#i have no doubt the person is autistic it has nothing to do w that !! it’s this pathologizing of extremely common traits that spreads this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

badgersprite · 3 years ago

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Fic: Desiderata (9/?)

Chapter Title: Diversion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

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

Chapter Rating: NC-17

Warnings: This is the first chapter that explores Samara’s depression and suicidal thoughts from her own perspective so trigger warnings for that section.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda struggles with her newfound feelings for Samara. After figuring out what’s going on, Jack suggests that the best way to get over Samara is to get under another asari. In 2185, The Normandy SR-2 crew go their separate ways following the destruction of the Alpha Relay.

Author’s Note: Alternative title for this chapter could be ‘Miranda Lawson’s complete history of mediocre sex’. Oh, by the way, this fic now has a Spotify playlist that I’m working on (under the cut if you’re interested). It’s a little weird when some of the songs correlate to chapters that aren’t out yet but hey.

(Link to Playlist)

*. * *

Miranda didn’t exactly have much that could constitute formal schooling left to finish when she joined Cerberus. Even at sixteen, had she been enrolled in any accredited university, she could have gotten her bloody PhD on gene modification, particularly if she’d continued exploring her research into gene therapy and other similar work she’d done with her father over the past two years.

However, there was one area where her father had, for whatever reason, deliberately underdeveloped her skills. One area that was highly valuable to her future career with Cerberus.

It came as no surprise that, as soon as she joined them, the first thing that Cerberus did for Miranda was schedule a surgery to insert a biotic implant into her brain and enrol her into a training program immediately thereafter.

Although she was a bit on the older side to receive an implant, such that The Alliance probably wouldn’t have even bothered investing in developing her abilities as a biotic at that point, Cerberus’s mysterious leader The Illusive Man had intervened from on high and had apparently personally approved her surgery and training anyway, confident that every cent he spent on exploring Miranda’s untapped potential would prove to be worthwhile.

It was the first time anyone had shown faith in her. Believed in her. And he’d never even met her. Suffice it to say, Miranda had no intentions of letting him down. No. If anything, she was determined to exceed his expectations tenfold.

She wouldn’t come to know it until later in life, but being a few years late to exploring her biotic potential and having the support of a high-tech organisation like Cerberus which didn’t play solely with what was approved for mass-consumption also meant she was fortunate enough to receive the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art implant available anywhere in ‘66. This meant Miranda avoided the notoriously side-effect laden L2 implants every other biotic her age was saddled with, and would suffer from for the rest of their lives. But those problems with L2 implants wouldn’t even come to be known about, or at least officially reported, until years later.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention,” the Cerberus instructor began as he entered the room with his newest student in tow, causing his cadets to turn away from their conversation and face the front of the practice room. “You might notice we have a new addition to the biotic training program today. This is Miranda Lawson. Miranda?” He gestured towards her expectantly.

Miranda stared back at him in expressionless silence, arms folded across her chest, not sure what he wanted of her and not caring enough to deduce it.

He awkwardly cleared his throat. “...Okay. You get settled in. I’ll be right back.”

Miranda followed his direction, standing by herself on the opposite side of the room to the existing group of seven students, her focus affixed towards the front of the room as she awaited the instructor’s return. The instructor wasn’t even a biotic himself. No humans that age were. This was unexplored territory for their species. It said everything that all the learning materials Miranda had been provided with so far to support her biotic studies were asari textbooks.

Miranda curled a few stray strands of hair behind her ear as she stood at attention, fingers unconsciously grazing the small surgical scar there. It had only been two days since she got her implant. The site was still tender.

Hearing sounds on her left, she glanced over at the other students. Saw them all whispering. Talking behind her back? Laughing about something. Laughing at her? If they were, Miranda didn’t care, moving her gaze back to where it had been before. She was used to it. Her whole life had been spent with people treating her like a science project without thoughts or feelings of her own - talking about her like she was merely an object in the same room, even when she was clearly within earshot of conversations about herself.

Miranda’s hands tightened into fists as she remembered all those little comments and ‘imperfections’ she’d seen written about her in her father’s lab. It spurred on her drive to prove each and every one of those things wrong. She would live to make her father regret ever thinking of her as a failed experiment. She would show him. She would make him eat his hubris, and go on to achieve so much more than he could ever possibly have dreamed for her, or himself.

But, as far as her peers went, they simply didn’t matter. As far as Miranda was concerned, they may as well not even have existed. It was hard to care what any of these others thought of her when she didn’t doubt she would quickly prove herself superior to all of them. She knew she would. It was what she was made for. They were just obstacles in her path to success, and revenge against the man who called himself her father.

After about two minutes had passed, one of the boys from the group approached her, his presence disturbing her from her concentration. He was roughly her age, if she had to guess. Not that she’d ever met a sixteen year old boy before.

“So, you’re Miranda, huh?” the boy greeted her. “Hi, there. I’m Richard. I’m--”

“You spit when you talk,” Miranda cut him off.

He blinked. “W-What?”

“When you opened your mouth just now, spit came flying out directly at my face,” Miranda clarified, pointedly wiping her brow with her thumbnail to rid herself of a small droplet of spittle on her forehead. “It’s disgusting. Don’t do that.”

Richard was rendered speechless by her harsh response. The others laughed until he slinked back over to them with his tail between his legs.

That was the first impression Miranda ever made on people her own age.

The rest of the term didn’t proceed a great deal differently. Miranda was there solely to hone her biotic abilities in order to be useful to The Illusive Man. In her tireless dedication to being better than the best, she made swift progress. Within three months, she’d not only caught up to what her peers had learned in the last three years, but excelled beyond them to reach the top of the class.

From a social perspective? Well, Miranda had no social perspective. There was Miranda, and then there was everyone else. The seven of them were their own group, and she wasn’t part of it. Three girls, four boys, all with their own pre-established hierarchies and relationships with one another. They were all full time school students who saw each other all day, every single weekday, and she was just there for the biotic training program portion and nothing else. She didn’t want to be part of their little circle, and they didn’t want her to be either.

That was no mere projection. Miranda had better hearing than her classmates knew. She overheard them saying things about her. Calling her a bitch. Speculating that her weird behaviour was evidence she was autistic. Planning things to bait her to get a rise out of her - which they sometimes followed through with. Not that it ever really worked. She generally just ignored them, or shot their efforts down with short sarcastic remarks so she could get back to her work.

Miranda saw no reason to be bothered by the fact that they didn’t like her. She didn’t like them either. She’d made no attempt to endear herself to her classmates, and failed to see the appeal of trying, since succeeding would only mean they would talk to her more, which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Every little thing she overheard her classmates discussing amongst themselves were things that made absolutely no sense to her at all, given her upbringing. Allegedly famous people she had never heard of. Television shows and movies Miranda had never watched. Places she had never been to. Music that, in Miranda’s opinion, didn’t even qualify as music. Video games Miranda had obviously never been allowed to play. Sports. Just sports. Enough said.

They may have been the same species, but they couldn’t have been more alien.

They knew it as well as she did, and as soon as it had become apparent to them that they had absolutely nothing in common with Miranda at all, that sealed her fate as a permanent outcast from the rest. Which was fine by her.

Richard was the only one who still made an effort to talk to her at all anymore, for reasons that were totally lost upon Miranda given she had made her complete and utter apathy towards him plain from the outset, and had never relented from that position even once. It was no more than a few words each day that he said to her, but it was still those few persistent words every single class, without fail.

One time he had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she’d figured out the answer to a calculus problem (which was part of the theory side of their biotic training). Miranda had curtly responded that she had, and he should do the same himself. It wasn’t her problem if he couldn’t keep up. Her goal was always to stand alone in first place and leave her peers far behind in her wake.

Another time, he’d bumped into her as they were leaving class, causing them both to drop their stuff on the floor. He’d apologised, and Miranda had chastised him for his carelessness and inattention as she’d picked up her books.

Despite her showing absolutely no signs of tolerance or patience towards him, never so much as a kind word or even the meagre courtesy of a polite smile, because Miranda was neither polite nor courteous, Richard still cheerfully said hello to her in the mornings when he saw her and often tried to engage her in small talk before their teacher arrived. If Miranda replied back with a standard greeting it was out of obligation only. She frequently just ignored him or rebuffed him with one-word answers and irritated looks until he either went away or class began.

One day, before training, Miranda perceived the rest of the group conspiring in secretive whispers, as they often did. She wasn’t paying them any mind, but she wasn’t oblivious to Richard gesturing towards her, and the rest of his friends all shaking their heads and telling him no.

Ignoring their objections, Richard approached her.

“Hey, um...Miranda?” Miranda didn’t look up from her notebook, revising for the days’ lesson. Not that she needed to. “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

“Studying,” Miranda coldly answered.

Richard laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, well...there’s this new club that opened nearby a few weeks ago. We have fake IDs so we were all going to check it out on Saturday night. We were wondering if you wanted to come out with us?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Miranda said with clear disinterest, failing to see the appeal.

“Well, have you ever been to a nightclub?” Richard asked.

“No,” Miranda responded. Of course she hadn’t.

“Then how do you know you wouldn’t enjoy it?” Richard pointed out.

At that, Miranda finally glanced up from her notebook. She had to admit, she couldn’t refute that argument. She’d spent so many years living under her father’s thumb, never getting to do or experience things normal people her age got to do. The fact that her peers always sounded like they were talking like a completely foreign language was evidence enough of just how little Miranda resembled whatever the hell a typical sixteen-year-old girl was supposed to be like.

Cerberus wouldn’t care if she went out, even if they were breaking the rules by being underage. They weren’t control freaks like her father. They hadn’t told her to do anything except work on her biotics, sit exams when they told her to, and train. What she did in her personal time was entirely up to her. So why not?

Having persuaded herself to try something new, something normal, she did.

Miranda had never experienced anything remotely like it. The thundering bass music that shook the floor. The pulsing, flashing lights. Being surrounded by so many people. Coming from living in her father’s estate which had been tucked away in a part of the countryside so obscure that, even when talking to other Australians, she couldn’t tell them where she was from so much as she had to describe where it was close to in order to spark any recognition, it was like being thrust into a vivid reality she had only previously read about.

It had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to adjust to the sudden sensory shock to her system, but, once she settled in, she wasn’t entirely sure she disliked it. Even if she wasn’t a fan of the music, she could see how this could become addictive. Being in a place like this. She could see herself coming back. Alone.

Honestly, in her near out-of-body experience, she hadn’t caught a single word of any conversation her classmates had been having since they arrived, and not just because the music was loud. Miranda didn’t fully snap out of her stupor and pay attention to what they were saying until one of the girls in her class pushed a drink across the table towards her, into her field of view.

“Here, Miranda. Try this.”

“What is it?” Miranda asked.

“Just try it,” her classmate urged again, not taking no for an answer.

Miranda regarded the glass curiously. She wasn’t stupid. She knew there had to be alcohol in it. She’d never tried it before. Never been allowed. Part of her wanted to know what it was like. Wanted to know what lots of things were like, if she was being honest with herself.

She wasn’t oblivious to the three other girls snickering amongst themselves as they watched her take her first drink. The taste was somewhat unpleasant. A bit like what she imagined drinking drain cleaner would taste like. But there was a faint rush when she drank it. A warmth that burned her throat and spread throughout her body. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The other girls could barely stifle their laughter. “Do you feel anything?” asked the one Miranda had mentally dubbed ‘girl number two’ whenever she couldn’t be bothered addressing her by name. She wasn’t the most socially adept person, but even Miranda knew their little trio had some kind of social hierarchy thing going on. From where she was sitting it did, anyway.

“I think so. A little,” Miranda answered. The drink was definitely strong. She weathered the unfortunate taste and finished it. For some reason, the other girls immediately stopped snickering, as if disappointed by her reaction.

“Wow. For someone who never drank before, you have a pretty high tolerance,” girl number three acknowledged, although she didn’t sound impressed by that.

“Everything about me was engineered to be perfect,” Miranda nonchalantly replied, as she often did. “No doubt that includes genes which would allow me to metabolise alcohol much faster than any of you would.”

None of the seven faces seemed particularly pleased with that explanation as she put the glass back down on the table. It wasn’t lost on Miranda that that was the exact same response she usually elicited whenever she brought the ‘being genetically perfect’ subject up in conversation. It hadn’t stopped her.

“You know, Miranda, we were all really nice to you when you first showed up,” girl number one of the group began again.

“...Okay?” Miranda shrugged, failing to see the relevance of that. Also, she didn’t agree that it was true, but that was beside the point.

“Why don’t you ever hang out with us?” the second girl continued from the first.

“Because I don’t want to,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Why not?” the third member of the trio pressed.

“Every conversation I’ve ever heard you have is shallow and insipid. We don’t have anything in common,” Miranda stated frankly, seeing no reason ever to be anything other than forthright. It was also rather perplexing why they were pretending like they would have wanted to be her friend in the first place. She had overheard them all insulting her behind her back. She wasn’t stupid.

“Ugh.” The leader of the pack groaned in frustration. “See, Richard? This turned out exactly the way I thought. I don’t know why you bothered bringing her.”

Richard frowned. “But I--”

“Forget it,” the head of the trio interrupted him before he could finish defending himself, or Miranda. “Come on. Let’s dance.” With that, the trio of girls got up and left, all the boys joining them save for Richard, since they were couples.

“They do have a point, you know,” Miranda noted, turning to her sole remaining companion. “Why did you invite me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Richard replied. “I think you’re really cool.”

“No you don’t,” Miranda rejected that lie outright. She wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t deaf or blind to the things people said about her when they thought she wasn’t listening. Nobody thought she was cool. She didn’t even know what that entailed, but she knew enough to know that she didn’t fit the criteria. She wouldn’t want to, even if she could. It sounded vapid.

Miranda’s blunt reply prompted Richard to splutter awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. Evidently she was right; he didn’t think she was cool. “Well what I mean to say is you seem like a really great girl, if I got to know you. You’re smart, you’re talented, and you could wipe the floor with any of the rest of us in class.”

Miranda tilted her head in thought, conceding that Richard was right about all those things, if nothing else. After a moment, Miranda blinked. Suddenly, something clicked inside her mind as a thought occurred to her, a possible motive behind all this, whereby all Richard’s behaviour began to make sense.

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda stated her realisation aloud.

He visibly recoiled. “W-What? I--”

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda repeated, certain she was correct, and lacking the tact and requisite level of socialisation around that subject matter in particular to be aware (or care) that it might be considered inappropriate or uncomfortable for her to confront that so directly and openly.

That had to be the reason for it. Why else was Richard so insistent on giving her unwanted attention despite Miranda not saying a single kind word to him in all the time he’d known her?

Caught out, Richard abandoned his protestations and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if what you mean is that I think you’re really cute, yeah. Who wouldn’t? Of course I think so. Is that a bad thing?” he stumbled over his words, trying to phrase his feelings in a way that sounded less...shallow.

Miranda’s upbringing was sheltered, certainly, but she wasn’t ignorant as to what sex was. That it existed. Admittedly, though, what had always been lacking was context. What was absent were social scripts around it. Any kind of guide as to how she was supposed to feel about it, or what to think about it.

Her entire knowledge surrounding sex and sexuality primarily came from three sources. Firstly, academic textbooks. Science. Biology. The mechanics of it all. Secondly, from literature. Although, in truth, it was often more alluded to than expressly described in those materials. And, finally, and most unhappily, from about the age of thirteen, Miranda had started to become aware that certain older men in her father’s employ saw her...inappropriately. Nothing could ever happen in that environment of course, but it had not been pleasant, and it had been something she had been forced to contend with entirely on her own.

It wouldn’t be until later in life that Miranda would come to realise that the experience of being unwillingly sexualised by older men at least once while underage was unfortunately far too common among human women.

That all being said, though, Miranda also had the sense to observe among her peers that, out of eight of them in the class, six of them were in relationships. A solid 75% ratio of couples. That was a majority. She and Richard were the only two who weren’t dating. On that basis, it was perfectly reasonable for Miranda to deduce that this was a facet of ordinary teenage life a normal girl her age ought to have experienced by now.

Miranda thought for a moment, idly examining Richard from across the table. She’d never wasted so much as a moment thinking about any of her classmates in that kind of way before, least of all Richard. Even now, the truth was that, no, she didn’t find him remotely attractive in any way. And why would she? He was dumb, he was ugly and he probably carried genetic defects. But, that being said, all those things made him precisely the sort of person her father never wanted her to associate with. And her father wasn’t there.

Nobody was controlling her anymore. Telling her what not to do. Policing her. Preventing her from living her life. Making her own choices. Her own mistakes.

At the end of the day, she was a teenage girl, he was a teenage boy, and normal teenage girls were supposed to have sex with normal teenage boys. And, just as she had been curious to have her first taste of alcohol that night, part of her wanted to try this too. Make up for lost time on the things girls her age were supposed to have done. See what all the fuss was about. So why shouldn’t she say yes? Who was going to stop her?

“Okay,” said Miranda.

“W-What?” Richard stammered again.

Miranda rolled her eyes. Fucking moron. “Is that all you can say? Okay, I will have sex with you,” Miranda spelled it out for him in plain English.

He stared at her, scarcely daring to believe this wasn’t some kind of practical joke. But he certainly didn’t do anything to risk changing her mind. In fact, they didn’t say another word to each other before they made it back to his room.

“You do have protection, I assume?” Miranda asked. She’d read enough about sexually transmitted diseases to know the importance of being safe.

“Yeah.” To prove it, Richard opened his drawer and pulled out a condom.

“Great.” Miranda nodded approvingly. At least he could do one thing right. The next thing she knew, Richard crossed the room towards her, and reached for her cheek. Miranda recoiled in displeasure. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, kissing you?” he said.

“Ew. No. I don’t want that.” Miranda shook her head distastefully, pushing him towards the bed. As if he didn’t already get enough spit on her when he talked. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure?” Richard asked, confused by her blunt and totally unromantic approach. “I mean I want to make sure this feels good for you.”

Miranda regarded him strangely, not sure why he was acting so weird. “Why wouldn’t it? It’s supposed to, yeah?” Miranda pointed out, undoing his belt.

Suffice it to say, what followed involved an uncomfortable insertion, some awkward thrusting, and an early finish.

When it was all over, Miranda looked down and back up. “Is that it?” she said.

