again. He thinks about how excited she’d been to see a forest up close, how delighted she’d been when Asra told her no really it’s all right to climb this tree don’t worry about it, how she had told him how old that particular tree was and how the tree was always happy to have Asra climbing it’s branches…

It says every time you climb it’s branches, it almost remembers what excitement is like, yours is so infectious.

“Send her back.”

Asra sits bolt upright on the bed. “What?”

Muriel crosses his arms over his chest. He glowers, but doesn’t meet Asra’s gaze, instead sending his scowl down at the floor in between them. “You heard me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Muriel doesn’t answer him. He continues to glare down at the floor, his cheeks burning a little the longer Asra stares at him.

“Muri. She’s—she doesn’t have anyone else. If I didn’t take her with me, she’d be sitting around with nothing to do, no one to talk to…”

“Sounds fine to me,” Muriel replies, tight-lipped.

Asra sighs. He stands, ducking his head a little so he can look up into Muriel’s eyes.

“Muri,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was happening.”

Muriel pointedly looks at a different spot on the floor.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come find you, or talk to you about it—it just happened so fast. Her father was so insistent on the wedding happening right away, I couldn’t get away even for a second.”

Muriel’s jaw works back and forth. His eyes flick back to Asra’s, for a moment, before he lets out a rough breath of air. “You look ridiculous,” he says, and Asra knows he’s forgiven.

Asra grins. “You’re the one pouting at the floor.”

“Not pouting—”

Kalani’s voice suddenly drifts from outside. “Oh! Hello! I apologise for my start, I didn’t see you. Is there a polite way to greet you? I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a wolf before.”

Asra and Muriel dart for the door at the same time.

But the wolf in question, they find once they are outside, isn’t even growling. She is approaching Kalani, her ears forward, her body language neutral.

Kalani is still crouched on the ground, though the chicken seems to have vanished. She’s holding her hand out to Inanna—looking for all the world as if she expects the wolf to shake it.

Inanna regards Kalani, and her hand. Asra holds his breath—Inanna is fast, and is only steps away from Kalani. But she only sniffs the offered hand, before once again regarding Kalani with a neutral, non-threatening expression.

“My name is—oh. Well it’s actually Kalani, but it seems awfully rude to lie to you. Promise you’ll tell anyone who asks my name is Kai?”

Inanna’s ear flicks once.

“May I ask you a question? Is… is Kai a good name? Is it too short? Should I pick something that doesn’t start with a K? I remember it from one of the old stories I was told when I was a little girl, from before I went to school. I don’t know many other names from my home, and I don’t like the other ones half as much. It just sounds so… dashing.”

The wolf tilts her head, before sneezing and shaking herself.

Kalani laughs, sheepish. “I suppose I’ll have to learn to speak wolf before I ask you any more profound questions. Might I pet your fur? It’s so beautiful. I promise to be very gentle.”

With that, Inanna crosses the final steps that separate her from Kalani, and lets Kalani stroke the fur on the side of her neck.

Muriel and Asra watch in total silence—and Asra tries not to notice the slight look of betrayal that passes over Muriel’s face.

“This is because you spoil her,” Muriel accuses, with a sideways glance at Asra.

Asra tries, and fails, to hide his smile behind his hand.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 31

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: Ongoing fic, my dudes. Output has slowed but not stopped! No fear! Life is slowing down progress but not stopping it.

Warnings: swearing?

Abstract: Fushimi Inari Taisha

-------------------------------------------------

Lydia didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. Well, she had an idea, she had a notion, but it seemed entirely unlikely. The color “orange” had gotten into her. And “purple.” A couple of colors of all things. Fuck me, she thought. She never thought she’d see the day when colors would dominate her life. Especially those two in particular.