Richard turned bright red. “What do you mean ‘is that it’?!”

“What do you think I meant?” Miranda shot back, sitting up as he pulled away. Either something had gone wrong or everything she had ever read on the subject had grossly exaggerated how this was all supposed to work. “Is something broken down there or--?”

“Hey, fuck you!” Richard recoiled away, covering himself up with a pillow, visibly fuming at having his manhood insulted. “Get the hell out of my room!”

“Fine by me.” Miranda rolled her eyes as she grabbed her stuff and left. There was no need for him to be so dramatic about it. It was just sex.

Richard never spoke to Miranda again after that, or vice versa, which worked perfectly for her as it meant less constant disruption from her biotic training. Miranda graduated from the program within six months, leaving all her peers far behind, and she never saw nor thought about any of them ever again.

* * *

If there really were higher powers out there at work in the universe beyond the understanding of science and reason, then as it stood right now it felt like those divine forces were conspiring against her with the cruellest sense of irony - having one great big cosmic laugh at Miranda’s expense.

For so many weeks, Miranda had yearned for nothing more than to have Samara there by her side. Her friend. Her confidant. The one person who supported her and made her feel stronger even in her moments of utter helplessness.

She’d missed her so fucking much, it had felt like a piece of her soul had been taken the day Samara disappeared. Her absence had left a constant void that was impossible to sate with anything else. A desperate longing, like a flower in the desert hungering for even a single drop of rain to keep from crumbling in the wind. Some days, that hurt had been the only thing Miranda could even feel.

And then, as if by fate, Samara showed up on her balcony. She couldn’t possibly have known it, but she had returned precisely when Miranda needed her most. When she was at her lowest. When she had lost all hope. When she was as close as she had ever been to her breaking point. When she had given up.

Here she was. By some miracle, Samara was there. Finally there. In London. Seemingly at Miranda’s beck and call, for as long as she was able to stay.

And, now that she was, Miranda couldn’t bear to be near her.

It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad.

Being with Samara had always without fail managed to make the weight on Miranda’s shoulders a little bit easier to withstand. Whenever she was lost and couldn’t find her way, Samara, in all her centuries of wisdom, would always find a way to say something that shifted Miranda’s entire perspective, made all the stars align, and helped her find clarity amid the chaos. The thought of reuniting with her again was the one thing that Miranda had been clinging to in her darkest moments as the only thing she could think of that stood a chance, even if only temporarily, of making the entire galaxy seem just a little bit less fucked.

And, for a while, it had. That time they’d spent together on the balcony had been the closest thing Miranda had felt to being whole again in months.

Until these nameless feelings had cropped up and ruined it.

Miranda could surely be forgiven if she wasn’t on the shortlist of people who could find the humour in this situation.

It was no fault of Samara’s, of course. But with these unknowable, undefined feelings coursing through her veins, Miranda couldn’t trust herself to be around her right now. Or, if she could, she didn’t. The very thought of getting close to Samara again made her feel like Icarus, flying too close to the Sun. Whenever there had been an opportunity for the two of them to meet, Miranda had retreated away to hide in the cool of the shade.

After their reunion at the balcony, Miranda made as many excuses as she could to avoid Samara over the following days. Really, it was always the same excuse. She was busy with work. With Jack’s students. She didn’t have time.

Most of the time the deflection wasn’t done in person. It was through one of the people who worked under her through Bailey’s informal chain of command, or through one of the kids, or passed on via Jacob, but whenever it was said in person Miranda would utter her made up reasons as quickly as she could and falsely promise that they would catch up some other time.

It was always difficult to tell with Samara, but even Miranda wasn’t blind to just how deeply the cumulative disappointment of so many repeated rejections in the span of only a few short days had started to cut every single time she was denied a moment with her. It was no mystery why. Miranda knew full well Samara’s stay in London would be brief, and no doubt she wanted to make the most of the limited time they had together before she had to move on.

Each day that passed where they didn’t speak to one another was a day she and Samara would never get back - a crushed hope.

It was fucking killing Miranda. To be this close to her after all this time, and yet not be able to get near her. She didn’t want to think what it was doing to Samara.

For as reserved as she was, Samara was the one person Miranda knew who could in the same glance, the same breath at once convey both such sincere happiness and such heartfelt sorrow without either diminishing the other. Each time she turned her away, it broke Miranda’s heart a little bit more to hear the former in Samara’s voice get so much softer, and the latter so much louder.

Miranda hated doing this to her, and to herself. Samara was blameless in this whole affair. She was the last person in the galaxy who ever deserved to be treated coldly or callously. But what alternative did she have other than to keep her at a distance? So far, her best (and only) strategy to cope with these complicated, undefined new feelings that were emerging was to staunchly avoid thinking about them at all costs in the hope that they would just magically go away and stop bothering her altogether before they could rear their head and cause any problems. She couldn’t very well do that when Samara was standing right there, could she?

But then there came a moment where she couldn’t run and hide.

Sunday night.

The candlelight vigil.

Her first conversation with Rodriguez a few weeks ago had prompted the idea. Miranda had brought it up with Bailey - that there should be some kind of public gathering to mourn the lost, and mark a kind of collective catharsis for the living. Recently, it had finally felt like the right time to start healing.

The thing was, there were so many who had perished in the war, so many to remember, that they couldn’t possibly do justice to them all in one night. Not even close. And so, as of late, it had become a weekly tradition. And it would continue to be a weekly tradition, each Sunday night, until the survivors had no more names to read. Which could take months. Maybe even years.

So, the people gathered in their masses, from all species who still had members in London, many of them huddled in scarves and sweaters on that cold autumn night, holding their lights close to their chests. Some were actual candles, though most of the lights came from torches or other electronic substitutes.

Since the war, the weather on Earth had grown colder than before. The leading theory was that all the ash left behind in the wake of so much destruction had dispersed into the atmosphere and was now reflecting solar radiation, to such an extent that it had cooled the Earth by a few degrees. London itself was showing monthly average temperatures not seen since the 1950s. Some were even speculating that this coming winter might mark the first time in a hundred years that it would actually snow in London. It sure felt like it would.

It was the first time Miranda had gone to one of these vigils since the first, when she went to support Jack and her students. Public displays of grief weren’t her thing, nor private ones. But, well...she’d needed to be there for them.

Jack had taken it pretty hard when it was her kids’ turn to be remembered. Understandably so. Jack didn’t know, but Miranda had stumbled upon her and Jacob when they both went missing during that vigil. Went looking for them. She hadn’t expected to find Jack breaking down in tears in a back alley while Jacob comforted her, unable to hold it together after finally speaking the names of the three students she had lost aloud for all the world to hear.

Miranda overheard Jack’s tearful confession to Jacob then. About how Shepard had betrayed her. When they’d crossed paths at Grissom Academy, Jack had begged Shepard to do what was right for her kids, to do everything in her power to keep them safe. Begged her to put them in support roles only, if they truly had to be conscripted to fight at all. But they’d been sent to Earth to fight right alongside Jack on the front lines despite her pleas. Alone. And because of that, despite Jack’s best efforts, she’d lost three lives in the process. Three children.

“How could Shepard do that?” Jack had asked through tears. “I trusted her.”

Jacob had blamed the Alliance, certain it couldn’t have been Shepard’s decision. That wasn’t the Andrea they knew. She wouldn’t do that. Not to kids. After a moment, Jack had agreed. It had to be the Alliance. It was always easier to blame institutions than close, trusted friends.

Miranda would never say it to either of them, because she had the decency to know neither of them needed to hear it, but the truth was that they would never know who was responsible for that decision. She hoped it wasn’t Shepard. Andrea was her friend too. But, then again, with the entire fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance, the possibility couldn’t be ruled out that even one of the best human beings Miranda had ever met had gotten desperate, and made a mistake. Either way, Shepard was gone now, and could never answer that question.

Obviously, Jack would also never know Miranda had heard what she said. She would probably never admit to herself either just how much that confession moved her. Miranda had come to care about these kids too, after all. But that sliver of insight into what Jack was going through was a big part of why Miranda had maintained her minimum commitment to keep Jack company once a week, even after she had been released from the field hospital.

But that memorial was then. This was now. And Miranda needed to be here for this one. Because this one was hers to give. Her eulogy for The Normandy’s lost.

Her breath turned to steam as she exhaled, watching speakers take their turns ahead of her. She wondered if it was obvious how much she was dreading this.

Miranda heard a footstep on her right. The sheer warmth that radiated through her body at that presence told her it was Samara, without needing to glance over to confirm it. This time, Miranda couldn’t mutter excuses about work.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Samara asked quietly. It was so silent, save for the person speaking at the podium, that they barely needed to talk louder than a whisper to hear each other, even in a crowd of thousands.

Miranda sighed. Her heart felt so...tight. So constricted inside her chest. Like it was afraid to beat, lest Samara would hear it in the stillness.

“I have to,” was all Miranda said, finally daring to make proper eye contact with her for the first time since she began to realise what she might be feeling towards her.

Samara gave a small nod, silently supporting her.

At last, her time came. Miranda gingerly ascended three large wooden steps, passing Bailey on her way to the podium. In the crowd, her eye found Jacob, Jack and Samara standing together among Jack’s students. As the cold breeze blew, she glanced down to her list of names.

God, the list seemed so much longer now than when she wrote it.

“My name is Miranda Lawson. I served aboard the Normandy SR-2. I speak for the fallen,” she began, a phrase which had become a solemn duty for so many.

“Andrea Shepard. David Anderson. Zaeed Massani. Urdnot Grunt. Kasumi Goto. Ashley Williams. Javik. Mordin Solus. Legion. Thane Krios. Kelly Chambers. EDI. Jeff Moreau. Karin Chakwas. Gregory Adams. Tali’Zorah vas Rannoch. Garrus Vakarian. Liara T’Soni. Gabriella Daniels. Kenneth Donnelly.”

As she went down the list, the ringing in her ear grew louder. She swallowed, willing herself to ignore that creeping numbness, and keep going.

“James Vega. Samantha Traynor. Steve Cortez. Diana Allers. Jennifer Goldstein. Sarah Campbell. Bethany Westmoreland. Richard Hadley. Rupert Gardener. Sarah Patel. Thomas Hawthorne. Zach Matthews. Vadim Rolstov. Timothy Copeland.”

She read them all out, every single name confirmed lost to this war from the SSV Normandy SR-1, SR-2 and SR-3, even when all she could hear was that oppressive tone muffling all other sound beneath a singular, high-pitched, piercing ring. Fifty-seven names in total. By the time she was done, the noise was genuinely so deafening she couldn’t hear her own voice anymore.

She remained standing for a few moments after she stopped. The next person was already approaching centre stage to take her place. She stepped away, and caught sight of Bailey giving her a respectful nod as she left, leaning heavily on her cane as she made her way down the stairs. She wasn’t even watching where she was going, just lost in that haze of unending noise.

In moments like this, her tinnitus was so potent, so all-consuming, it felt like a tidal wave was bearing down on her. Looming so large that, had she seen it coming, she would have mistaken it for the sky, and its shadow for the Earth.

She could be marching headlong into destruction, and she wouldn’t even know it.

What she wouldn’t sacrifice to be buried in just a single moment of silence.

“That was very courageous of you,” Samara’s voice shook her from her daze. Half-entranced, Miranda looked up and saw her there, before she even recognised she had made it back to the crowd. It took her a few moments to blink and notice Jacob, Jack and a few of the students were there with her too. She honestly couldn’t tell whether they had come to meet her when she left the stage, or whether she had instinctively walked in their direction without consciously meaning to. “It took great strength to do what you just did.”

“Yeah. You did good,” Jack quietly acknowledged, giving credit where credit was due. Nobody envied Miranda for being the one shackled with the responsibility to bear this burden alone, although there was no doubting that out of everyone left she was the right person to do it.

“Thanks,” Miranda mumbled. Her throat hurt. And her head. It didn’t make sense. How could speaking for a few minutes be so fundamentally fucking draining on every level? “...I’m going to head home. I can’t stand to be here any longer,” she stated frankly, unable to muster any inflection in her hoarse voice.

“Fair enough,” said Jacob. Nobody could fault her for that reaction, least of all him. He understood her better than most. “Want me to walk you back?”

“No, I’m fine,” Miranda turned him down, the cogs spinning slower than normal in her head as she turned her attention to the teens. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“I’m not sure teach would let us even if we wanted to,” Jason pointed out, gesturing with his thumb over at Jack.

“Damn right,” Jack remarked, jokingly ruffling Reiley’s hair (as one of the youngest and shortest of the bunch) until he managed to wrestle his way free of her. “Some of you may be legally adults, but for as long as Grissom Academy says I’m your teacher, you’re still my kids. Remember that.”

“See what I mean?” said Jason, grinning. “See you at home.” Jason gave Miranda a half-wave, half-salute, heading back into the crowd with the others.

Satisfied that they were in safe hands, Miranda took her leave.

It didn’t take long to distance herself from the crowd, finding herself alone in the streets of London. She released a shaky breath, a solitary figure limping along under the streetlights, her walking stick clacking against the pavement.

So much for all that. There had been nothing comforting about that process at all. Miranda had hated every moment of it. But she supposed if subjecting herself to that personal Hell was what she needed to do to honour the dead, and if it was what Shepard would have done, then it was worth it.

But she couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not with the tinnitus blaring in her ear. Not when she felt so disconnected. So constantly, fucking tired. So empty. Like the spectre of her insomnia was constantly looming over her shoulder, threatening to catch up with her when she least expected it, and make damn sure everyone would eventually figure out what she was hiding from them.

It was happening more and more the less she slept. She kept having these moments where she would just...lose time. It wouldn’t be long. Seconds here or there. Between that and the tinnitus, there were times where she really did feel fragile. Like she was a hair’s breadth away from blacking out. If that was going to happen, she would prefer to be alone and in her bedroom when it did.

Miranda may have put a little too much stock in her own abilities at times, and she may have overestimated herself, but even she wasn’t too arrogant to admit that she was barely holding it together by that point. But she had to keep going. Because what the fuck else was there to do? What else did she have but this?

Nobody could be there to see her edges fray and fall apart.

Nobody could be there to witness it happen if she ever started to unravel.

Because she was Miranda fucking Lawson. And Miranda fucking Lawson would never break. She never got too tired. She never got too stressed. And if she couldn’t cope with this, then she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

“Miranda?” She turned and glanced over her shoulder when she heard Samara call after her. In Miranda’s condition, Samara didn’t exactly have to quicken her long strides to catch up to her. “May I walk with you?”

God, she had been really hoping she wouldn’t. It would be the first time they had been alone together since the balcony - since she began to question her feelings. As if there wasn’t enough going on without adding that to the mix.

“It’s a free country,” Miranda replied, not exactly having the power to stop her, or any valid reason to refuse her company. Or not that she was willing to share.

Samara fell into step at her side, hands clasped behind her back. Miranda swallowed. She had gone her entire life never knowing how it felt to be nervous around another person - to have that feeling of butterflies in her stomach that other, normal people described. At that moment, she didn’t know if it would ease her internal tension more for Samara to speak, or remain silent.

“...Is there something you want to say?” Miranda broke the quiet, unable to bear it.

“Am I that transparent?” said Samara, allowing herself a small shadow of a smile. For as often as it seemed she always knew the perfect thing to say, evidently even she could struggle to search for the right words sometimes. “I was uncertain how to broach this with you. Perhaps I am overstepping my bounds, or treading where I ought not. But, if I may...I am concerned for you.”

“Concerned?” Miranda echoed, her expression unchanging, focusing on the cracked footpath ahead. Best to let her elaborate before she read into that.

“Yes.” Samara nodded in confirmation. “I have only been here a short time. Yet, in all that time, not for so much as a moment have you ceased working. You are always in constant motion. Even on The Normandy, you allowed yourself time to rest. And you were healthier then,” Samara gently but truthfully pointed out.

Miranda said nothing as she walked, letting her speak.

“I am certainly not criticising you for this. Your strength is admirable. Exemplary, even. But, as your friend, I worry that your priorities seem...out of balance,” said Samara, urging Miranda not to jeopardise her recovery. “Even when you were under the greatest pressure when we served together on The Normandy, you never once appeared so…” Samara trailed off, choosing her phrasing carefully.

“What?” Miranda prompted, seeing no reason for her to be delicate about it.

“Exhausted,” was what Samara settled on, her eyes glistening with sympathy.

Miranda sighed. How was it that Samara had only been in town a few days and yet she was the singular person who had picked up on the fact that Miranda was falling apart at the seams, given just how much she had to contend with at once? Even Jacob couldn’t tell, and he had been there with her every day.

Nobody else had sensed just how poorly she was coping. Nobody else could tell just how little she was sleeping. Only Samara. But, then, Samara always had a way, didn’t she? Always saw right through her. Unfortunately, at that particular moment in time, that was the last thing Miranda wanted her to do.

“Perhaps you could--”

“Do what? Take time off?” Miranda cut Samara off, not willing to hear it. “Yeah, I’ve thought of that. Trust me, it wouldn’t help.” Because if she wasn’t working, then all she would have to focus on was the noise, and the death, and the fucking nightmares, and now whatever the hell this was between them. Her week in the hospital practically drove her insane just from the tinnitus alone.

“Miranda--” Samara reached out to catch her sleeve with the intention of stopping her, beyond ready to finally snatch a precious moment alone with her and talk about this like they should have done days ago. But Miranda reflexively recoiled away, pulling free from her grasp.

“Don’t,” Miranda said, not in any kind of state to deal with the effect Samara had on her right now. Samara’s eyes widened slightly as she froze in place, shocked by that, not sure how to interpret her closest friend physically flinching away from her touch. Miranda sighed and closed her eye, realising she may have inadvertently hurt her feelings. “It’s not you. It really isn’t. It’s just...please don’t.”

Samara hesitated, looking unsure. “I am not certain I understand. You know that my stay here will be short, and that I cannot make any promises as to when I will return. I had hoped…” Samara paused and trailed off, averting her gaze for a moment, perhaps not wishing to express those hopes. “On The Normandy--”

“We’re not on the fucking Normandy, Samara,” Miranda finally snapped under the strain, having heard that phrase one too many times that night. “In case you haven’t noticed, it exploded and everyone on it is dead.”

Samara was struck by her response, rendered silent. Miranda regretted it the instant she said it, her hand falling across her face in a weak attempt to massage away the pain inside her skull. There was no point in apologising. It wouldn’t take back what she said, or the fact that she was venting her own internal frustration at Samara, who had done nothing to warrant any anger.

“I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” said Miranda, willing herself to sound calmer, despite the fact that she felt no less stressed than a moment ago. “Go ahead.”

“What I meant to say is that, in the past, we always found time to spend together. To speak privately. Yet now…” Samara let their current circumstances speak for themselves. Things had changed so suddenly. Without warning.

“I know,” Miranda acknowledged, rubbing her forehead. She knew because she had been doing this deliberately. Distancing herself. Keeping Samara at arms’ length. Even though it was the last thing she wanted.

She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really. Not fully. That was the problem.

“I do not wish to sound self-centred, but have I done something to upset you?” Samara asked, audibly confused by the abrupt shift in their relationship, even since they had last spoken on the balcony only a mere six days earlier.

“No,” Miranda assured her, shaking her head. About that, she could be honest, at least. None of this was Samara’s fault. She was a fucking saint.

“Then why does it seem as though you are avoiding me?” Samara pressed.

For that, Miranda had no response. Because the only answer she had at that moment was the truth. And, aside from the fact that she still didn’t fully understand what the whole truth was, she was afraid that telling her what she thought was happening would drive an irremovable wedge between them.

Samara had been in love - true love, if there was such a thing - once before. That woman took her own life centuries ago. Samara had made it very clear on multiple occasions that she had no desire to reopen that part of herself up to anyone else after losing her bondmate. Even touching on the subject of being with another person again in the future had made her deeply uncomfortable.

On top of that, Miranda had never gotten a straight answer as to whether Justicars were allowed to think about such things, even if Samara did want to. From the way Samara had spoken about it, Miranda had always more or less assumed it was forbidden by The Code. That Justicars had to be celibate. That she had sworn a vow never to let another person stand between her and her faith.

Samara was content with the person she was. With the life she had chosen for herself. She was never going to betray the memory of her bondmate, or the oaths she had sworn to the Justicar Order. Even speaking of such things would be an insult to her - the very idea was like spitting on her family and her religion.

Miranda’s feelings were not a problem Samara needed in her life. Or wanted. At all.

If Samara knew of Miranda’s burgeoning feelings for her, whatever they were, she would reject her, yes, but worse she would probably come to the conclusion that permanently distancing herself would be the best thing for both of them, so that there was no prospect of Miranda being misled. Hoping for more.

Miranda understood that, of course. She could have told her that. Told her that she respected her celibacy. That she knew why Samara couldn’t love her back. That, even if these growing feelings were exactly what she feared they were, that didn’t mean she wanted anything from her other than to preserve the relationship they already had. But, even if Miranda told her all those things, and meant them, the sad fact was that Samara probably wouldn’t believe her.

That was why Miranda didn’t dare say anything. It was for the best that she didn’t.

At Miranda’s silence, Samara sighed and stepped closer. “I regret that I have not been here. I will not pretend that I do not know that I left you when you needed support more than you have ever needed it before. I have failed you. I know this, and for that words cannot express how repentant I truly am. I cannot take back those lost days. But I am here now, for as long as I am able to be,” Samara avowed, one hand covering her heart, as if to speak to just how present she was in that moment. “You have carried this alone for so long, but not today. Not while I am here for you. So, please...speak to me,” she implored her.

Cautious though she was, Miranda couldn’t help but meet Samara’s gaze when she said that, her eye shining under the streetlight. Deep down, there wasn’t a damn thing Miranda wanted to do more than to surrender to what Samara was asking of her. To crumble the way she had when she had opened up about her past, and told Samara things she had never told anyone else. To be vulnerable and unburden herself of her secrets, because she knew damn well Samara was the only person in the whole universe she could really trust with them. The only person who could really handle seeing her at her most exposed. Her safe place.

She wanted to tell her about the tinnitus, and the insomnia, and the nightmares, and how every single person she had come to Earth with had died under her watch, and how she had woken up in that shuttle covered in another person’s blood, and how she had crawled away while a dying man begged her for help because she knew she could do nothing for him, and how she had never, not once, not even for a moment, felt happy that she had lived, and how she kept walking into situations that seemed certain to get her killed rather than cope with the fact that she didn’t feel fucking anything at all except this constant, crushing, hollow void of nothingness, and how she wasn’t speaking to her sister, and how she knew everyone would have been better off if nobody had ever pulled her out of that wasteland, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to keep pretending everything was okay when fifty-seven people who had served on the Normandy were dead and she knew damn well she wasn’t worthy of her miraculous survival and recovery when so many of those who perished had so much more to live for.

For weeks, hell, for months, Miranda had desperately, desperately needed Samara here for precisely that reason. Because she was her confidant. Her anchor. Her voice of wisdom. Her friend. Someone she could talk to about anything in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be judged or rejected, even at her most exposed.

Samara was the one and only person Miranda ever actually wanted to be near her when she was weak. Because she had seen that vulnerability right from the outset, if she was being totally honest with herself. All the sides of Miranda she hated about herself. All her flaws. And she’d never turned away. Not once.

Samara was special to her. She had been for a long time.

It felt like physical fucking torture having so much she wanted to say to the person who was standing right there in front of her, and yet knowing that she couldn’t.

She couldn’t, because it was not only becoming extremely fucking obvious that she had fallen in love with Samara, but far beyond that, Miranda was beginning to realise just how long she had been falling in love with Samara.

And if she told Samara that, it would destroy this.

Miranda couldn’t.

She couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t lose this.

“...I can’t,” Miranda finally answered.

She saw Samara’s face fall with disappointment when she heard that, which was saying something because Samara was rarely so expressive. In fact, disappointment was an understatement. If anything, she looked devastated.

“Miranda--”

“I’m sorry. I have to do this on my own.” Miranda pulled away before Samara could try to reach for her, taking a few steps back. She couldn’t look at her. It would have broken her heart if she did. “Please just leave me alone right now.”

With that, Miranda turned and left Samara standing in the street behind her.

Samara heeded her words, and didn’t follow.

Pushing Samara away in the short term so that she could get the space she needed to deal with whatever these feelings were and get them under control may have seemed harsh, but the alternative meant risking losing Samara forever. And Samara meant far too much to Miranda for her to be able to take that gamble.

At least if she was cruel now, there was still a chance she might have this safe place to come back to later down the road, when she really needed it.

Miranda got the news that Samara had left the next day.

Just like last time, she had disappeared without saying goodbye.

* * *

In hindsight, Miranda had been relieved that nobody had been there to witness it when she walked directly into the doors to the Starboard Observation Deck.

“Ow.” Miranda recoiled and rubbed her head, glancing up from her datapad.

For a moment, she didn’t even twig as to what had just occurred, because this made no sense. This had never happened before. The doors were always unlocked. They always opened for her. She never even thought twice about it.

“EDI, open the door,” she instructed.

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the door remain locked, and that she not be disturbed at this time.”

“...I see.” Miranda hesitated there for a moment. She couldn’t help but feel peculiar about that response. Certainly, Samara had a right to meditate as much as she wanted. Miranda would never stop her. There was nothing wrong with that.

But then, that was the point. Miranda had come and gone from the Starboard Observation Deck literally dozens of times, maybe even a hundred times by that point while Samara was meditating. She had never locked her out before. It had never been an issue. And if she wanted privacy, why hadn’t she simply walked over to her office and let her know about her intended solitude?

“I could pass your message on to Samara for you,” EDI suggested.

“Hmm?” Miranda glanced at EDI’s hologram, roused from her thoughts.

“Your library list,” EDI helpfully chimed in, well aware of what file Miranda had been working on all day. EDI was integrated into every computer system on the ship. She knew everything. “I am certain Samara would appreciate it.”

Miranda frowned. But that would eliminate the whole part where she gave it to her in person. “No. No, I’ll give it to her later,” she said. “Thank you, EDI.”

The next day, she found the door locked again.

Miranda sighed, running her hand through her hair. “EDI.”

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the doo--”

“You told me this yesterday,” Miranda cut her off. EDI may have been an AI, but she had the same tendency as a lot of VIs to repeat exactly the same information word-for-word in exactly the same tone of voice. “Has Samara seriously been meditating this whole time?” she asked, finding that difficult to believe.

“One moment.” EDI took less than a second to analyse over twenty-four hours of security footage from the Starboard Observation Deck. “Yes.”

At that answer, Miranda’s frustration softened to concern. “Really?” She glanced at the locked doors, wondering just what exactly was going on in there, and hoping that whatever Samara was doing she was being safe and sensible.

After a moment, she shook her head. Samara was nearly a thousand years old, and she had been a Justicar for over four hundred years. Whatever ritual she was partaking in, she had probably been doing it longer than Miranda could ever possibly live. It was condescending of her to think that Samara didn’t know what she was doing, or that she wasn’t taking care of herself.

But still…

“...She is going to have to stop to hydrate herself eventually. Don’t disturb her if you don’t have to, but just...keep an eye on things, EDI,” said Miranda, trusting she would grasp her meaning.

“Understood, Ms Lawson.”

It wasn’t lost on Miranda as she went back to her office that day that it was the longest she had gone without speaking to Samara in three months.

On the third day, the door opened. Finally, Miranda thought. However, when she walked in, there was just one problem. There was nobody there.

“Samara?” Miranda glanced around the room as she stepped further inside, although in retrospect she didn’t know why she bothered when she knew full well the room was empty. She would have seen her on a first glance if she was there. It wasn’t like Samara was easy to overlook.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda noticed EDI pop up at her little terminal almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to ask where Samara was. And that certainly had been Miranda’s first thought. But, on consideration, she turned on her heels and left instead, stubbornly deciding against it.

If Samara wasn’t there, she must have had a good reason for it. She was probably busy. Miranda couldn’t expect her to be available at her beck and call purely because she was bored and craving companionship. It wasn’t Samara’s responsibility that Miranda had so much less work to do now than she did before, thanks to handing in her resignation to The Illusive Man.

With that, she retreated back to her office.

She didn’t want to admit it, but it was driving her a little bit up the wall going this long without speaking to the one person on this ship she had come to spend more time with than anyone else. It wasn’t until that moment that Miranda had perhaps come to realise precisely how much she took for granted that she would just get to talk to Samara every single day, no matter what.

She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to miss someone after only three days, let alone this much. Hell, maybe that was why Samara needed space.

That being said, there were other thoughts on her mind too. Miranda had come to concede that she wasn’t the most observant person in the world when it came to reading other people, but even she could see that something had been strangely...off about Samara ever since they got back from the Collector Base.

It was difficult to put a finger on it. It wasn’t as though much had changed on the surface, aside from these past few days where Samara had gone from being part of her everyday routine to someone it now seemed Miranda couldn’t get hold of despite her best efforts, even though the two of them technically only lived, what, ten metres apart in a straight line? If that?

Even in the moments that they had spent together since the Collector Base, Miranda couldn’t shake this odd feeling that Samara was...different, somehow. More distant than she’d been in a long time. Then again, for every instance where it seemed Samara was detached or wasn’t fully present in the moment, there were just as many where she came off bright and genuinely engaged with whatever Miranda was saying, precisely as she would have done before.

Maybe Miranda’s perception had been altered due to her reduced schedule. She couldn’t rule that out. Maybe Samara wasn’t acting abnormally, but rather Miranda was holding her to different standards and projecting her own issues onto her due to permanently severing ties with Cerberus so recently.

And also maybe she was feeling a little insecure about that whole thing where she’d broken down into tears on her bed and exposed the absolute most vulnerable side of herself to another person, especially since they hadn’t talked about anything since that happened. Yeah. That too. That they hadn’t had a follow-up conversation since then was starting to weigh on her a bit.

Miranda sighed, finally giving in. “Alright, fine. EDI, where is she?”

“Samara is in the cargo bay,” EDI answered, knowing full well what Miranda wanted to know.

“The cargo bay?” Miranda echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“That is correct,” EDI confirmed.

Despite her misgivings, Miranda didn’t hesitate to take the elevator all the way down to the Normandy’s lowest level. When she got there, she couldn’t see anything but the usual storage crates. For a moment, Miranda wondered if EDI had made some sort of mistake, or if this was another one of her attempts at a joke. She couldn’t see Samara anywhere. But then she caught a flash of red and blue, tucked away in the corner, behind a stack of white ceramic boxes.

It wasn’t until Miranda had already instinctively started to approach Samara that a thought occurred to her. The only reason she would be concealed away in the shadows like this would be if she wanted to be alone. But something just wouldn’t let her walk away without at least asking.

“Good hiding spot. Not where I would have figured I would find you,” Miranda remarked to break the ice.

Samara glanced up at her voice. She didn’t seem startled by her presence, nor annoyed by it. “When I worked as a mercenary, the cargo hold was always the ideal place to retreat when I desired some time alone. Of course, back then the ships on which I journeyed did not contain an AI who could reveal my location to others,” Samara noted, deducing what had transpired to lead Miranda there.

“I can leave you in peace if you would like. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” said Miranda, her intentions no more sinister than that after not seeing her for three days.

“You are welcome to stay.” Samara unfolded one of her arms from her chest, gesturing for Miranda to join her in her hiding spot, if she so pleased. “After all, you came all this way.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed imperceptibly at that. There was a slight undercurrent in Samara’s tone. But she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. And Samara’s expression gave nothing away. Nevertheless, having received an invitation and sensing no sarcasm, Miranda vaulted up to take a seat on top of a crate.

“I imagine it’s not easy for someone like you, finding places to hide on small, cramped spaceships,” said Miranda, making small talk. She hadn’t planned on what to say, honestly. She hadn’t thought she would get this far - that Samara would want her to hang around. “What I’m getting at is that you’re tall.”

“For my species, that is not inaccurate,” Samara acknowledged. She pointed upwards. “However, cargo holds have high ceilings. Generally speaking.”

“Ah.” Miranda nodded, wishing she were better at idle chit-chat.

And there was that uncomfortable feeling that something was off again.

“Is everything alright?” Miranda asked, electing to get to the point. Samara didn’t answer. “I’d like to think you could tell me if it wasn’t. I don’t know if I could be much help, but I’m actually a good listener, if you ever need one.”

“I am certain you are,” Samara replied, mustering a faint smile.

“...Is it me?” Miranda finally dared to ask.

That was the first thing Miranda said that took Samara by surprise, causing her demeanour to shift. She looked up at her, unsure what she meant.

“Did I make things weird between us? Did I say too much when I told you about myself?” Miranda asked, still convinced on a subconscious level that allowing herself to be that weak and pathetic around Samara must have revealed to her what a complete waste of space she was on the inside, and driven her away.

“No.” Samara shook her head, reaching out across the gap between them to cover Miranda’s hand with hers. “Please do not ever think you erred by speaking to me as you did. I treasure that you trusted me with something I see even now still hurts you,” Samara avowed, blue eyes shimmering with sincerity where they met Miranda’s. “You are braver than I that you could do such a thing.”

At that, Miranda softened, glad to see her worst fears hadn’t been realised. That Samara wasn’t just avoiding her. Samara wouldn’t lie just to spare her feelings.

Another thought occurred to Miranda then, causing her to pull a face. “Does it make me self-centred that I assumed I was the reason you were down here?”

Not expecting that, Samara couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping her. “Perhaps it does,” she light-heartedly conceded, a twinkle of mirth in her gaze.

“Damn it. I was doing so well, too.” Miranda feigned disappointment, which Samara seemed to find rather entertaining. “Samara, I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I think I might be just a little bit obsessed with myself.”

“Surely not. You have hidden it so well,” Samara quipped, the corners of her lips quirked with amusement. Evidently The Code did permit occasional sarcasm.

Miranda winced. It was in jest, but it stung just a tiny bit knowing how true it was, especially when they’d first met. “Ouch. I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” Samara sighed, a more relaxed expression coming over her. “Albeit, I should not do so, but I have always rather liked those qualities about you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow, slowly allowing herself to look smug. “Really?”

“I should not do so,” Samara reiterated, holding up a finger, as if to indicate that was not a licence to disregard her many previous weeks and months of wisdom and advice centring around mindfulness and self-improvement.

“What? So I can’t use your flaws against you?” Miranda joked.

“No, you may not. As any matriarch will tell you, only matriarchs may dispense such wisdom,” Samara remarked, entirely in good humour.

“Ah. My mistake. Next time I’ll make sure to pass any criticisms I have onto the oldest asari I can find and have her text them to you,” Miranda noted.

“That would be acceptable,” said Samara. “However, this conversation has not occurred in our usual location. Therefore, I must hereby declare it a regrettable lapse in judgement, and deny it ever transpired,” she commented, settling back into her original stance, because, of course, a Justicar would never openly admit to enjoying the company of a person even when they were vain and self-centred.

“Oh, so you’re claiming the cargo fumes got to you,” Miranda deduced.

“Precisely,” Samara confirmed, eliciting a chuckle as she leaned back against the crate, evidently relieved that she had averted Miranda’s insecurities.

If nothing else, Miranda was pleased to see that, whatever it was Samara was dealing with that had driven her to lock herself away for a while, she had lightened her mood for a minute or two. But, that being said, Samara showed no signs of leaving her current venue. And Miranda still wanted to help, if she could.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s really on your mind?” Miranda asked again gently, that offer remaining open, if she was amenable to sharing.

“I am certain,” Samara confirmed, a well-considered response, and seemingly not merely a defence. “My burdens are my own. And you are a young woman. You should not concern yourself with the thought of what might trouble me.”

“If you’re about to call yourself ‘old’ again…” Miranda warned her.

“If I do, it is only because it is true,” Samara reminded her with a small smile. “I have been on my own for a very long time, Miranda. In that time, I have learned there are many things that I can only do alone. It is just as you would know that there are some important battles you must fight for yourself, no matter how much someone else - such as, say, myself - might have grown to care for you, or how much I might wish I could fight them for you,” she thoughtfully pointed out.

Miranda felt a very pleasant warmth course through her at those words. Hearing Samara state so openly, so plainly, that she cared for her was easily up there as one of the most tender and genuine expressions of affection Miranda had ever received from another person in her entire life up to that point. Sure, it wasn’t like there was any competition. But that just made it mean even more.