I mean, worshiping someone from a far was completely different than falling in love with them in person, after meeting them, after fucking them in their red sports car; this color she at least knew and thought of as a friend. It is the little things you find yourself not expecting, Lydia pondered. Especially with sexual encounters; she did as much as she could to experience a variety liaisons with anybody who was willing--male or female--because sex, on the whole, was the same with everybody, but it was the finesse and eccentricities of any particular person that made it special, profound, and captivating. And any artist lived to collect experiences. Love, she thought, was like the spectrum of light she couldn’t see. So, even if her colors were always gendered for her, she never thought of love in such simplistic, binary terms.

She adjusted her raspberry beret, carrying her painting supplies up the five story walk-up she shared with you. It was, in fact, one of the colors she could see. Lydia had tritanopia, which was a fancy-ass way of saying she was colorblind; she couldn’t tell the difference, on the main, between yellow and blue (which also meant green was fucked over by proxy). Everything in her world was a mess of reds, pinks, mauves, light blues, teals, and dark blues; all colors for her were traditional boy/girl gender markers; the irony of such, especially regarding her sexual proclivities, you never let her forget. This made being a visual artist something of a challenge, but Lydia liked challenges--in fact she thrived off of them. And, well, Roger Taylor was quite the unexpected challenge. He was a man full of color and light, and she was a color-blind artist who painted in monotones. They were inherently incompatible from page one. And yet...and yet...she was entirely drawn to him. Maybe even in ways she couldn’t yet express. But she was on her way to doing so: the colors.

She had thought she was up to the task though, or that's what she had committed to until she had started her most recent project. That’s when the confusion had seeped into her life--the colors. She had been working on a harsh landscape--all of her landscapes looked harsh and science-fiction-esque; there was something about bleeding all the color from a setting when the color was supposed to be there that made the setting feel, well, unsettling. Lydia had a perchance for putting people on edge, keeping them on their toes, making them intimidated; it was the best way to test them. Trying to push someone away and seeing if they chase you is the best way to see if they’ll stick around, she thought. It perhaps wasn’t the most upfront, honest, or genuine tactic, but it had merits all its own in other regards. Either way, she was young, hot, and determined to do whatever she wanted, which is more or less exactly what she did. Especially regarding her art. She couldn’t experience most colors like everyone else around her could, indeed, like most artists could. Instead of it being her Achilles heel, she decided to make it her sword. She’d cut color out of her art and do things her own way. She’d empower herself to create what she wanted. But now, unexpectedly, what she wanted was two colors she couldn’t see.

At the door to your apartment, she took out her crown key chain and unlocked the door. She scrambled inside, carrying an odd assortment of shopping bags full of items she usually didn’t buy. Most of them were full of paint, but they weren’t blacks, and whites, and greys: they were full of colors, most of which she couldn’t really correctly see. “Orange,” a thing she understood as a concept only, had been very appealing to her lately. One bag was full of every “shade” “orange” had to offer. It didn’t even matter to her most of the shades looked pink to her; to someone else, they’d be “orange” and they’d be strikingly powerful, a blow to the gut, putting your fist in a vat of hot oil. The rest were shades of “purple.” A literal mess of colors for her. A mess she intended to whip into a frenzy.

This wasn’t typical. This sort of dive into color was abnormal, and when she had attempted it in the past, it was something that had made her feel bitter towards painters who could see color and who used them like it was no big deal, without careful appreciation, or consideration for those who couldn’t. The old grudges were the hardest to overcome. And because she couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive, she would paint those feelings and resentments into her art. It was, after all, the best revenge.

That was, until Roger Taylor, however. Because now, all she could think about was the entire world of color to which she was mostly blind. The entire world of color that was so vital to who Roger was as a person and to understanding who he was as a person. What she had gained from their limited conversations was his absolute obsession with color and art. He had no idea she was colorblind, so he had had no idea he was making her feel an uncomfortable mixture of jealousy and fiery hatred; the overwhelming and, frankly, attractive passion with which he spoke of his home, his clothes, and his vast collections of artworks had diffused and tempered her own indignation into something resembling a very specific form of arousal. She was turned on, for the most part, by passion. As long as someone had passion in something, for something, it made her insatiably aroused. Anger could also be an aphrodisiac, and quite the powerful one at that. When mixed together, well, that created the scene between them that had transpired in his Alfa Romeo. All passion and anger linked together with consent and desire. They were colors mixing, but even when Lydia mixed colors, they weren’t always logical or beautiful.   