But, that being said, she also didn’t want to let that distract her from the conversation, and from her primary focus of making sure that Samara was alright.

“So it’s a spiritual thing then?” Miranda intuited. If this was a battle she couldn’t help Samara fight, and she had meditated on it, then it must have been, surely.

Samara tilted her head in thought. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Then that’s all you had to say. I know I can’t help you with that,” Miranda conceded as she slid down from the crate, aware of her shortcomings on any subject to do with religion. “As long as you’re okay, that’s what matters.”

“Thank you. And you have already aided me. More than you know,” Samara assured her, causing Miranda to look momentarily confused. “Speaking to you just now has cheered me up immensely, as it often does.”

Miranda damn near turned a few shades pinker at that. Samara really had to be the only person she had ever met who had actually straight up told her that she liked being around her. For a second there, it felt pretty damn nice, being special to someone like that. “Now you’re just flattering me,” she said.

“A Justicar never flatters,” Samara insisted. Miranda didn’t know if that was an actual tenet of the Code, or she was just being sneakily funny again.

“Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger, next time. Good luck with whatever this is. You know where to find me if you need me,” Miranda reminded her, moving to take her leave. However, she stopped before she could depart, remembering the datapad in her hands. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something.”

Samara eyed the datapad cautiously as she took it from her, as if uncertain whether or not she could accept what Miranda was offering. “What is this?”

“Book recommendations,” Miranda answered as Samara began to scroll through it. “I should say, I haven’t actually read most of these myself, so don’t blame me if you don’t like them. But I had a lot of free time, and you read very fast for someone with a very small library to get through, and these came highly reviewed. There’s even a section just on Arthurian lore since you seem to like every book that has knights in it,” Miranda pointed out. “I would have done the same for samurai since you seem to like them too, but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”

Samara stopped only a few seconds after Miranda started to explain. She was silent for a long moment, frozen in place, as if lost for how to respond. “...You did this for me?” she said softly, clearly realising from the sheer length of the list precisely how much of her valuable time Miranda had used on something just for her. Real, genuine time, thought and effort had gone into this.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Miranda shrugged, not seeing what the big deal was, beyond it being a nice gesture for her. Wasn’t this the sort of things friends did?

Samara glanced down, her eyes shimmering as a strangely distant smile unfurled across her lips, clutching the datapad a little tighter. “Thank you, Miranda. We will speak again soon,” said Samara, electing to remain alone with her thoughts.

With that, Miranda left her in peace.

What Miranda didn’t see as she walked away was the expression change on Samara’s face, the inner conflict she had concealed rising to the surface.

You monster, the voice in her head said. Her own voice.

A companion that had been with her for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days. The only voice she had heard for most of that time. A voice that had been so much quieter over these past three months. Since she laid Mirala to rest. Since she believed it was her time to die.

You heartless monster, it told her, drawing out each word.

What else could she call herself, knowing that she allowed Miranda to do such things for her. That she let her waste her time and energy thinking so fondly of her. That she permitted Miranda to go out of her way to brighten her day with thoughtful gestures, when Samara knew full well that she should not receive such things, because she was not worthy of them.

You are exploiting her.

Yes, she was.

Deceiving her with your lies of omission.

Yes, she was.

If she really knew what happened all those years ago - if she saw the person you really are, do you think she could stand to be in the same room as you?

No. Samara knew she would not. Or she should not, if Miranda understood what it meant. She had perhaps revealed to her more than she ought but...not enough for Miranda to truly grasp the events that took place, and the extent to which she was personally responsible for everything that had befallen her family.

Everybody had only pieces of the puzzle. Not the full picture.

You knew the risks when you decided to have children, however small they seemed. You thought you were special. You thought it could not happen to you.

But it did.

In truth, her bondmate had been unwell even before that. Samara knew this. She had loved her for a century. Through all her ups and downs. Seen her at her strongest. At her weakest. She had been under so much pressure at work.

Then, out of nowhere, Rila was diagnosed. And she was taken away.

In a single doctor’s appointment, their whole lives changed forever.

Rila’s diagnosis meant Falere and Mirala were high-risk. It was a flip of a coin. Fifty percent. Almost a certainty that one of them would have it. Maybe both.

Samara lived through it all. Through the effect it had on her bondmate. Watched her heart tear asunder as they took Rila away. Heard her scream til her voice cracked. Caressed her as she wept. Let her cling to her so hard as she cried that her nails cut Samara’s skin. Supported her through her nervous breakdown. Held her hand as they sat through their mandatory therapy sessions. Listened to her say all the right things. Told her what she thought she needed to hear.

Samara had been there for all of it.

And yet, in all that time, how had it not occurred to her even once to think that the woman she had loved for a hundred years might try to kill herself?

Would you have even cared back then if she told you she would? Would you have listened? She needed you, and you were never there for her.

She could not always be there. They had two children to look after. And she was so busy at work. The sole earner, after her bondmate lost her job.

Do not make excuses.

You treated her like she was weak. A burden.

She did. She was so cold to her sometimes. So unfeeling. So unsympathetic.

She knew she was distraught.

And she left her alone.

And then she came home.

And she found her.

Death was preferable to being with you for another day.

And then there was Mirala.

Samara would have given anything to protect her and Falere from Rila’s diagnosis. From their father’s death. To shelter them. To let their lives go on as normal. But how could she expect them to pretend nothing had changed?

Samara focused on being strong for her family. Carrying all their burdens alone. Preserving what they had. And, while she withdrew, Mirala lashed out.

That came as no surprise. Where Rila had been austere and responsible (much like her grandmother), and Falere had been sensitive and gentle (much like her father), Mirala had always been brave and a rebel at heart (much like her grandfather, and exactly like Samara herself when she was a young woman).

Then Falere was diagnosed.

When that happened, Mirala knew. Somehow, she just knew. And there was no fate that would have terrified a girl like her more than the prospect of being locked away forever. Samara knew this. Because she would have felt the same.

And yet, despite knowing her daughter as well as she did, how had Samara not known Mirala would do everything in her power to try and defy her fate?

It should have been so obvious to her that she would run away.

Samara would have.

Did you know she would try to escape? Is that why you told her the things you did the day before her test? Is that why you took no precautions against it?

Did part of you want her to flee?

You have always maintained it was inadvertent, that you did not foresee this, but perhaps on some level you hoped she would disappear and evade the police?

How could she ever know that? How could Samara ever really know?

Had her subconscious wilfully left those windows unlocked in a secret desire to see Mirala go free? Or had Samara been so fraught with worry for the upcoming test and so mentally disconnected from her surroundings after four years of tragedy that she had simply not been able to anticipate Mirala would abscond?

Did it matter? Did it make her any less culpable?

A mother would do anything for her child. Perhaps even let her become a murderer.

None of these thoughts were strangers to Samara.

If any decent person fully grasped the truth about Samara’s past, and why she was to blame, then they could only despise her, as Samara despised herself.

She was the monster all along.

She was the monster who had killed her family.

She had the blood of over a thousand murders on her hands.

Yes, you are. And yes, you do. So why do you persist? Why are you still here?

Samara had been asking herself that question for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months and eighteen days. That question had compelled her to try and end her life once. She had failed. After that, for a long time, there had only been one answer keeping her going. One reason she stayed alive. One reason she had not tried to end her life a second time.

Because Mirala, or ‘Morinth’ was out there killing. And she needed to stop her.

You fraud.

You imposter.

Perhaps she was. Perhaps it was all she had ever been. It was all she had ever felt like. Even as she followed The Code, and devoted herself to her Justicar Oaths - living to be something she did not truly believe she deserved to be.

Except for that one brief moment when she finally succeeded. When the child she had, in her own mind, already killed four centuries ago was laid to rest.

It was the only time since she had been granted the right to wear this armour and been formally inducted as a member of the Justicar Order that Samara had actually felt worthy of that title that her sisters had bestowed upon her.

She had kept her word.

She had honoured her vow.

She had completed her penance.

And yet, if that was the case...why was she still here?

Because you are not the noble Justicar you pretend to be. You never have been. Your motives for joining them were never selfless. They were always about you. Atoning for your sins. Making yourself feel better for what you did to your family. For what Morinth did to so many other families.

And yet you loved her.

Even at her worst.

You never stopped loving her.

You never stopped seeing that brave, strong, smart daughter you knew. Even when she was using those very same skills to kill, or even to make you kill.

And part of you was...proud.

That was true, wasn’t it? Sick and twisted though it was, Samara had never denied that. She could not. She had not killed Morinth because she hated her. No. That had never been her mission. Rather, it had been to save her from herself.

Mirala had become Morinth because of Samara. Because of her disease. She had been nothing but a child when she made her first mistake. A mistake she was too young to fully understand. A mistake she could never take back.

Mirala, for all intents and purposes, had died on that day. Everything that had happened since, had been Samara’s disease taking control of her actions.

That was what Samara had killed.

That was what Samara hated.

Not her daughter.

Herself.

And you wonder why the Goddess does not embrace you?

Monster.

You are evil.

You are rotten.

Of course. Samara had done right by her actions, but her actions did not change what she was on the inside. They had not cleansed her. If they had, the Goddess would have released her from this life. She would not have bound her to go on suffering like this. Or was it selfish to demand that of her?

Would a true Justicar have even questioned what had happened, or why they survived? No, surely not. The truly faithful did not question that the Goddess had a plan, and that they themselves had a place in that plan.

But, then again, in nine hundred and seventy years of life, Samara had never had a single prayer answered by the Goddess. Not one.

Samara had never taken that silence as any indication that the Goddess did not exist. She had seen too many things in her years that led her to know that her divine providence was very much real. Rather, to Samara, that she always went unheard proved that she was unworthy of having her prayers answered.

Evidently, she still was.

The Justicars will see through you if you ever return to them. They will know you for what you truly are. That the Goddess has excommunicated you. They will spit on you and cast you out. They will know you do not deserve to wear the armour.

Samara did not dare return to her Order.

Somehow, something deep inside her just told her that she couldn’t.

She mustn’t.

Maybe the voice was right. Maybe they would finally know her for the fake that she was. Maybe they would finally realise that their predecessors had made a mistake when they granted Samara her place in the Order. That, even if Samara had never strayed from her Oaths, there was something...wrong with her. That she was not a righteous enough person to be worthy of fighting alongside.

That she should not be here.

Truthfully, Samara no longer knew whether she was staying on The Normandy because any part of her sincerely still believed that she was fulfilling the duties of the valiant, noble Justicar, as she claimed, or because swearing her fealty to Shepard in the battle against the Reapers was an honourable thing to do…

Or because she was just a scared, confused, lost, selfish soul, who was staying where she was because she was afraid to admit she had nowhere else to go.

Other than to be alone again.

With this voice.

Yes.

With yourself.

Like you deserve.

The voice did not lie. It never did.

Why do you not just end it? Coward. You know you should.

You knew you should have all those years ago.

It was not the first time Samara had asked herself that question. She had lost count of how many times she had over the centuries.

Morinth is gone.

Yes. She knew this.

What purpose do you have for living?

None.

What more lies do you have to prolong this?

None.

And yet you do not?

And yet she did not.

If you truly loved your family, you would just die, right now.

She would.

It is what you deserve.

It was.

You know this.

She did.

These thoughts had been her companion for so many centuries. Her answers had never changed, save now that Morinth was no more. She had known for a long time how easy it would be to end it, if she ever made that choice again.

But she was not making that choice.

Not yet.

Not today.

Even if it was only inertia keeping her going.

Even if she did not know why she was lingering on like a ghost after she was so certain she was going to die at The Collector Base.

Even though the guilt was killing her.

Today would not be the day.

Nor tomorrow.

Nor probably the day after that.

And yet she still could not say why.

She could not find a reason why it would not.

Because you do not truly love your family, do you?

Samara’s eyes darkened as her own voice spat that accusation at her like acid. How could she say that? Of course she loved them. If she did not love them, it could not hurt her this much every single time she thought of them.

She had carried the weight of the tragedy that befell her family for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days and suffered in silence every one of those days because of how much she loved them, and her regret at having caused it all.

She could not even speak to Falere and Rila, knowing what pain her disease had caused them. Knowing that she had robbed them of their lives.

Of their father.

Of their sister.

To hear their voices again was a mercy Samara knew she did not deserve. And for them to hear hers was a suffering they did not deserve inflicted on them.

And she knew it would break her heart to see them again now as grown women. Goddess, Samara just knew Falere would be the spitting image of her bondmate now that she was an adult. She always had been, even as a child.

And Rila would look exactly like her mother. Because of course she would. She had seen pictures of her mother as a young woman, and they looked so alike.

She thought of them so often.

So often.

She had wept for centuries in the dark, until there were no more tears to shed.

But you do not think of your family every single day anymore.

Not as you used to.

Do you?

You know this to be true.

Samara hesitated. She did not have a response for that. The voice was the same, but those words were new. Because those thoughts had never been true before.

For as long as she had been a Justicar, Samara had found a kind of...purity in her eternal suffering. As if by living only for her pain, and purging herself of everything else, it made her own continued survival somehow less immoral. Because there was no joy in Samara continuing to exist as she did. No happiness.

It was, if anything, a curse.

When she became a Justicar, there was no Samara anymore. She was just a memory of a person who once was, named for a woman who died with her bondmate and her children. There was only a warrior. A shell of a person. Devoted to a Code. Living out a lifelong penance for the sins of a past life.

Liar.

At that caustic word, Samara’s biotics flared up beyond her own control.

You do not suffer.

You do not feel pain.

You selfish

Useless

Waste

The crate behind her compressed in on itself, and slammed into the wall as each of those venomous words pierced Samara’s armour like daggers. Her composure cracked. She could not fight the demons. Because she knew them to be true.

You are not sad.

You are not miserable.

You are no martyr.

Your life did not end.

You have never been more at peace.

More content.

More joyful.

Samara rejected that. Denied it. That wasn’t possible. She had found an equilibrium, yes. Found greater harmony and relief than she had known in centuries. But it was not what she had known before.

How could it ever be?

She would never permit herself to--

Do not deceive me. You cannot.

I know you.

I am you.

Her hand shook as every ounce of suppressed self-loathing came pouring out. She lifted another crate, tempted to send it careening directly at herself. To hurt herself. To punish herself. But she could not. And the only reason she did not was because some small part of her was still aware EDI would see it if she did.

She reluctantly dropped the crate, and let her hands cover her face.

Coward.

Stop hiding and listen to me.

Stop running from what you already know.

The fact of the matter is, if you truly did still love your family the way you claim to, you would not be able to live on so free from all cares and burdens, and feel such unrestrained happiness the way you have done in so many recent days.

That was not true, Samara insisted. The only reason she had allowed herself those small mercies was because she had been so certain it would not matter. Because she had been so confident that she would already be dead by now.

Yet you are not.

And you are still doing it.

You are not pulling away, though you know you should.

Yes. She knew she should. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t.

She had nowhere to go.

And if you truly still loved your bondmate as eternally as you claim…

Samara put her hands to either side of her head, as if willing her mind silent would somehow change what her soul already knew the voice would say.

...you would not have room in your heart for another.

At that, Samara’s resolve cracked, and she crumbled to her knees, feeling everything she had fought to contain threatening to come spilling out.

Her guilt for daring to continue to live on.

Her pain for knowing that Miranda was so blissfully ignorant to her true nature, and to the fact that Samara deserved none of the kindness she had shown her.

And her self-hatred, knowing she did not deserve the happiness and contentment she felt, yet selfishly clinging to her moments with Miranda anyway, even after she had recently begun to recognise how deep her feelings had grown for her, because she was too weak and powerless to do otherwise.

She loved Miranda. She did. How could she not?

But she wanted nothing from her.

She never had.

Well, not entirely. Samara did want to see her go on to higher and better things. She wanted her to live her life in harmony and contentment somewhere far away. Most of all, she wanted Miranda to be happy with who she was.

That was all.

Was that so wrong?

Those wants were the only things left in her life which Samara was not unsure about. Although the voice ensured even that was becoming less and less true.

You think you are what to her? Some chivalrous knight? Some virtuous mentor? Selflessly, chastely loving her from afar?

It would make me laugh, if you did not sicken me so.

It had been so easy to allow herself to open up to Miranda and form that bond with her, to accept the fact that their rapport made her genuinely happy and to forgive her own selfishness in seeking out that connection, when she had believed wholeheartedly that it wouldn’t matter, because she would be dead by now.

Except she wasn’t.

She was still here.

Everything you touch dies, Samara.

Killing yourself would be the greatest kindness you could do.

But, since you are too cowardly for that...

Yes. Samara understood. She did have to pull away. She saw clearly now.

Samara was toxic. She was poison. For a brief moment, she had almost forgotten. All those many months ago, when it had been plain for her to see from just a single solitary, almost accidental glimmer of insight just how...deeply unhappy Miranda was with herself, Samara had been compelled to intervene, and offer her assistance. It had seemed like the right thing to do. She had dared to think that perhaps she could make a difference. Somehow, she seemed to have succeeded.

But that was the problem.

Miranda had quite clearly grown attached to their friendship. To Samara. And she shouldn’t have. She was young. And a brilliant woman. She had her whole life ahead of her. The best thing Samara could do for her was fade away, and let her devote her time to people and pursuits worthy of her splendour.

It was the only just course of action.

Indeed it is.

Miranda would find far better friends than Samara. And she had come so far. She did not need advice or counsel anymore. Certainly not from a broken, ruined shell of a woman. Samara had nothing to offer anyone but downfall, and despair. Caring for her as selflessly as she did, meant it was time to let her go.

After all, if sharing moments with another could feel so right, then Samara knew she had to deny herself. For love, even the meagre pleasure of a benevolent, unrequited love that remained unspoken, was the last thing she deserved.

There is nothing noble about you, Samara.

Nothing selfless.

You always are, and always have been, a monster.

And it was with those thoughts swirling in her mind that Samara began to make the hard decision that it was time for her to leave. Not immediately. But soon.

If she was going to go on living, then she would live for The Code. What else was there? Samara may not have felt worthy of the Justicar mantle but, whether her Goddess approved her or not, and even if she dared not show her face at her temple again, she was what she was. She had devoted her life to this. She did not know how to be anything else. Did not even remember how.

Being around others was a risk. There was always a danger that they could breach The Code, or put her in a position where she was in conflict with it. That was why Justicars worked alone. In solitude, she would cease to be Samara in anything but name. She would return to what she had known. She preferred it that way.

She had to be alone.

That was her penance.

Samara did not know then, as she could not possibly have known, that the next time she would try to kill herself would be a little over eight months from that day, on the day Rila died, and the day she reunited with Falere.

And nobody, except perhaps Falere, would really comprehend just how long Samara had been waiting for a reason to hold that gun to her head, and just how ready she had been to pull that trigger, if Shepard had not stopped her.

It had not been a split-second decision. It had been a decision four hundred and thirty-five years, three months, and twenty-seven days in the making.

Four hundred and thirty-five years, three months and twenty-seven days

That Samara had wanted to die.

* * *

Miranda hadn’t meant to cause Samara to disappear again like that, least of all so suddenly. And it wasn’t even a question in her mind that she was the reason she’d left. She knew immediately that she was responsible for her absence.

In hindsight, she supposed it wasn’t surprising. Miranda had asked her to leave her alone, and not in the kindest of terms either. And Samara had obliged. Evidently she’d taken her request more literally than she intended, but nevertheless.

Miranda wasn’t sure which feeling hurt worse. The initial shock of Samara’s abrupt departure. The uncertainty of once again not knowing if or when she would ever return. Or the ache of missing her - longing for her. A familiar companion.

If nothing else, Miranda had decided amid her gloom and misery that she could find one singular blessing in disguise that had resulted from this. That was that she finally had the space to make some sort of vague attempt at processing what she was feeling. Hopefully she could endeavour to make sense of it all in the intervening however many weeks or months it would be before Samara spontaneously decided to show up again, as was her wont.

So, partly motivated out of stubbornness and spite at Samara’s absence, she finally started making use of the time on her hand, and buckled down to try and figure out what to do about whatever the fuck was happening to her to make her feel this way. Every waking moment, she was thinking about it. Even when she was doing other things, it was all she was doing in the back of her mind - processing, mulling it over, trying to resolve it.

Miranda had always been a woman of science. A woman of rationality. A woman of logic. But that was the problem with feelings. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reason her way out of them. And, so far, she hadn’t been able to think her way out of her feelings for Samara, whatever they were.

‘Gay panic’ certainly didn’t seem like the right term despite the suggestions of the Extranet. First of all, because she was not, in fact, panicking. Second of all, because she was quite certain she was not gay. Although, admittedly, she was less confident about what precisely she was than she had been a week ago. And that was very much a part of what she was trying to decipher in her state that was definitely something not even remotely similar in any way, shape or form to panic.

She had started with perhaps the most obvious point of denial - she wasn’t attracted to women.

Was she?

Certainly, Miranda had never been oblivious to Samara’s looks, even from the moment they met. She wasn’t blind. Tall. Statuesque. Stunning. She was fucking perfect. Anybody would have noticed that. But she’d never thought beyond that.

None of those surface-level thoughts meant anything anyway. All heterosexual women could tell when other women were attractive. They often remarked upon it casually when other women were beautiful. Miranda had always put herself in precisely that category. She was able to tell whether or not she thought another woman was good looking, sure, but she had never felt sexual attraction to other women, and certainly not simply because of their physical appearance.

Had she?

Come to think of it, though, even if that description of how she related to women was true, was that actually any different to how she perceived and related to men?

Truthfully, even though she could tell on some level when a man was handsome versus when he was not handsome, that was about the extent of her response to them. She’d never come across a man who made anything in particular stir inside her. Ever. And not for lack of trying. When other people claimed to be turned on just by looking at some gorgeous guy or girl, Miranda had invariably rolled her eyes at those remarks and assumed they were lying or exaggerating as part of some big societal in-joke nobody had clued her in on. But maybe they weren’t.

Even when it came to the men she had slept with, it was never because she was remotely interested in them beyond the pure functional purpose she had in mind. She’d never been shy about admitting that she’d only ever viewed her past sexual partners as more like convenient objects to get herself off with than as people. And most of them weren’t even good at that.

It had gotten to a point where she had started to wonder if there was something wrong with her - that she had gone so long in her life never having so much as a relationship, let alone a serious relationship, because she’d never met anyone who made her feel anything. Then of course she had started wondering if there was something wrong with men, because it was easier to blame an entire gender than herself for why she couldn’t connect with anyone she ever met in that kind of way. She’d ultimately decided that it was a combination of both. She was better single.

The only exception, the only man she had ever actually felt any real meaningful spark of sexual and romantic chemistry towards, however temporarily, had been Jacob. And her attraction to him had only developed after she already knew him for quite some time, and more specifically after he saved her life from batarian slavers (not that Miranda had ever admitted he had saved her life in that moment, or would ever admit it). And, even then, it fizzled pretty quickly.

On second thought, was that it? Was Miranda just sexually confused because Samara had saved her life? Was she perpetually destined to mix up gratitude towards her rescuers for love? Was this just a thing that happened to her when she had near-death experiences?

But on further reflection that didn’t fully make sense either, because so much time had already passed since the shuttle crash. Three months, to be precise. Her brief relationship with Jacob had been nearly finished by this point. Even though her feelings for Samara had certainly taken her by surprise, they couldn’t be attributed to some sudden rush of adrenaline. Hell, Samara hadn’t even been there when she woke up to project confused feelings onto. So, while it couldn’t be fully eliminated as an explanation, it seemed more improbable than probable.

Maybe she was just misinterpreting her own feelings because she was lonely and Samara was the first, real, intense female friendship she’d ever had? Someone who made her feel seen. Someone she could depend on. Someone she trusted unreservedly. A rock. Maybe it wasn’t that strange for women to develop bonds so deep with one another that they could be mistaken for love?

Samara had certainly given Miranda something she had never had before. Was her brain just tricking her into thinking that was something else? Because it sure felt like she was craving more than just friendship, though she knew she shouldn’t.

The more she began to think about it, the more she began to question whether there had been signs of this for a lot longer than she had previously been aware of. Certainly, in hindsight, a couple of people here and there had...made comments that she hadn’t thought anything of at the time, Kasumi and Kelly chief among them. But maybe they weren’t just jokes. Maybe they’d legitimately picked up on signals Miranda hadn’t been aware she was sending - an interest Miranda hadn’t even contemplated she could have had back then.

Miranda had been increasingly willing in recent years to admit the fact that she wasn’t an expert when it came to making sense of her own feelings. It was kind of an embarrassing home truth to accept about herself that she knew perfectly well that she was absolutely the kind of person who could have been falling for someone for close enough to a year and a half without realising it, and also exactly the kind of person who could reach the age of thirty-six without ever really examining, questioning or figuring out her sexuality. But it was true.

Few knew it about her because she certainly never struggled to find sexual partners, but as a rule Miranda happened to be surprisingly dense when it came to picking up on cues that people were interested in her, or even flirting with her. With straight men, that wasn’t really an issue. Not to put too fine a point on it, but getting straight men to overtly hit on her to the point where even she couldn’t miss their lack of subtlety was like shooting fish in a barrel, except that Miranda never even had to fire a shot. Plus, once she discovered dating apps, it really did cut out 99% of the pretense and bullshit when she could put it right there in her profile that all she wanted was a quick fuck. Once she did that, it was just a matter of immediately blocking the matches who talked too much.

When it came to women however, it wasn’t as if Miranda had gone through some realisation or self-discovery that she wasn’t attracted to them. She’d honestly never thought about it. And it had never really come up. It wasn’t as if Miranda had any friends to develop feelings for in the past. She only hooked up with strangers, and few such women had ever actually made a pass at her. Or, if they had, she hadn’t noticed. And, on those few rare occasions she had noticed, Miranda had reflexively turned them down. Because she was straight, right?

But did that extremely narrow and limited handful of experiences of women hitting on her prove she wasn’t interested in women? Not really. Perhaps she just hadn’t been attracted to those particular women, or had been too caught up in her own pre-existing assumptions about her heterosexuality to consider otherwise.

Miranda wasn’t completely ignorant as to why her experiences were so lopsided in favour of men. Homophobia may have been virtually non-existent in the twenty-second century, but gay and bisexual human women were still a minority. They didn’t have the same luxury as straight men when it came to expressing an interest in other women - they couldn’t safely presume that the sexuality of the women they were interested in had a 90% chance of aligning with their own. No doubt, any women who tried to gauge whether Miranda might be interested would quickly drop that line of thinking when their subtle inquiries met with cold indifference.

By contrast, for certain categories of straight men, a complete and obvious lack of interest was no deterrent. That and Miranda’s dating app profile settings filtered out any and all women from her pool of potential candidates once she moved all her activities online, which was years ago by that point.

While it was true that asari had a completely different social context, and hence the same presumptions didn’t apply to them, Miranda had lived her entire adult life within Cerberus. It wasn’t like she’d been inundated with opportunities for asari to hit on her. Frankly, she didn’t even know what asari flirting would look like if it slapped her in the face or what their cultural rules and norms around it were.

So, yes, Miranda had indeed only slept with men so far, but the more she thought about it the more she began to acknowledge that that past history didn’t necessarily mean she was exclusively attracted to men. It was descriptive, not proscriptive. Those two things were not one and the same. She knew first hand that sleeping with someone didn’t require attraction to be a factor at all. If it did, she wouldn’t have fucked just about any of the men she’d ever fucked.

Perhaps all this time she had simply assumed she was heterosexual because she had never really seen cause to interrogate what she was doing. She had used that label because it had described her actions, but in retrospect maybe it didn’t describe her feelings. Maybe she was more...ambiguous than that.

If things in her life had gone differently, and the first person her own age who had made a pass at her in her biotic training program had been one of the girls as opposed to one of the boys, could Miranda honestly say that she wouldn’t have felt the same curiosity to experiment, and that it wouldn’t have led to her first time being with a girl rather than with a boy? She couldn’t say that, no.

If an attractive woman walked up to her and flirted with her right now at that very moment, could she honestly say that the feelings it stirred up in her would be any different at all to the way she reacted when a man did the exact same thing? Probably not. Because she didn’t feel anything much when men did that.

Come to think of it, even taking Samara out of the equation, was it possible that maybe she had already felt sparks of chemistry with other women before, at least on a par to what she had felt with men, and just not recognised them for what they potentially were, because social biases had simply conditioned her into categorising those responses as normal platonic female feelings?

Off the top of her head, there was Shepard. A strong, gay woman. Obviously Shepard had been in a committed relationship with Liara, so there had been no chance anything would ever happen between them, and the thought had never even crossed Miranda’s mind before that moment. But what if, say, Shepard had been single, and kissed her out of the blue one day? Would Miranda have said no to that? Would she not have been even the littlest bit curious to explore that?

She would have been lying if she pretended she couldn’t see the potential for herself to be attracted to Shepard, at least to the extent of being willing to see where that hypothetical kiss might have taken them. What could she say? Andrea was a uniquely charismatic woman. And, honestly, everyone on the Normandy had been a little bit in love with her, if they were being truthful, and probably would have been open to being with Shepard, if they’d been given the chance.

So, okay, perhaps Miranda wasn't as straight as she thought, or at least she was doing a very good job of convincing herself that she might not be making this whole thing up. Perhaps she had always possessed a capacity to be attracted to women on some level, but had simply never met anyone who exceeded her incredibly high and narrow standards, until Samara.

Maybe she'd been interested in women before, but misinterpreted those feelings due to the same social biases that had led her to assume she was heterosexual, not because there was any real evidence in favour of that belief but rather because there hadn't been any evidence to the contrary. Maybe because, on some unconscious level, she’d felt a social obligation to at least try being with men, and no similar obligation to try being with women.

Not to mention the fact that sexuality could be fluid, according to some sources, anyway. For some, it seemed etched in stone, but not for everybody; there was no guarantee that it would remain stagnant throughout her life.

Maybe it wasn’t a sexuality thing at all. Maybe Miranda wasn’t even attracted to anyone, male or female. Maybe it was just Samara who made her feel this way.

How the hell was Miranda supposed to know the difference at this point?

God, it was confusing.

“Checkmate,” said Miranda.

“God fucking damn it! Again?!” Jack hit the table in frustration. Ever since Miranda had stopped taking it easy on her, it had become a mini-obsession of Jack’s to get the better of her, just once. Miranda could tell she’d been practicing. “One of these fucking days I’m going to beat you. I swear to fucking...fuck!”

“You’re getting better,” Miranda noted.

Jack snorted. “Don’t patronise me, cunt.”

“That wasn’t…” Miranda sighed and shook her head, recognising it was futile to try and get Jack to take her at face value, and too tired to waste her breath trying when she was already expending all her energy thinking about so many other things. “Never mind,” she said, resetting the pieces.

For as unpleasant as Jack could still be at times, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that this was an overwhelming improvement from where they had been in the past. Admittedly, that was like saying that the radiation levels around Pripyat, Ukraine had improved from the reactor meltdown at Chernobyl two hundred years ago. Technically correct, although wildly misleading. But hey, progress was progress.

In any event, biting her tongue had proven by far to be Miranda’s most effective de-escalation technique whenever Jack tried to get a rise out of her. Jack couldn’t fight with Miranda (much as it seemed like she wanted to at times) if she didn’t fight back. Not to mention that Jack was giving herself way too much credit if she thought her insults did anything other than bounce off.

“It’s your move, eyepatch,” said Jack.

“What?”

“You’re white this time,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda blinked. Oh. So she was. “Sorry.” She really was out of it. She moved her first piece and started the game, too consumed in her musings about Samara to be paying too much attention to what was happening.

“If you’re getting sick or something, don’t cough on me,” Jack remarked after that particular game had been going on for a while.

“I don’t get sick,” Miranda wearily replied, wondering if she was starting to look as bad on the outside as she felt on the inside if even Jack was picking up on it now. Her insomnia must have been starting to show. “I--”

“If you say anything about your genetic code, I’m punching you in the eye socket,” Jack cut her off, moving a bishop to take a knight.

Miranda elected not to call her on that bluff. “Fair enough.”

God, if Miranda could have just taken some drug that would allow her to black out for a week in dreamless sleep she would have taken it in an instant. She wasn’t sleeping at all anymore. She was so fucking tired. She just wanted to turn her brain off and stop thinking. Stop existing for a bit. But she couldn’t.

Being awake was still preferable to the nightmares, though. At least when she was awake, she was only thinking about Samara, and not haunted by war and death. Although, that being said, that wasn’t a massive improvement.

She had hoped that playing these games with Jack might serve as a temporary reprieve from these endless questions about her sexuality spiralling through her head, but they hadn’t. She couldn’t stop mulling over Samara, even for a second, which was probably part of the reason why Jack was doing better than she normally did against her, even if she still couldn’t manage to squeak out a win.

“Wanna drink?” Jack offered, cracking open a can of paragade while Miranda contemplated her next move. Miranda waved her hand to decline, going back to rapping her fingers against the table as she studied the board.

A thought occurred to Miranda, then. Come to think of it...

“Jack, you’ve slept with women before, haven’t you?” Miranda asked abruptly.

Jack damn near choked on her paragade, covering her face to keep from spitting half of it out onto the table in alarm. “What the fuck did you just say?!”

“It’s a simple question. And you have, haven’t you?” Miranda pressed, too laser-focused on her own borderline-neurotic introspection to recognise that she was falling back into her old habits of ploughing straight ahead like a blunt instrument without even considering whether it might be jarring or not, and too sleep-deprived to exercise better judgement. “Are you attracted to women?”

Jack narrowed her gaze suspiciously, trying to figure out where this line of questioning was coming from. “...Okay, I know Shepard joked about this that one time, but I swear to fuck, if you're actually fucking hitting on me, I don’t care how crippled you are, I will throw you headfirst out that fucking window and bring this entire building down on top of you just to make sure you're dead.”

Miranda sent her a deadpan look in response, making her disinterest plain. “Jack, if I were ever that desperate that I so much as thought that I might actually be attracted to you, I promise you I would reach for my gun right now and I would put a bullet in my brain myself,” Miranda replied.

“Thank fuck for that,” said Jack, visibly and audibly relieved that wasn’t on the cards. “So then why the hell are you asking me about this?”

Miranda sighed, realising a little too late how pathetic it was that she was turning to Jack of all people to lend her some insight. “I can't believe we're having this conversation either, but...You're the only living human woman who's been with women I know well enough to ask. And yes I know that's depressing,” Miranda preemptively cut off Jack's retort. “Trust me, coming to you for advice about anything was not something I ever thought I'd do, but typing ‘how do you know if you’re attracted to women’ into the Extranet over and over again and getting the exact same useless answers is starting to convince me I’m going insane.”

“Huh. So you’re finally having a sexuality crisis,” Jack noted, sounding unsurprised to hear that, as if she’d anticipated this on some level.

“I don’t know. I guess,” Miranda acknowledged. If that was what this was, then that would be a yes. She glanced up. “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

Jack shrugged. “Always got a ‘straight like spaghetti’ kinda vibe from ya.”

“Meaning?” Miranda prompted, not following the metaphor.

“Until you get wet,” Jack remarked, grinning wickedly.

Miranda glared at Jack for a good, long moment, increasingly convinced she was just fucking with her and not amused by it even slightly. Either way, she supposed it didn’t matter. If Jack really had somehow predicted that Miranda wasn’t as straight as she thought she was long before she’d recognised this about herself, then perhaps that was a sign she had come to the right person.

“...Well, all that aside, I’m not used to saying this but, if you could offer any advice, I could really use your help right now,” Miranda admitted in a reluctant mumble, having nobody else she could turn to with this issue. “Please.”

To her credit, Jack softened, as if even she was loath to kick Miranda when she was coming to her from such a position of humility and vulnerability. “Look, I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean, sure, I've fucked a couple girls, and I could do that again if I wanted, but like...I'm not actually into girls like that. Not that I’ve met, anyway. I mean a body's a body, but I can't ever see myself dating a woman. I've never had feelings for a woman, you know? Too much drama.”

“How can you tell if you do?” Miranda asked, struggling with that the most. “How can you tell the difference between, say, a very deep, abiding and intense but very platonic friendship you have with another woman, and romantic attraction?”

Jack snorted. “I don't fucking know. Like I said, I’m not into women. Ask one of the people who makes a million, billion credits writing books on that shit. Sounds pretty fucking gay from where I’m sitting, though.” After a moment, a lightbulb went off in Jack's head. “Wait. Holy shit, is this about Samara?”