John Deacon was thinking about Roger’s words. He couldn’t process them, or their power; they kept rocking back, like waves, hitting him again and again. “Replacing Veronica already, mate?” Every time he thought he had found his footing, another wave would hit him, bringing him back perpetually to that moment in time. He’d sink into the ocean that was his Roger’s words, and drown. He couldn’t come up for air. But air was all he wanted. He couldn’t move from his chair. Stuck between a wave and a hard sentence.

He was no stranger to being helplessly stuck in a moment in time. In fact, the past three years had been an elaborate exercise in either denying his present or relying way too much on his past. There were nights, when he’d close his eyes, and snuggle into bed, that he was brought back to her again, against his will. Suddenly, he’d be shoved into Veronica’s funeral, forced to relive every detail in technicolor. He’d be made to hear about her death--being summed to the hospital; these moments returned to him when he least expected it like a long lost friend. In a very real sense, however, she was a long lost friend. It was easier to think of her at times as if she had gone on an extended vacation. This wasn’t helpful, perhaps, in terms of realty and acceptance, but when things had been fresh, and the raw wounds still ripe with red aching, it was easier to think of her hidden away some place he could visit, in some pocket of reality only he could access. A place just for them.

Those words, however, weren’t anything he wanted to revisit; being ceaselessly rocked back into memory wasn’t enjoyable for him, and it may never be again. She was there.

She was always there.

Always in his memory, and distance and time, being what they were, would inevitably switch those glass-hardened memories, specific pinpricks of pain, each targeted just for him, into shimmering translucence only vaguely having to do with the shape of her death. Every memory now was of her death. The day they met--it had been raining, her death was there waiting for them; when they shared their first, hesitant kiss, her death was there waiting for them; the first time they had made love, her death was watching from the corner; on their wedding day, her death was there, too. Every hard fact, every stone-cold truth had been painted diaphanous, rendered useless with a milky opalescence, a thickly painted layer called the certitude of her pending death. This fact followed him around day in and day out. He had almost become used to it. But, then, you had come into his life, and something ineffable had shifted in his heart.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?” had been the linchpin of some seismic change within John Deacon, however. His hand tightened around yours.

Roger, it seemed, had caused, whether intentionally or not, certain unexpected changes for the people in his life he cared for most.

Lydia had been removing pell-mell paintings from her bedroom walls. Hoisting them under her arms, she’d walk them to her studio near the opposite side of the apartment. All she could think about was the color “orange.” Or, as she liked to think of it, “light red.” She knew the concept wasn’t perfect, she could point out “orange” for you if asked; she could show you the Fushimi Inari Shrine, and go “orange.” Though this wasn’t something she knew with her eyes like everyone else; this was something she knew because she had been told. There was a distinct pedagogical difference here. One was gifted from experience, the other from trusting someone else. Color for her was simultaneously trust and resentment.

That hard-earned talent of color identification had been learned from practice and something that could only be described as being tired of being mocked. She learned your colors to save face, to blend in, to assimilate.

Roger had changed some of this for her, however. “Orange” was a whole new concept now. And something called “Purple.” Roger was obsessed with the color she knew best as an odd teal, or sometimes a sharp pink depending on saturation and light. It was hard to discuss a color that was certain with others and definitely only one color in their minds: purple. When in hers it could dance between two different colors that made no sense to anyone else when she tried to describe them. Purple sauntered between two colors for her. A delicate balance always ready to tip at the flick of a wrist. Could be teal, could be pink. Life for Lydia was a mixed-bag, a guessing game. Good thing she liked games.

John Deacon usually liked games. This one, whatever Roger was playing at, however, he didn’t care for. At all. It made his stomach seize and his heart squirm.

“He didn’t mean it.” You said, squeezing his hand back. Your intuition told you something was wrong with Roger, and you wouldn’t back down from what you did, but you also knew standing up for him and looked like attacking him. He needed reminding, and quick what real sacrifice looked like before he did something, said something he could never take back. So, standing up for Deacy had been oddly also trying to stand up for Roger, and not just standing up to him. You had a sneaky suspicion standing up to Roger would always go hand in hand with something else.

“He did.” Deacy said, quietly, confusedly.

“There’s no way that man, who did for you what he did, meant what he said.” You explained.

“I think Y/N has the right path here, darling.” Freddie said. “People, even people you love, especially people you love, really, can say things they don’t mean. Terrible words that curse you to the spot; it doesn’t excuse it, but--”

“It is hard to reconcile those words with how much Rog cares for you.” Brian said, leaning forward. “It isn’t impossible, though. He loved Veronica so much, Deacy.”

“We all did.” Miami said, passing the waiter a 50 pound note when he returned with a round of martinis. “You know Roger...he’s all hot air and impulse.” He slyly sipped his drink, gazing at Deacy over it. “It is always a coin toss what comes out of his mouth.”

“Unpredictable.” Brain said, nodding in agreement.

“He loves you.” You said, trying to convey with your eyes what you words were failing to do.

“I’ve seen him say a lot of things, do a lot of questionable things, but he was…” Deacy said, trying to find the words again.

“Different?” Brian offered.

“Offensive?” Freddie tossed in.

“A fuckwad?” Miami posited.

“Undeniably all three?” Deacy laughed. The tension in the room slipped a bit with that laugh. You all sipped your drinks, trying to settle in and settle down. “Roger and I will have to deal with that later--in our own way.” He left it at that. “Though, should we make sure he’s okay?”

Deacy’s generosity was unparalleled. He had just been dressed down publicly by his best friend, and yet he still was able to scrape up some concern for the man; it made you love him even more. If the shoe was on the other foot, and if your outburst had been any indication, you weren’t sure you’d be able to locate a modicum of compassion for the man.

“Jim will keep him safe,” Freddie said, raising an eyebrow, “That or murder him; really hard to tell which at this point.”

“I’ve always liked Jim.” Miami remarked. “How about business?”

“Oh, shouldn’t we wait for Rog?” Freddie looked concerned about making such a decision without him.

“I think I can speak for him.” Brian retorted lightly.

“I don’t doubt that.” Miami said. He turned to you, “We weren’t introduced, I think. Before you punched my multi-million dollar-worth drummer.”

“Right.” You said. “Y/N L/N.” You held your hand out to Miami.

“Jim Beach.” He gave you his hand. It was soft, lotion-ed, rich. “Though, they call me Miami.”

“I’ve never met a place before. Charmed!” You simpered.

“Hmm. So, Y/N, what are you doing here tonight?” Never one to mince words, Miami was a go big or go home, come hard or not at all kind of guy. It was the lawyer in him. He knew how to use words to get what he wanted.

“I was invited here...I guess I’m not really sure why…?” You looked suddenly at Deacy then; it was an odd choice for a first date, now that you were thinking about it.

“I want her to play on the album.” Deacy said.

-------------------------------

Tag List:   @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love @partydulce@richiethotzierz@sophierobisonartfoundationblr@psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws@just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder@maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger@marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump @mikey-sway

[andyouknowitis]

“The Fandom Funundrum” in other words you don’t want to feel guilty for every advantage Harry’s been given. Noted! Keep pretending to care about Louis, you’re doing great sweetie!

This arrived in my inbox a week or so ago at the end of a very long, shitty fourteen hour day. 

Right then I was already dealing with the sudden loss of my uncle, who I’d just handmade a wreath for, as well as coming to terms with the fact that while I love my job, I will soon haveto leave it, and move, as all manner of things that have served to make it impossible for me to survive as a freelancer in this economic climate. 