Miranda's eye widened in alarm.

Fuck.

“I...what?”

“Well who the hell else would it be? You don't have any other friends,” Jack pointed out. It was at that moment Miranda really hated the fact that she would never have a good counter argument to that. “Besides, you've been moping around like a lost puppy for weeks every time her name got brought up, and then again since she showed up, and even more so since she left a few days ago. I figured it was because you were fighting, but obviously it’s because of some other thing,” Jack remarked, making a suggestive expression as she sipped her drink.

Miranda massaged her forehead, immediately regretting her entire life and all of her choices up to that point. “You know what, forget I asked. Forget we spoke. Forget I exist.” Miranda stood up, pushing her chair away from the table.

“Hey, our game’s not over,” Jack protested.

“Mate in three. Knight to E5. Bishop to E2. Bishop to G4,” said Miranda, grabbing her cane as she started towards the door.

Jack blinked, making a mental note of those moves. “...If you say so. But what's the big fucking deal anyway?” Jack called out after her.

Miranda paused halfway through pulling on her scarf. “I beg your pardon. Did you just ask me, ‘What’s the big ‘fucking’ deal?’” she echoed sarcastically.

“Listen, I get it, alright,” Jack began, a little more even-handedly. “You think you might be into Samara, and you’re a little freaked out because this makes things kinda awkward, and also this means you might be into chicks, but so what? Go bang a chick and find out if you're into it. I know you're not precious about who you fuck. Even better - go fuck an asari. It's not like it's hard. If it's not your thing, it's not your thing. Problem solved, right? If it is, it is. Either way, you get it out of your system and you can move on and stop being such a mopey cunt about it.”

“Seriously? That's your advice?” Miranda remarked, shaking her head and glancing back over her shoulder as she pulled on her jacket and made for the exit. “Thank you for reminding me why we should never talk again.”

“You asked for my help. Quit being a cunt,” Jack shot back, chugging the last of her paragade and crushing the can. She paused after a moment, still curious despite her better judgement. “...So I was right; it is her, isn't it?”

Miranda's steely silence as she reached the front door was her answer.

“Wow. That's never going to fucking happen,” Jack said bluntly.

“I know,” said Miranda, well aware, turning the handle.

“This conversation doesn't make us friends,” Jack pointedly reminded her, never wanting to be approached by her about this or any other topic ever again.

“I know!” Miranda called back as the door swung shut behind her and she limped away, preferring to pretend the last few minutes had never happened.

The last thing Miranda heard from Jack as she left was a very loud (but very muffled) “OH, FUCK YOU” when she was about a third of the way down the stairs. She took that to mean she remained undefeated.

* * *

Miranda had only felt true, unconditional love once in her life before. That was during that achingly brief period from the day when she first held her baby sister in her arms, until the day she gave her up for adoption.

Over the years that had passed since then, Miranda had often wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t given her up forever - if she had tried to raise Oriana on her own, with the help of Cerberus. Would Miranda have been happier if she kept her? Yes, definitely. But would Oriana have been better off with Miranda as her makeshift mother? No. Of that, she had no doubt.

Cerberus had given Miranda so much for which she was grateful, but not a normal life. She was well aware that her association with Cerberus had left her (unfairly) branded as a terrorist. Even if that hadn’t been the case, as a fully grown adult, in retrospect Miranda now had enough insight into her sixteen-year-old self to know it could only have ended in disaster for Oriana to be raised by someone too young and immature to have had any clue what she was doing.

There was no mistaking it; Miranda had made the right decision when she gave Oriana up all those years ago. If she could go back in time, she would do the same thing all over again, even though it wouldn’t have killed her any less.

But Miranda was a different person now. She was thirty, which among other things meant she was older, wiser, and in a far more stable situation than ever before. She had her own money, and could support herself entirely through working on The Illusive Man's many research projects. She didn’t have to be involved with anything dangerous anymore if she didn’t want to be. If Oriana had only been born now instead of back then, Miranda would have kept her.

And, well, the truth was this thought had been on Miranda’s mind for a very long time. As soon as she’d given Oriana up, she’d known deep down that she wanted to have a child or children of her own one day. To feel that way again – to love, and be loved back, by someone who would always be in her life.

Obviously she couldn’t when she was sixteen, for the exact same reasons that had compelled her to voluntarily give Oriana up in the first place. But the drive had been there. Waiting for the right moment.

When she was twenty-one, she’d foolishly thought she knew everything there was to know about the world and that she was mature enough to try for a child if she wanted to. However, Miranda had decided against it then for purely pragmatic reasons, due to the fact that it would have put her career at a severe disadvantage from the outset to decide to become a single mother so early in life. There would have been no way she could work as many hours as her childless, or married coworkers, if she’d had a child for whom she was solely responsible. It just wasn’t realistic. She needed to wait until she was in a more stable position.

At twenty-five, the need to try and recreate what she'd given up all those years ago, or something like it, had only grown stronger, but Miranda had been too busy. Her career within Cerberus had really started to take off by that point, and getting pregnant would have derailed it. She had made a name for herself for regularly working twice as many hours as her rivals, and never taking holidays. She had no personal life, so she had no reason to ever do much else other than dedicate herself to her job. That made her a rising star. Plus the overtime paid extremely well. Throwing future opportunities she’d unlocked through her accomplishments to the wayside for a baby would have undone all her hard work.

Give it a few more years, maybe.

By twenty-seven, the thought kept occurring to her more and more often. Maybe it was time to think about freezing her eggs so she could come back to this whenever she was ready. That was what a lot of career women did. She’d taken home pamphlets about it and everything. The human lifespan was so long now, and biology hadn’t evolved alongside society and technology. It wasn’t uncommon for women to have their first child in their late forties or early fifties.

But that seemed so long to wait. Miranda was not that patient.

At twenty-eight, Miranda finally made a firm decision. In fact, she made a pact with herself. She would start trying for a child in her thirties, no matter what the circumstances of her life were at that time.

She wasn’t some no-name agent anymore, and if she worked hard enough in the next two years, surely she could afford to take some time off later. And by that age, hopefully it wouldn’t reflect badly on her professionally or be too detrimental to her career that she’d made the decision to have a child. The Illusive Man would understand why she had to cut back her hours here and there to accommodate that responsibility. And, if it did have a negative impact on her advancement, well...fuck it, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make to replicate the way it had felt to hold Oriana in her arms all those years ago. To chase that feeling again. That need to feel a little less alone in the universe.

Then thirty came. And Miranda kept her promise to herself.

“Wow, your profile picture wasn't lying,” the man remarked as he stepped into the hotel room. “You’re amazi--”

“Get your clothes off and get on the bed,” Miranda bluntly instructed, not caring to remember what this one’s name was, just as she hadn’t cared to learn the names of other one night stands before him. He didn’t know it, and he never would, but he was just a sperm donor, really. And he wasn’t the first.

“What?” He blinked at her, taken aback by her curtness.

“Don't talk,” she said, pushing him back towards the bed.

“Oh. Yes, mistress,” he replied, coming to his own conclusion about what was going on. Miranda rolled her eyes, getting to work stripping him naked, and herself. No sense in wasting time. “I brought condoms,” he volunteered when she straddled his hips, expressly ignoring her previous command not to talk.

“You don't need them,” Miranda assured him, reaching down to his member and guiding it between her thighs. That shut him up. “No kissing.” She put a hand to his face when he tried for one, pushing it back down to the pillow.

Perhaps her actions might have seemed immoral to some, using strangers for purposes unbeknownst to them, but Miranda had no qualms about it. Based on what she'd read, in asari culture, this would be considered fairly normal. They often had their children alone, from one-off encounters with people who may never have known they had a child, and who were never expected to be involved or contribute anything bar some DNA. The asari method seemed to do them no harm; they were the most powerful race in the galaxy. Miranda had always thought humanity could stand to learn a thing or two from them. Maybe this was one of them.

Surely it had to work this time. She’d been trying for months by that point, and it was starting to feel like a fucking day job at this rate. Miranda had timed her cycle perfectly. She knew when she was ovulating – the exact window in which she had to have sex to get pregnant. She was doing everything right. Every single thing she had to do to conceive. But so far it had all been to no avail.

He finished inside her in a matter of minutes, which was fine with Miranda.

“D...Did you?” the man asked breathlessly.

“No,” Miranda stated frankly. She never lied about that. However, unlike previous one night stands, she wasn't in this to get off. She could do that herself. “If I give you ten minutes, do you think you could go again?” she asked.

The man blinked, barely having time to recover from his orgasm. “W-What?”

“It was a very simple question. What part of it wasn't clear?” Miranda challenged, fed up with him.

“Sorry, mistress, I, uh...Sure thing. I'll go again. Just...give me a minute,” he said, panting heavily. “In the meantime, do you wanna...cuddle or something?”

Miranda looked at him like his head was screwed on the wrong way. Honestly, why were some men so bloody needy? It was just sex, for crying out loud.

Over the next fourteen days after that encounter, Miranda took pregnancy tests, as she always did. They all came up negative. And then she had her period. She’d been doing this for months with no success. A strange, sick feeling came over her. Something was wrong. But there shouldn't have been a problem. She was genetically perfect. How could a perfect human have trouble conceiving?

This didn't make sense. At that point, this couldn’t be chance. She had to see a doctor about this. A few scans and blood tests should give her the answers she needed. And they did, but it wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

Miranda shook with rage when she read the results on her screen, her jaw clenched tight. Of course. Her father. Why hadn't she thought of it before? He'd controlled every single aspect of her life when she was under his thumb, so why wouldn't he control her reproductive organs as well?

Why wouldn’t he do something like this? Especially if he only ever thought of her as a prototype, or proof of concept. Why wouldn’t he make her infertile, preventing her genetic code from spreading by any means except via cloning, using the sequence that only he had unfettered access to?

If Miranda ever wanted a biological child, the only way to get it was through him.

Or it would have been, if Miranda hadn’t destroyed her cloning facility together with every trace of the original DNA sequence in a fit of fiery rage.

Now there was no way.

She sat there in cold, tranquil fury as the reality of it all came crashing down upon her. Her condition. What her father had stolen from her without her even knowing. And that there was nothing that could be done to fix it.

She would never have a child. It seemed cruel to say it, but any adopted or surrogate child she could ever have, they would never be...like her. They wouldn’t be different like she was. At best, she could only ever take some normal child from someone else and screw them up with all her flaws. And she would only have herself to blame, not their shared DNA, if they turned out like her.

She didn’t want that.

All she wanted was to go back to that moment when she was sixteen, when she held her sister in her arms, and knew...just knew that they were the same.

That special connection she had felt with Oriana all those years ago, that was never to be repeated. And Miranda had given it away. She had given away the one and only person who would ever look at her with unconditional love in their eyes.

She would never get that feeling back.

She was alone in the universe.

She would always be alone.

Miranda could have screamed, but she didn't. She could have smashed her computer screen and trashed her room, but she refrained. Instead, she stood up, fists clenched, grabbed her things, and went straight to the gym at the Cerberus facility where she lived and worked.

She taped up her fists and found a training dummy in the shape of a man. On it, she pictured her father's face. And she went to town.

Miranda flared up her biotics and slammed her fist into the dummy over and over again, meaning every single of those strikes. One of her blows connected so hard that she sent the dummy careening to the ground. Miranda went after it, mounting it and driving punch after punch into its head, obliterating it just as she wanted to obliterate her own father's smug fucking face.

She hated him. She loathed him. She despised him.

Miranda only stopped when she realised her hand had been colliding with the floor for the past minute, leaving a smouldering scorch mark in the mat.

Miranda breathed deeply as she stood up, her anger subsiding as she ripped the tape from her bruised fingers. It was as she looked around then that she noticed absolutely everybody else in the gym was staring at her in stunned silence. She didn't care. They could choke, for all the difference it made to her. She was more valuable to The Illusive Man than the rest of them combined.

“Uh, Ms. Lawson? That was Cerberus property,” the manager of the exercise facility nervously spoke up, not eager to invoke her wrath, after what he'd just witnessed, presumably for the same reason he’d been too scared to intervene.

Miranda grabbed her towel, utterly drenched in sweat. “Bill it to my account.”

* * *

Miranda had retreated to the furthest, most isolated corner of the same bar where she’d downed that bottle of wine a while back to sit and sulk. Thankfully, on that particular evening, she’d had the good sense to nurse just one drink as part of a desperate attempt to avoid going home and falling asleep. Unfortunately, the inevitable crash she was delaying was unavoidable, and she knew it. It was going to happen that she would pass out one night. And, when she did, and the dreams came for her, it would be bad.

Knowing what she knew now, how many people were confirmed dead, they would be worse than ever before. Miranda wasn’t looking forward to it - to the day that her insomnia finally caught up with her. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

Besides, that quiet spot in the corner of the pub was providing some solace when it came to thinking about Samara. It was easier to mull over her muddled feelings for her there than having to do the exact same thing at home with ten teenagers. Plus, chances were Jacob would have invited himself over for dinner again as he so often did, given that none of his roommates including Jack could cook worth a damn. Miranda was only human. She needed space sometimes.

In the intervening days since Samara had left, Miranda had moved pretty swiftly beyond the denial stage. It had grown increasingly hard to pretend it was even a question whether or not she had fallen for her by that point. The way Samara made her feel was the sort of thing Miranda previously thought writers had been melodramatically exaggerating about when she read those phrases in books. And yet here she was, feeling those very things.

No, instead, her mind had turned more towards the question of just how she could get those sensations to go away, or put them on mute, staunchly committed to believing there had to be some way she could bargain her way out of this situation without destroying their friendship more than she already had.

Being with Samara simply wasn’t an option. She didn’t reciprocate her feelings. She couldn’t. That part of her life was over. Miranda knew that. Fucking hell, she was quite possibly the number one least available person in the universe, and with very justifiable reasons. So, whatever this was, it had to stop. Fast.

Her current stage on that journey involved trying to better understand the origin of how this all started, including precisely how long this had been happening. Defining the terms of what she was dealing with and putting it all into a neat little box made it all so much easier to address and reason with, and hopefully find a solution to. So, just how long had she been developing these feelings?

When exactly had she started to fall for Samara?

From the moment they met initially, the answer was a definite no, surely. Miranda had originally just enjoyed Samara’s company because she was polite, quiet and didn’t bother her when she worked, although they had spoken a few times in passing. Miranda’s reasons had been quite selfish then, in all honesty. But it didn’t go any further than that. Not at that point in time.

It hadn’t been until Samara showed Miranda such kindness around the time she reunited with Oriana that she started to form a bond with her. And it wasn’t until later, when Miranda had shown rare compassion for Samara after she killed Morinth, that they began to grow close as friends. But even that timing didn’t feel right. Miranda barely knew Samara that early on. When she looked back on those initial moments, her connection with Samara still wasn’t a fraction of what it later blossomed into. That was only the beginning of when the seed was planted.

Well, starting at the outset was probably pointless then. The wrong approach. What about later memories? What about the times she and Samara had spent together on the Citadel?

Their little private reunion a few months ago at Shepard’s apartment had been perfect. The moments she and Samara had stolen with one another away from everyone else were precisely what Miranda had hoped for from that day, and the most at peace she had felt in a long time, before or since. It felt just like old times. Maybe even better. They had so much fun together in such a short space of time, even threw in a few deep and meaningful moments for good measure.

The last time Miranda had felt so carefree prior to that was, well, the last time she’d been with Samara on the Citadel, barely saying anything as she followed in her footsteps, doting on her every word as Samara went from place to place reminiscing about the past. Miranda could have gladly trailed along behind Samara like that for countless hours and never grown bored of seeing her so enthusiastic and nostalgic for simpler times. Then they’d had such an amazing time at Miranda’s favourite restaurant, where the time had flown by in the blink of an eye because they were enjoying each other’s company so much.

Even before that, Miranda hadn’t known exactly when it happened, but at some point in their journey, the time she spent with Samara in the Starboard Observation Deck had become the highlight of her day. The thing she always looked forward to. It didn’t even matter what they talked about. If they sat together in peaceful silence. A moment shared was never a moment wasted.

Not entirely unlike Miranda herself, in the time she had known Samara on the Normandy, she had transformed from someone reserved and stoic into someone so much more open and expressive. After Morinth passed, that shroud of sorrow had lifted from her shoulders, and Miranda had been privileged to watch it gradually fall, and see that happier, freer person emerge from beneath the veil. She actually started to let her guard down and, well...be herself around her.

Miranda remembered the way Samara’s eyes would light up and twinkle in the starlight when she smiled her most genuine smiles. The way the faintest lines would crinkle with mirth at the corners of her eyes when Miranda made a remark that amused her, though almost nothing came close to cracking that faultless exterior. The way it secretly delighted Miranda how someone who carried so much pain with her somehow still lit up the room with pure, unfeigned excitement when her earnestness slipped through that hardened, Justicar exterior.

Miranda had always thought Samara was an incredible person. As soon as she got to know her, anyway. How could she not? That was precisely what she was.

Was it any wonder that it had always made Miranda’s burdens feel so much lighter just to be in Samara’s company? Or why it brightened her mood every time she made Samara smile? Or why she felt so safe and so warm every time Samara comforted her with wise words? Or why it made her heart flutter whenever Samara told her how much she cared about her? Or why every time they parted ways, all she wanted was for them to both stay right where they were?

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Miranda groaned heavily and let her head fall against the bar. She was completely fucking oblivious wasn’t she? If she was having those thoughts and feelings about Samara back when they were still on The Normandy, then that proved Miranda had been in love with Samara, or at the very least falling in love with her, for more than a year. And she had been totally blind to it while it was happening to her.

“Don’t tell me you’re already legless after only one of those,” an Irish bartender jokingly remarked, causing Miranda to glance up from her self-induced misery.

“No. Only mostly armless,” Miranda sourly remarked, her quip earning his approval. “I’ll take another, thanks,” she said, having the feeling she was going to need to be here for a good, long while in order to come to terms with just how clueless to her own feelings she had been this entire goddamn time.

She really fucking hated being herself sometimes.

If she wasn’t so dense and had cottoned on to what was happening all that time ago, no doubt she would have been in a better place by now. Maybe she could have used that intervening time she’d spent on the run from Cerberus to figure herself out, bring her feelings under control, get it out of her system and reach some kind of stable equilibrium in regards to how she felt about Samara.