I’ve discussed here, in painful detail, some of the otherthings I’ve had to work through in recent years, ever a work inprogress. I don’t know if I’m a good or bad person. 

But I’m a person. A real person. And I deserve better than this at the end of a really bad day, not least when I come to one of the places where I find comfort in small things and bright people that interest me and make me smile.

Louis is one of those people. 

One of the most important to me, as it happens.

I am not the blog for you. And certainly not with an action such as this one.

My crime, apparently was to post this, a reblog of something that I wrote a while ago as a general nod to being chastised for daring to enjoy one thing when another very bad thing was happening. 

It was not fully specific to any fandom or person when I wrote it, other than suffice to say, after many years online I’ve learned that fandom gatekeeping is a form of bullying and I have little patience left for it.

A cursory glance around my mess of a blog will show anyone who cares to look that while I do blog very much a lot about 1D, I am actually a multi-fandom blog. 

More specifically I am a ME blog. 

Hell my url is a Snow Patrol lyric and no-one ever gets it. Here I lay things I like, love, find interesting, think important, and want to share. 

A wallpaper made up of my mind, a patchwork comprised of things that for me, helps me make art and help people. 

In this instance anotherfandom I’m part of (shout out to my Emmerdale sheepy peeps) were arguing heatedly about something, which essentially boiled down to how can you enjoy x when y is happening etc. etc. While I do have a sideblog for in-depth stuff, mostpeople follow me on my main so I posted it here too.

And yes, after several years here, and online in general, I do get tired of seeing discourse after discourse that I’ve probably already discussed in detail in the past, as well as fandom infighting that only serves the money men and none of us. 

And certainly not Louis, or any of the 1D boys (they will be the boys to me even when they’re in their 80s shush). Something Iactually wrote about here, as relates to the 1D fandom, in the early summer of 2015, unknowing that the worst was yet to come, but knowing even then that I was tired of all the ways we had been fractured and used. 

People will forever be divided and conquered. I haveno wish to be another perpetual pawn in this tired game.

I very rarely publish asks I receive, either because I speak with people via message if something bears further discussion if they’re off anon, or because some things are just not worth the time and energy it takes to answer them. 

Some people don’t want to listen, only to be heard. Time is aprecious commodity that I have little of. 

When I do have free fandom time I like to spend it responding to interesting asks, writing fic when I’m able, making fan edits (mostly of Louis as it happens), working my way through the Womens and Equalities Committee findings on NDAs which I think may be pertinent (the inquiry is still ongoing), live blogging, and curating a peaceful space for when I need it.

And sometimes like this time, I engage.

The last time I took the time to answer something like this was actually also about Louis. I stood accused of infantilising Louis because I wrote a single tagline on a post I had made about wanting to give him a hug.

The time before that I was, conversely to the latest offering, apparently the devil for daring to hope that Louis would soon have more visible and tangible support from people in the industry. 

For a post I wrote THREE years ago almost to the day, and still stand by. 

I support him. I don’t have to meet anyone else’s standards of how to do that.

Something I really had to learn in therapy a couple of years ago was that it’s okay to get angry. It’s something I struggle with and fear somewhat. But I have learned. Sometimes it’s okay to get angry. 

And this is one of those times.

I am angry that a stranger, or perhaps even worse, someone who otherwise follows/followed me and should know at least a modicum of my character, would fucking dare to tell me, after all I’ve said and done, that I don’t care about Louis. 

Louis, who I care about most of all in this entire shitshow. 

Louis, who I care about so much, that the top thing my fandom friends will attest I whine about most is having to see Harry blogs on my dash that I know have said incredibly vile things about him.

I don’t know Louis. Nor may I hazard, do you, coward in my inbox. I’ll likely never meet him and I acknowledge that my perceptions of him are coloured by time, life experience, and an understanding of parasocial relationships. 

But I would hope I know of him well enough to feel that he’d agree if you’ve got something to say then a) have the balls tosay it to someone’s face (privately if not in public), and b) theprecise opposite of ‘let’s make someone happy today’ (his ownpractice when he has a shit day like the one I had), is to makesomeone unhappy like you have set out to do here.

I don’t know Louis. But I know enough to know that he’s important to me and why. 

Why above and beyond anything else he’s the reason why eight years ago I kept watching a show I had long before lost interest in. 

Why I voted every single week. 

Why he was the first person I took a photo of on TMH tour when I could finally afford to see them. 

Why I waited hours in relentless sun in a different country just so I could be at the barrier when he sang Moments right in front of me during WWA. 

Why I kept coming back after grief and loss in mypersonal life turned me inside out, time and time again. 

Why I stood in Sheffield on the final night of OTRA tour when my heart was numb to almost anything that could reach it. 

Why I met people who changed my life just by being in it.

The music is important to me, OT5 is important to me, but Louis, above all Louis is important to me. Louis is why I stayed when I wanted to go. Louis. Louis and friends that I’ve made here, who know me better than you ever will.

So please, if you haven’t already, please block me and neverinteract with me again. I don’t want to know. 

If anyone else reading this happens to feel the same about me, unfollow me now. 

I follow and sometimes interact with some people I don’t necessarily agree with, primarily because I like to be open to different aspects of discussion, and to not exist within a fandom vacuum. 

But I don’t tolerate vitriolic bad mouthing of any of the boys. And I will not interact with people who try to hurt me. 

Much less with someone who attempts to do it anonymously. The sad thing is you’re so very, very visible for what you are.

I am not the blog for you. 

You know why? 

Because I’m the blog for me. And you will not makeme feel bad about that, or about myself. Least of all about caring for Louis. Not now, not ever.

Oh and Sweetie? All the links are clickable. I have been here. I will be here. I am here. And there’s nothing you can do to change it. Knock yourself out. 

[nellie-elizabeth]

Grey's Anatomy: And Dream of Sheep (15x17)

Can we not with the whole Owen and Teddy thing? Please? I'm so annoyed.

Cons:

I'm cool with Owen and Teddy being close, and Owen comforting Teddy after a heartbreaking loss. The only thing about their entire plot thread that I don't like is the dumb thing at the end where Koracick walks in and sees Owen comforting Teddy, and walks away. Can we just stop? The promo for next week shows Koracick talking to Owen about it, warning him to back off. This is dumb. I think Tom and Teddy actually make a very cute couple, and Owen is just constantly getting in the way of everyone's happiness, and I need it to stop.

I think the Amelia/Link thing is stupid and it probably won't go much of anywhere that I enjoy. I think I'm going to have to face the facts that I just... don't really like Amelia all that much? Sure, she has her moments, but I find myself perpetually annoyed by pretty much every story-line she's in.

Finally, a small complaint: this show is supposed to take place in Seattle, and they never bother to do even the smallest amount of research when it comes to Seattle-specific stuff. One of the interns says "Pike Street Market." Nobody calls it that. It's always "Pike Place Market," or just "Pike Place," and every time this show gets it wrong, I cringe. Come on! It's a small detail, but it totally takes me out of the moment.

Pros:

The main story this week involved a couple in a car accident, and Vincenzo's "baby in a bag" research, and it was incredibly tragic for everyone involved. The mother loses her baby, which is of course terrible for a pregnant Teddy, and for Carina, who had given the mother false hope. There wasn't really anything complicated or unique going on in this scenario - it was just incredibly tragic, and all of the actors did a heartbreaking job of conveying their pain.

The more complicated, messy side of things is that Vincenzo is still doing his trials, with Andrew's support, but Carina is convinced that their father is in a bad place and things are spiraling out of control. Turns out... she's right. Vincenzo offers his technology to the mother who is about to lose her baby, but of course they can't really allow a test on human subjects, and sadly while the mother and father both survive the crash, they do lose their baby. The hardest scene for me to watch was Andrew coming to the realization that everyone was right about his dad - he is unhinged, and he is too sick to realize how his actions are hurting others. That was just heartbreaking. I'm surprised this plot thread came to a head as soon as it did, but I thought the culmination was perfectly tragic.