If nothing else, she would have had more time to process her feelings. Enough that, by now, she could probably stand to be within five feet of Samara without feeling like her skin was on fire, or like her insides were dissolving into a complete unsalvageable mess, or like she would explode if Samara touched her.

Maybe, if she’d had a few more months to cope with this madness, she wouldn’t have acted like such a rude jackass to her the last time they spoke.

She really did detest the fact that she had lashed out at Samara, and pushed her away as she had. But she would have regretted it if she hadn’t. For once in her life, Miranda was doing an atrocious job of hiding her feelings. If even Jack of all people knew she was lovesick for her, then surely Samara would have seen right through any charade given half the chance. It had been harsh, but putting some distance between them really had been the best option available.

She hoped Samara wouldn’t take it personally, or be angry with her for her behaviour the next time they met. But any hurt feelings would be worth it if it gave Miranda the opportunity she needed to figure out how to start acting like a normal human person around her again the next time she reappeared.

Speaking of people she was avoiding, Miranda heard a familiar ding in her earpiece, signalling that she had received a text. She didn’t bother to check who it was, because she already knew the answer, and in that particular moment she didn’t want to deal with the guilt of knowing she wouldn’t respond.

Every single day, without fail, Oriana sent another bad joke in an effort to cheer her sister up. And every single day, Miranda still never texted her back. She hadn’t said a word to her since the day she wrote to Ashley’s family.

Her reasons for not confiding in her sister hadn’t changed. Oriana was probably having such a great time on Horizon. Or she should have been, anyway. She was an amazing person. The best. And then there was Miranda, being the mopey cunt that she was, as Jack had put it. An apt description, in fairness.

Call it big sister instincts, but Miranda would rather suffer in silence than dare unburden anymore of her troubles onto Oriana than she already had. Her twin deserved so much better than to have her mood brought low by Miranda’s constant, unrelenting negativity every single time they spoke. Maybe Oriana really was better off without Miranda perpetually holding her back.

In all honesty, though, she would have killed a hundred people just to talk to Oriana in that moment. She’d never felt more isolated than she did right then.

“Good evening, stranger. Are you waiting for someone?” a familiar, slightly stilted voice interrupted her musings. Miranda glanced up to see Shiala standing beside her. Her stance was rigid, as if she had no clue whether or not she might be committing a social faux-pas and was braced for rejection.

“If you’re offering to join me, I wouldn’t mind the company.” Miranda gestured for Shiala to go right ahead and take a seat. At this moment in time, anything was preferable to dwelling on her sorrows as much as she was doing. She could use the distraction from her loneliness.

Shiala accepted her invitation, pulling up a stool on Miranda’s right. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Miranda arched her eyebrow. They’d spoken, what, six weeks ago? Was that not frequently enough to maintain a friendship? She sighed. No. Evidently it was not. “It’s not you. My life has just been...hectic, lately.”

“Yes, I gathered that. Not at first, but I, uh...I saw you at the candlelight vigil last week,” Shiala acknowledged, visibly regretting that she had assumed the worst about Miranda’s motives, when she ought to have been more sensitive. “I didn’t realise you’ve been going through such a difficult time. I’m sorry. If I lost anyone from Zhu’s Hope, I don’t…” Shiala stopped herself and shook her head. “Forgive me. I imagine you’re not particularly keen to talk about that.”

“You’re not wrong,” Miranda conceded. That was another subject she was eager to block out of her mind at all costs. She’d been consumed with death and misery for so long that she was starting to feel like a walking corpse herself. “I still owe you that drink, don’t I?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but…” Shiala summoned a faint smile. Miranda signalled to the bartender to get Shiala one of whatever she was drinking.

Miranda was far from a social butterfly, but it was a welcome change to talk to somebody different for once - somebody who wasn’t intimately involved with the minutiae of her everyday life. It helped that she didn’t dislike Shiala either. Admittedly she was indifferent towards her, gratitude for saving hers and Jack’s life aside, but indifference was not the same as dislike. In any event, Shiala had done more than enough for Miranda that the least she could do was give her a chance, even if she was sceptical that they had much in common.

At the very least, this was preferable to driving herself mad, running the same thoughts through her head over and over again, getting absolutely nowhere.

“I must admit, I was surprised to see you drinking alone,” Shiala commented.

“What do you mean?” Miranda prompted, not following.

Shiala gave her a look, as if she thought Miranda might be playing coy, but then glanced down at her glass, idly toying with her fingers as she spoke. “When I saw you sitting here by yourself, it wasn’t what I expected. I thought that I would have to fight off a crowd of people just to get your attention even for a moment.”

“Ah. It’s a nice change, actually. Ordinarily, I used to wish people would leave me alone when I would visit places like this to enjoy a quiet drink,” Miranda remarked, snorting at the thought. That was a whole other life now. “I guess that's one thing I can thank the shuttle crash for. Men no longer bother me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why would they not approach you anymore?” Shiala asked, sounding genuinely confused, like those two sentences didn’t connect.

“...I'm not sure if you're joking or just trying to be polite,” said Miranda, eyeing her companion curiously as she brushed stray strands of hair behind her ear. Shiala only continued to stare, in questioning. “Look, I know the eyepatch masks a lot of the damage, but the burn scars aren’t exactly attractive.”

Shiala blinked, her expression blank. “...I’m green.”

At that deadpan statement, Miranda laughed. “No offence to your species, but to me that doesn’t make you look radically different from any other asari. Easier to recognise in a crowd, though,” she pointed out.

Shiala sighed, understanding why Miranda felt as she did concerning her wounds. “You seem to forget I was an asari commando. I have seen many brave women suffer injuries more severe than yours,” Shiala reminded her, perishing the thought that she would be disgusted or repulsed by what Miranda had endured. “If anything, I find that scars like yours betray the quality of the person who bears them - your history, your experience, your courage, your character. You have your scars because you were willing to give your life to save billions of others.”

Miranda gave a soft, self-deprecating snort at that as she picked up her glass. “You give me too much credit.” Shiala made her sacrifice sound a hell of a lot more noble and selfless than it was. She wasn’t any kind of hero. She was just in the right places at the right times to survive.

“Or you give yourself too little,” Shiala countered, shifting a little closer. “I’ve seen you in action. I know you are a strong woman who achieves the impossible and prevails against all odds. Even when you could barely stand, you were fearless, and I watched you do incredible things that entire armies were too cowardly to do. I have met few, if any women, who were as impressive as you are. Some people, many people in fact, are drawn to women like you. People like me.”

“Drawn how?” asked Miranda, arching her eyebrow at Shiala.

In response, Shiala only held her gaze. That said more than words ever could.

The realisation sank in. “Oh. I see…” Miranda closed her eye and rubbed her forehead in annoyance at herself. God, she really was completely and utterly dense when it came to reading anything other than the most overt displays of sexual attraction wasn’t she?

In retrospect, suddenly all Shiala’s stilted and awkward behaviour around her since they first met made much more sense, or at least a hell of a lot more of it did. She’d had a crush on Miranda this whole time, hadn’t she?

Shiala cleared her throat and looked away. It was difficult to tell on a woman with green skin but Miranda could have sworn she was blushing. “...And I have read this wrong, haven’t I?” she said, cringing at her own lack of finesse at talking to people she liked. “I am sorry. I have never been very good at this.”

“No. You’re fine. I just...I didn’t think…” Miranda trailed off, stopping herself from instinctively rejecting Shiala’s advances. Come to think of it, wasn’t this exactly what she was looking for?

She thought of her conversation with Jack. Much as she hated to admit it, Jack did have a point. If Miranda was questioning her sexuality and had reason to think she might be interested in women as much as men then why not go right ahead and explore that facet of herself? Was there any logical reason not to test those waters? What harm would it do if she did, even if she didn’t turn out to be bisexual, or whatever other label people wanted to put on it?

The worst thing that could possibly come out of it was that she wouldn’t enjoy it. As Jack had pointed out, that might actually ultimately solve the Samara problem once and for all, since it might indicate she wasn’t sexually interested in women, or that she preferred to remain friends with them rather than sleep with them. The best thing that could happen was that she would have a good time, would find Shiala a useful outlet for all this pent up tension, and increase her pool of viable sexual partners for the future. From where she was sitting, it was starting to look an awful lot like a win-win situation.

“Let’s start over. Hi, Shiala. I’m Miranda. How are you?” Miranda extended her hand across the small divide between them, keen to make it clear that, irrespective of any prior misunderstandings, they were now both very much approaching this with the same mutual intention.

Shiala gave a bashful smile as she delicately shook Miranda’s hand, charmed. “Much happier than I was a few minutes ago,” she said, evidently delighted to think she hadn’t misread this.

“Good. Great,” Miranda enthused, which earned a faint giggle.

Miranda could concede to feeling a little out of her depth. She’d never flirted with a woman before, let alone an asari. Never actually had to flirt with anyone to get what she wanted, although playing at being sultry and seductive could certainly be fun sometimes. But, by some good fortune, it seemed she hadn’t screwed up her chances of going home with Shiala yet. So she didn’t try too hard. They just talked for a bit. Or rather, Miranda let Shiala talk about herself, and she nodded along and feigned interest, paying for another round of drinks along the way.

So far, so good.

“I’ve always been a bit of an outcast, even among my own kind,” Shiala admitted, nervously toying with her glass as she opened up about herself. “I think that was what drew me to follow Benezia. Looking for a sense of belonging. A sense of purpose. And I suppose through her I found it, eventually. But only on Feros, with the people of Zhu’s Hope.”

“Mhmm.” Miranda pretended to listen, not paying attention at all.

How long had it been since she’d fucked someone anyway, Miranda wondered? She’d barely had the time or freedom to even think about sex since before she joined The Normandy. Too busy rebuilding Commander Shepard, then fighting Collectors, then running from Cerberus. Then the war happened.

She hadn’t thought about it until just now but, in the grand scheme of things, it must have been getting close to two years since she’d let another person touch her, if it wasn’t already more than that. Maybe that was part of her problem. Maybe she really did need this more than she knew, on a deep, primal level.

That and, although it hadn’t occurred to her until about fifteen minutes into Shiala making eyes at her across the bar, there was a small part of Miranda that enjoyed that feeling of being...wanted by another person again. And that had far less to do with her scars (because, despite everything, Miranda still wasn’t particularly self-conscious about her appearance) and more to do with the fact that this was the first time since the accident that someone else was looking at her and treating her like a fully-rounded sexual being, instead of a punchline. That was nice.

It was true that Shiala had never struck Miranda's fancy outside of her utility as a contact, but there was nothing...objectionable about her. The more she studied her features as she spoke, the more she thought she was objectively quite attractive. Weird and awkward, sure. But not physically. Besides, if she was hung up over Samara, then as Jack had suggested, the best thing Miranda could do to get it out of her system was seek to satisfy these urges with another asari. And Shiala certainly fit that description, even if she was a different skin tone.

What did it matter? Sex was sex. There never had to be any deeper feelings involved. It was an efficient solution to a problem. That was how Miranda had always viewed it. And at least this time she wasn't dealing with some clueless guy off the Extranet. Alien or not, the average woman had to have a better idea of how to pleasure the female body than the average man did, right? That was just common sense. Either way, it would be an intriguing experiment.

After about half an hour had passed, there was a lull in the conversation. Shiala internally winced, realising she had been talking too much without Miranda saying anything in response. “I’m so sorry. Am I boring you?” Shiala asked, dreading that she was making a terrible impression on this impromptu date.

“No, not at all,” Miranda lied. Truth be told, she had only absorbed roughly a quarter of what Shiala said, spending the interim lost in her own thoughts, mostly just making her mind up about whether or not she was actually going to go through with this idea, and then once she’d made that decision that she was, waiting for the right moment to make her move.

Shiala didn’t seem to believe her. “You’re being kind, aren’t you?”

“Nobody has ever accused me of that,” Miranda dryly remarked, which made Shiala laugh. She didn’t realise just how true that was. Sensing her opportunity, Miranda took it. She reached across the gap and traced her fingers across Shiala’s hand, still cradling her empty glass. “Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, the glimmer in her eye leaving little room for misinterpretation.

Shiala swallowed, doing a poor job of concealing her shyness as her cheeks turned about three shades brighter. “I...Yes. Yes, I would enjoy that,” she answered, her voice suddenly raspy.

Miranda smirked. “Okay. Just one moment. I need to make a quick call home. I’ll meet you outside.” Shiala nodded her understanding. Once Shiala left, Miranda used her omni-tool to dial through to her apartment. She put her hand over her earpiece, blocking out the sounds of the bar to hear herself better.

“Jacob Taylor speaking,” Jacob picked up.

“Hi, Jacob, it’s me,” said Miranda, not needing to announce herself beyond that. The accent gave it away. Just as she’d assumed earlier, she wasn’t shocked to learn that Jacob had come over to her place for dinner that night. “Listen, something has come up at work and I won’t be making it home until late.”

“Uh huh.” For some reason, Jacob sounded strangely sceptical. “Let me guess, you want me to stay over until you get back?”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Miranda dismissed the thought. Jason and Rodriguez were both eighteen, and all of the others were between fifteen and seventeen. If the kids weren’t old enough to be left to their own devices, these living arrangements wouldn’t have worked. “I just wanted to let you know not to wait around for me. You all enjoy your dinner, if you haven’t already.”

“Have a nice night, Miranda,” Jacob finished in a sing-songy sort of tone.

Miranda hung up without saying goodbye, already focused on other things. With that, she made her way out into the cold, November night. She found Shiala leaning against the railing by the banks of the River Thames. Miranda joined her there, the lights of this slowly recovering area of the city reflected on the water.

“Three months ago, I never would have imagined this place could look so much better already,” Shiala remarked, shivering gently in the cold. It truly had come astonishingly far from the absolute wasteland it had been back then. Parts of it were even decently habitable now. “It seems so strange to say it, but this is the first time I’ve appreciated how pretty the river actually is.”

“I take it you don’t come here often then?” Miranda asked.

Shiala shook her head. “My people are over at the North end of the park, so no.”

“I come here a lot when I can’t stand all the noise. Right there, in fact.” Miranda pointed out a set of steps further along the river, down to where she could touch the water, not that she ever did. Wasn’t clean enough for that. Even all these weeks later, focusing on the sound of flowing water was one of the few things she’d found that could drown out the ringing, even if only for a little while. It was practically heaven when it worked. “It’s peaceful at night.”

“Hmm. I can see how that would be so.” They stood in the quiet for a minute or two, listening to the ambience of the river below. “Can I ask you something?” Shiala broke the silence. Miranda glanced over, and noticed she was once again fidgeting with her hands. “Are you as nervous about this as I am?”

Miranda paused to consider her response. The truthful answer to that question would have been no. She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t get nervous (except apparently now she did, although only around Samara). And acknowledging any kind of vulnerability also went against every fibre of Miranda’s being. But, if Shiala wasn’t feeling particularly confident in that moment, and was searching for some kind of reassurance that she wasn’t alone with those anxieties, then she saw no harm in giving her what she was asking for.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve never actually been with a woman before. Or anyone outside my own species,” Miranda admitted to her, electing to be honest about that, even if the effect was a false a comfort.

Shiala exhaled. Evidently that had been the right thing to say. “Then I’m relieved. Because I have also never melded with anyone outside my own species,” she confessed, as if that was an embarrassing thing to speak aloud. “In fact, I have been with remarkably few people for someone my age--”

Miranda cut her words short, leaning across the small gap between them and capturing her in a kiss. Just a gentle one. Shiala’s breath caught at the contact. But before Shiala could react, Miranda pulled away, tantalising her with just a taste. Keeping her wanting more.

“I assume you have private quarters on your ship,” Miranda whispered in her ear.

Shiala nodded, her cheeks flushed as she gently bit her lower lip. “This way.”

Once they were aboard the Zhu’s Hope ship, any pretext of subtlety went out the window. Shiala pulled Miranda hard against her as soon as they reached the door to her room, threading both arms around her neck and drawing their lips together. Miranda immediately dropped her cane and leaned against the door for balance, nearly losing her footing, but didn’t resist.

The scientist in her that was treating this more as an experiment than as pure sexual release couldn't help but analyse how it felt to kiss an asari. The texture of her skin was different from a human, though not to an extreme. Asari were smoother, almost like latex. There was no roughness. Shiala's skin didn't crease or wrinkle under contact as much as a human’s would. She was lean and toned from decades if not centuries of combat training, but there was nothing hard about her musculature. Her body was at once tight and taut yet soft and supple.

Miranda wondered whether Samara would feel the same, or whether her maturity as a matriarch would distinguish her flesh from that of a younger asari.

Samara was so strong, yet so gentle. Her embrace would be warm. Protective.

“Computer, open the door,” Shiala instructed. The ship's systems obeyed. Miranda let Shiala hook her fingers in the collar of her jacket and lure her inside, taking care not to put any weight on her bad leg. “Computer, lock the door,” Shiala commanded, having no desire to be interrupted by her crew.

Miranda was glad she was eager to cut straight to what they were both after. She just hoped Shiala wasn’t a talker. That was not what she was there for.

Shiala certainly didn’t protest when Miranda captured her lips once more, surrendering to her kiss, pressing her body tight against hers.

Samara was taller. She would have towered over Miranda if they kissed.

Shiala slid Miranda's jacket off her shoulders before unfastening the buttons of her own coat. Miranda let her hand fall around the back of Shiala's waist once the coat came off. Shiala inhaled sharply, torn between trying to strip off her clothes and blindly stumbling back towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

It turned out those were a few too many things to juggle at once.

“Ow, ow, careful…” Miranda had to pull away, keeping her bad leg off the ground. Falling flat on her face would really kill the mood.

“Oh, sorry!” Shiala apologised.

“No. It’s fine.” Miranda shook her head. They could wait to disrobe once they actually made it to the bed.

What she wouldn’t give to peel Samara out of that armour, piece by piece.

Shiala’s knees hit the edge of the bed and she fell back onto the mattress. Miranda landed on top of her, trying not to wince when a phantom pain went through her left arm at the instinct to extend a forearm that wasn’t there to catch herself. This all would have been so much easier before her injuries. Nevertheless...

She straightened up on her good knee and reached around behind her back, undoing the clasp of her bra. It was the first time in a long time that Miranda had seen that look of temptation in another person's eyes directed towards her.