Meredith is sort of in the background of this episode. She's toeing an interesting line between being judgmental of what's going on with the DeLuca family, but also being supportive and knowing when to stay out of the way. Their romance is still ongoing, and it looks like they're getting to the stage where they can be there for each other through difficult times. We'll have to see how this goes...

Bailey has a conversation with Helen Karev, and learns that she's nervous about traveling back home. Bailey tells Alex this, and by the end of the episode, Alex decides to take a couple of days off to go with his mom back home and get her settled back into her routine. I really loved the conversation between Bailey and Helen. It was nice to see that Helen knew her own limits, and knew that she was in some distress, but she wasn't sure quite how to ask for help. I like that Bailey put Alex in his place, and helped him to realize how he could help. This was a lovely result! I liked having Helen around, and hope we get to see her again.

Jackson is making breakthroughs by using fish-scales on burn patients. That's basically the whole plot thread here, but I did like that it provided some comic relief, and reminded us that this hospital is known for its crazy medical adventurousness.

Maggie gets interviewed about her medical genius birth parents. I like that she's getting some attention for this, and we're seeing how it's both a good and a bad thing for her. She manages to do a good job of emphasizing that she was raised by her parents, and that Richard Webber is a "bonus." I liked that. It was a good balance. I'm also glad that Richard's name isn't being dragged through the mud so far. I hope we can do without that.

Jo gets her DNA tested, discovers that she's in good shape medically, and finds a connection to her family. Parker, one of the interns, uses his internet research skills to find Jo's birth mother. This is an interesting plot thread to explore. I'm nervous for Jo, but I hope she is able to find something joyful out of it. Knowing this show, there's bound to be plenty of over-the-top drama, but this is the type of excitement that I love. Jo has found her family with Alex, and that's the most important thing, but that doesn't mean she can't find more people to bring into her heart! My family recently found some new relatives in just the same way, and fortunately it's been wonderful for us.

That's all for now, folks! I'm annoyed about Owen and Teddy, but what else is new? There's still plenty to look forward to for the rest of the season!

7.5/10

[cloudywithachanceofarashi]

so constance wu, star of the highly anticipated new film crazy rich asians (out now!), appeared on the late show with stephen colbert tonight. I didn’t get to watch the episode live, and I really would have only watched for constance, so I just decided to view her interview on the late show’s youtube channel.

and well… I’m not entirely pleased by what I saw. (this is going to be long, sorry)

as for the interview itself, the main thing I was bothered by was how the first / primary topic they talked about was constance’s outfit for the premiere ; they focused so much on that, and didn’t even bother to elaborate on constance’s very confident, no-hesitation answer on why she Knew that Crazy Rich Asians was going to be a huge deal, and a huge success.

they could have talked about - they could have let her talk about - why the world needs this movie, especially now more than ever, and how she knew the asian(-american) community had been waiting for a movie like this for years, and that they were ready for it. how the world was ready for it. they could have let her talk about the concept of POC and other under-represented minorities “Building Their Own House”, a concept introduced to her by Ava DuVernay, as mentioned on Constance’s twitter page.

but no, they didn’t mention any of that. instead they skipped over it entirely and zeroed in on constance’s premiere dress. of all things.

yes, I did watch the rest of the interview. no, that was Not the Only thing that they talked about. I am fully aware of that. it just bothers me that they focused on it so heavily, even going so far as to name the title of the whole interview after it, as well as putting it as the video’s sole description.

on a brighter note, I do appreciate that they mentioned the source material of the movie - the series of Crazy Rich Asians books by Kevin Kwan. I appreciate that Constance got to shout out director Jon M. Chu, how she acknowledged Fresh Off the Boat, and how she recalled her process of signing on to Crazy Rich Asians.

I also appreciate Constance getting to tell her unique (funny) story of an audition anecdote, and I especially appreciate her making it clear that yes, she is Asian, and she auditions for Asian roles (and even ambiguous ones like extras), but just because she is Asian does not mean that she speaks every Asian language. I appreciate that she made a point of saying that she is not Korean, and does not Speak Korean. she speaks Mandarin Chinese. (and that’s why it was a problem for her in that audition situation.)

its just that the urgency to talk about her outfit sets the conversation back further again, where interviewers were notorious for only discussing fashion with their female guests/stars, while men got the “harder questions”. whether that was the real intention or not, I believe that that part of the interview could have been conducted better. but anyway.

that was not the worst part of what I saw.

what really prompted me to write this was the youtube comments underneath this particular interview.

the vast, vast majority of the comments are disgusting - and I know what you’re thinking, it’s a youtube video, the youtube comment section is almost always trash. and you’re right. but this is even more so than usual.

the (negative) ones I’ve seen range from catcall-like, objectifying comments about her appearance, to criticising her interview outfit, to blatant racism and fetishization, along with saying she’s talentless and “sounds like a pain in the ass”.

again, I know what you might be thinking. it’s just a youtube comment section, most of the people commenting are probably lowlives anyway, it’s such a tiny corner of the internet, it doesn’t matter. and again, you’re probably right. maybe it doesn’t matter. but also, here’s why it does.

this is exactly why a movie like Crazy Rich Asians NEEDS to happen, and why it MUST be successful. because people don’t see enough people who look like Constance Wu on big screens, on late night talk shows, in big budget Hollywood movies, on red carpets - people don’t see enough Asian people being respected and highly regarded, and treated with class.

and yes, I absolutely know this extends way past the asian community too. this applies to all people of color, all non-binary/gender-nonconforming folks, all people of the lgbtq+ community, all people with disabilities, and all underrepresented minorities. this is why representation matters.

because people need to see more diverse people being respected and treated with dignity and human decency. people need to see more successful asians, and other successful minorities. seeing minorities highly regarded in media is a start, because that’s where it spreads. once people start seeing more Asian people (for example) being respected and successful and highly regarded, that’s how it becomes normalized, and more widely accepted overall. after all, people lead and learn by example. people will learn to accept and respect more minorities, and evolve to treat them as they are - valid, respectable human beings. they’ll learn to accept and treat each other decently. this is how the perpetuation of racist stereotypes and fetishization begins to end.

as anna akana says, the only way to start is to start.

(of course, another obvious upside to representation is that those minorities who begin to see themselves onscreen and in media being portrayed and treated as heroes, or generally respectable and successful citizens, will further believe that they are capable of the same success too. representation inspires more of the respective, underrepresented people to aim even higher than the ones who came before them.)

as for the comments claiming constance is “talentless” or wondering “what she’s doing here”, one might say that race - and/or gender - has nothing to do with it. people can and do comment stuff like that about anyone. but you can’t tell me that when there’s this beautiful, successful, funny, and empowered Asian Woman, a rare occasion of its kind, perhaps the first in a long time, sitting right there on a late night talk show couch, and expect me to believe you without a pound of salt.

when this one woman of this particular ethnicity and heritage and success gets this many dehumanizing comments on a 6 minute interview, race (and gender) are always part of the conversation.

yes, I am aware that she has had many other talk show appearances and interviews, and while I have not watched all of them, I’m sure that there are many great, enriching, engaging interviews out there too, ones with positive feedback and support. but this is always something that needs to be talked about. this still needs to be talked about, and will be an ongoing conversation for years to come.

in the meantime, please go watch Crazy Rich Asians in theaters now. please support this movie, and these creators, and all underrepresented creators like them. educate yourself, keep the conversation going, and treat others with respect. and don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself too, if circumstances are safe. stay strong, stay empowered, and stay safe out there.