Miranda tried to picture Samara staring up at her with the same desire, but she couldn't quite imagine it. Samara was more reserved than that when it came to her feelings. Besides, by her own admission, Samara had lain with many lovers throughout her youth, possibly even hundreds. That was clearly a lot more than Shiala had. What would Miranda be to Samara but just a short-lived firefly, capturing some shred of her intrigue for but a moment?

No. She didn't want to think about that. This was supposed to be a distraction.

“I want to touch you,” Miranda whispered as she leaned down to purr into Shiala's ear, craving the panacea of release, closing her eye and trying to find any similarity at all between her scent and Samara's. She’d spent enough time in her proximity that she could imagine it. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”

“Right. Okay.” Miranda nearly lost her balance when Shiala sat up to remove her top, their heads bumping when Miranda instinctively over-corrected due to no longer having a spare hand to catch herself with. “Ow. Sorry. Again.”

“...That one was on me,” Miranda muttered, masking her irritation at herself. And it was true; that head clash had been as much if not more her fault than Shiala’s.

What was she doing? She wasn't normally like this. Sure, it had been a while, but she had gotten in the habit of being totally in control of everything that happened in the bedroom whenever she slept with someone. But, then again, this was the first time she'd tried to have sex with anyone following her injuries. In a sense, it was almost like learning to pilot a whole different body. That and this was her first time being with someone like Shiala. A woman. An alien.

Shiala shook off that accidental headbutt, unfazed. She fumbled with both their respective shirts until she’d managed to strip them both off (careful not to aggravate Miranda’s injured arm in the process).

Bare breasts brushed. Samara’s were bigger. Miranda arched her back and moaned, pushing for more bodily contact. Yes, this was what she wanted. Skin on skin. To submerge herself in the sensory experience of being with a woman.

And maybe, just maybe, if she tried hard enough, there was a chance that she could trick herself into thinking that it was Samara beneath her thighs, not Shiala.

Sure, there were a lot of things about Samara that were different. Her height. The timbre of voice. The size of her breasts. The colour of her skin. Her entire personality. Their connection. Okay, absolutely fucking everything about her. But Miranda could fill in those gaps in her mind. Besides, this was the closest Miranda would ever get to being with her, anyway. If anything was going to fill the void, this substitute had to be it. She would have to make do with fantasy.

Miranda let her fingers fan out and caress Shiala's stomach. Strong. Slender. Smooth. Shiala was exceptionally fit, and that was quite intoxicating, irrespective of whose body it was. She let her hand wander as Shiala lay back down onto the bed, bringing Miranda with her, their lips never parting.

She kissed her way down to Shiala's chest, acting out the same attention she would lavish on Samara's perfect breasts if she were beneath her instead. Tits were one thing asari and humans most definitely had in common. Shiala reached up with her hands in kind to cup Miranda's chest, stroking her thumbs across her nipples. A shiver cascaded down her spine. It felt good. But it wasn't enough.

None of this was enough.

As engrossed as Miranda was in exploring Shiala's physique, she hadn't come there to be content with second base. Miranda elected to speed things along, daring to slip her hand lower, beneath Shiala’s pants.

She cupped Shiala’s sex, rubbing her palm against it. What she felt didn't differ markedly from human female anatomy. Except...

Wait a second, there wasn't a clit.

“What are you doing?” Shiala asked, peering at her curiously.

“I, uh...” Miranda didn't know how to respond. Asari looked so human, in many respects. So much so that they could wear the same clothes. But they weren't human. It shouldn't have come as a shock that there were differences.

“Let me show you.” Shiala took the lead, assuming she had a better idea of what to do in this situation, much to Miranda's chagrin. This was not how she preferred to operate in the bedroom. She liked to take charge. But, she supposed she did lack experience when it came to being with asari. That and it was harder to physically assert dominance when she only had one arm.

“Fine,” Miranda reluctantly acquiesced.

“Here.” Shiala guided Miranda onto her side, and brought her hand around to the small of her back, down towards her bottom. At that, Shiala’s eyes fluttered shut and her breath caught in a moan. “Ugh. Y-Yes. That's...That's the spot.”

Miranda's eye quirked. Interesting. She made note of that for future reference.

Shiala gently prodded Miranda to lie on her back with a nudge to her shoulder. Miranda didn’t resist. She watched as Shiala slithered down the lower half of her body, removing the last of both their clothing, leaving no barriers between them.

“Do you know how to use your tongue down there?” Miranda asked. Shiala glanced up, faintly confused. “Pro-tip for the future, human women really like it.”

“...Okay,” said Shiala, taking Miranda’s word on how she liked to be pleasured.

Miranda draped her arm across her forehead as she felt Shiala explore her anatomy, trying to figure out what she liked. Miranda told her. Shiala wasn't the first person she'd had to guide through sex. Most guys were clueless, she'd found. It was why Miranda had learned early on that taking charge in the bedroom was the only way to live. She knew how to get herself off. Why mince words? She was an eager and receptive partner, though, Miranda would give her that much.

Miranda gripped the back of Shiala’s head when her tongue circled her clit, keeping her there. She imagined Samara in her place, fantasising about looking down in that moment and seeing a familiar blue crest between her thighs, dreaming of those piercing eyes holding her gaze while her lips brushed her clit, and while her tongue licked her entrance, before slipping inside her slit.

God, how had it taken her this long to realise Samara was so fucking hot?

“Get up here,” Miranda commanded, curling her fingers beneath Shiala's chin and gently dragging her up her body, until they were face to face. “I want you to fuck me,” Miranda murmured, her voice husky with arousal, so wet from the thoughts going through her head. “You know how to do that, right?”

“Does that mean you're ready to meld?” Shiala asked, seeking consent, visibly quite worked up and panting heavily, like she was on edge and desperate to get off. Hey, so long as that worked for both of them, Miranda had no objections.

“Does that involve fucking?” she growled, sinking her teeth into Shiala's neck, eliciting a shiver. Miranda had to admit, she wasn't one hundred percent sure what melding entailed. When it came to asari and how they mated, it was difficult to distinguish the facts from the myths.

“It-It-It can,” Shiala stammered, trying to keep her head on straight. “Melding involves a gentle linking of nervous systems. Essentially, everything you feel, I feel to an extent, and vice versa—“

“Then shut up, do it, and fuck me,” Miranda quietly urged, silencing Shiala with a kiss before she could waste time saying anything else.

There was no mistaking the moment the meld began. All her nerves stood on end, as if struck by a static charge. It was as though some form of magnetism was drawing the electrical impulses out of her body and pulling them towards Shiala, as if their bodies yearned to combine into one. Her senses sharpened, like she was seeing through an extra set of eyes, hearing through an extra set of ears, feeling her own skin through another person's touch.

Miranda looked up and saw Shiala's eyes had intensified, almost turning pure black with want. Miranda didn't hesitate, seizing one of Shiala's hands and guiding it down between her legs, desperate to sate her hunger.

When she felt those fingers slip between her folds, Miranda hooked her arm around Shiala's shoulders, pulling her close and grinding into her touch. Shiala wasn't the most deft lover, essentially learning the human body as she went along, but it almost didn't matter, because Miranda wasn't picturing her.

In her mind, she imagined Samara hovering there above her. It was Samara’s fingers moving inside her. Samara’s voice in Miranda's ear, breathless with want. Samara’s skin slick with Miranda's sweat. Samara’s lips against hers.

That fantasy sparked a fire within her. She thought about letting Samara take her in the Starboard Observation Deck a year ago, or dragging her back to her own bed and being the one to pin her down and make love to her in her sheets. She imagined fucking her in the cargo bay after a training session, sliding her hips between her thighs, alight with the thrill of the risk of getting caught. She focused on the sparks that flew between them the last time they touched on the balcony, and remembered Samara's careful caress against her scarred cheek.

She let her fingers fall upon Shiala's head crest, and she could almost fool herself into believing it was Samara's. “Harder,” Miranda urged, willing herself to get lost in the jolts of electricity trickling through her veins. Shiala hadn't been kidding about how melding worked. It was like a subtle feedback loop. Every time she touched Shiala, Miranda could feel ghosts of her own fingers in the same places on her own body. She could see how this could become addictive.

Shiala complied with her wishes and drove her fingers harder, deeper. Her thumb brushed Miranda's clit and both of them sharply inhaled at once. Shiala didn't hesitate to touch it again once she knew how good it felt.

Miranda reached down to that spot on Shiala's lower back, and experienced the sensations of her azure for herself, to a muted degree. She flipped their positions, rolling Shiala over onto her back to straddle her waist, biting her jawline as she rode her, meeting every motion and thrust of her hand underneath her.

“Miranda--”

“Shh.” Miranda placed a finger to Shiala’s lips. She didn’t want to hear her voice. Hearing her talk made it harder to imagine Samara. “No talking. Just fucking.”

Shiala took the hint, forgetting whatever she intended to say. With that, Miranda straightened her back, letting her fingertips trace the curve of Shiala’s breast, grinding her hips into her hand. She thought about riding Samara like this.

Did Samara prefer to fuck women, or be fucked by women? Or was she equally open to both? Miranda would have loved to know. It was hard to tell.

If they were fucking, would Samara make her come?

Or would she make Samara come?

Miranda panted and gasped, trying to inch closer and closer towards her climax. But it wasn't working. It wasn’t working, because no matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t enough. Her imagination wasn’t vivid enough to trick her into believing it was Samara she was fucking instead. Because it wasn’t Samara. It was Shiala. And. Miranda. Just. Wasn’t. That. Into. Her.

“Come on...” Miranda grumbled to herself, her fingernails digging into the bed as she rocked her hips, willing herself to forget that this wasn't really Samara. Or to let this be enough for tonight, at the very least. “For fuck's sake.”

“I-I'm sorry?” Shiala looked up at her in concern.

“Not you.” Miranda closed her eye, concentrating on that frustrating, unrealised pleasure building between her thighs that showed no signs of release.

Fed up with waiting for an orgasm that just wasn’t coming on its own, Miranda reached down between her thighs, rubbing her clit while Shiala's fingers moved inside her. That was better. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to get herself off with a less-than-ideal partner. And it was evident from the flushed look on Shiala’s face that she could feel to some degree what Miranda was doing to herself.

“Just like that,” Miranda instructed. Shiala took that as a cue to speed up.

Miranda resisted the urge to groan in annoyance. Why was it that, whenever she said ‘just like that’, the people she was sleeping with so often took that as a cue to change what they were doing instead of continuing to do the exact same thing she’d just explicitly told them to not fucking change?

When Shiala bucked her hips to try and meet Miranda's motions, Miranda nearly lost her balance, without a free arm to catch herself. Fortunately Shiala steadied her to stop her from falling, sitting up and wrapping an arm around her waist to prevent that from happening again. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Miranda commanded, having lost count of how many times Shiala had done that. Samara wouldn't. She wouldn't have any reason to. Miranda focused on manufacturing the illusion of Samara's presence inside her mind, replaying conversations they’d had, remembering the way it felt to be near her. Her teeth grazed her lower lip, softly biting down as she touched herself, resting her head against Shiala's shoulder. “I want you to tell me something.”

“...What?” asked Shiala, with an audible hint of doubt.

“If I were fucking you right now, would it feel good?” Miranda breathed against her skin, hot and heavy, picturing how it would feel to be inside Samara – to be the one to bring her undone. “Do asari...feel pleasure down there?”

“Only when we're melding,” Shiala answered, trying to time the ministrations of her fingers with Miranda's. “When we meld like this, we become...sensitive to touch. Everywhere. How sensitive depends on the partner, and on the meld.”

That was encouraging, Miranda thought. “So I could make you come?” she said, craving it. Shiala hesitated. Miranda didn't need to see her expression to guess why. “I don't know what your word for it is. Do asari have orgasms?”

The scientific term seemed to translate just fine. “Oh. Uh. Y-Yes. We—”

“You're going to,” Miranda stated, shifting her fingers away from her clit, finding Shiala's slit and slipping them inside. Shiala inhaled sharply, and Miranda felt the spark mirrored on her own body, making her swallow a moan.

If she couldn't get herself off, maybe getting Shiala off was the answer.

She had to admit, for as messy as this whole encounter was, this part was the closest it had felt so far to being right. She liked how it felt. To be inside another woman. To be able to feel what she was doing to her - what effect she was having on her. To know that she could make her unravel with pure pleasure. To have total control over bringing someone else to that point of ecstasy.

Miranda adjusted her rhythm, until she could feel through her own senses that it was just right. The two of them began to rock in time, chasing the same high.

Shiala cradled Miranda to her neck as she lay back against the sheets, cupping Miranda's sex, rubbing harder and faster. Miranda ignored the pain in her amputated arm and her injured knee, finding just enough support to put the right amount of weight behind every thrust of her wrist.

Shiala's voice cracked as she tangled her fingers in Miranda's hair. It was working. Miranda's arousal climbed in sync with Shiala's, building past that plateau.

Before long, Shiala hit her peak, and Miranda went with her.

Miranda didn't know which one of them had actually climaxed first, and she didn't care. She swallowed a moan when her release came at long last and the waves of relief coursed through her system, stifling the sound against Shiala’s skin. Fucking finally, Miranda thought, letting her head fall against Shiala’s shoulder.

Shiala's breath hitched when she came, tensing, then trembling beneath her as Miranda continued to move, deliberately drawing out her pleasure, intent on riding out her own orgasm until she hit another peak, and then another and another, until she had nothing left to give. That was the only way she might actually come close to quenching her thirst for Samara once and for all.

Just as it had started to get good, that feeling of interconnectedness abruptly slipped away. Shiala reached down to still her hand. “Miranda, stop,” she said.

Miranda blinked in bewilderment, withdrawing her hand and sitting up straight atop Shiala's hips, the aftermath of her orgasm swiftly fading before she could make the most of it. The meld was over.

“What? What are you doing?” Miranda asked, unsure what had happened.

Was that it?!

“Miranda, that was...” Shiala trailed off and uncomfortably glanced aside. Evidently she couldn't pretend it had been all that much better for her. “But I have to ask you...Is there something wrong?” Shiala questioned her, studying her face with concern, as if she sensed that something had been off between the two of them the entire time – that Miranda wasn't really enjoying this.

“Well there is now,” Miranda remarked in irritation, wishing Shiala had just ignored her misgivings and kept going. Miranda had barely even scratched the surface of working out her frustrated feelings for Samara. Perhaps Shiala's previous lovers had only been capable of going one round.

But, anyway, the mood had been ruined. Miranda wasn't sure she could get back to where she'd just been.

“No, you know what? Forget it,” Miranda said through a sigh, gingerly rolling off Shiala, trying not to aggravate any pain in her injured limbs in the process.

Honestly, that had been...underwhelming. She'd succeeded in getting off, at least, but that hadn't solved the problem. If anything, it had only served to make her even more sexually frustrated than she had been before. But rather than having any desire to have a second attempt at purging her sexual cravings, all Miranda could really think about was how much she needed to empty her bladder, and how much she was hankering for something to eat. Those were hardly sexy thoughts.

“I should go. I have ten teenagers to take care of,” Miranda muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting her clothing, concealing a wince as gravity exerted an unwelcome strain on her left knee as she pulled on her underwear.

“Oh. Okay. I, uh...I will see you another time, then,” Shiala awkwardly assumed.

Miranda didn’t acknowledge the statement much less respond to it, continuing to get dressed in silence, having absolutely no intention of talking to her again.

Shiala didn’t yet fathom in that moment just how little Miranda would have noticed or cared if she were to just suddenly disappear off the face of Earth entirely.

But she would soon know.

* * *

Miranda typed quickly, downloading all her essential files from the Normandy’s computers in haste, including her notes on Cerberus. While the data transferred onto her portable drives, she rummaged through her belongings, taking only what she needed. Suffice it to say, she would be travelling light.

It was easier not to think about the fact that three hundred thousand people had been wiped out of existence only a few days ago, at the Alpha Relay. Nobody on the ship had even spoken a word for hours after it happened.

It was nobody’s fault. Not theirs. Shepard had done everything she could, but...

Even so, it was kind of hard not to feel like they’d failed.

She didn’t hear the door open, but didn’t need to. Miranda only briefly glanced up to acknowledge the familiar presence in the doorway. “Hello, Samara,” she said, unfortunately not exactly overflowing with time to stop and have a chat.

“Miranda.” Samara nodded in greeting, her expression unchanging as she took in the state of her room, and the speed with which Miranda was currently packing a bag. It didn’t take more than a moment to put two and two together. “I came to inform you of my departure. I did not expect yours would be sooner than mine.”

“Yeah, well, Shepard is being blamed for blowing up a solar system. I don't know when, but...eventually The Normandy is going to surrender to The Alliance. I know she intends to answer the charges. She’s told me. So I have to go. If we're heading to Earth, I can't...I can't be here,” Miranda swiftly explained.

It wasn’t like she was the first to leave. Kasumi had already bailed almost immediately after it happened, the first among them to disappear without a word. Then Zaeed followed. And that had more or less set off a chain reaction.

The writing was on the wall. Everybody was going in their own separate directions. And Miranda had more cause than most to abandon ship.

It was difficult to read Samara’s expression. Even at the best of times, she didn't betray much. However, she almost looked somewhat disappointed with her choice to flee. “The Code no longer requires my presence among your crew. But you are intimately tied to this vessel—“

“Because I was with Cerberus,” Miranda cut her off. That was the whole issue. “I've turned my back on The Illusive Man, but to The Alliance, I'm a wanted terrorist – one of the highest ranking members of Cerberus ever to have defected. The instant we land on Earth, they're going to take me into custody and try to get information. But The Illusive Man has moles and operatives everywhere, even within The Alliance military. I guarantee you, if they place me under arrest, which they will, I would be found dead in my cell within hours.”

That explanation clarified things.

“I understand,” said Samara, a simple nod of her head confirming she implicitly supported Miranda’s decision to leave in light of those comments. Above all else, Miranda’s safety was paramount. “Is Shepard in danger?”

“No.” Miranda returned her attention to her computer once it signalled her download had finished, retrieving her critical files on Cerberus. “Shepard's too high profile, too critical to...whatever The Illusive Man's true goals really are, and she doesn't know nearly enough about Cerberus to be a threat. I'm one of the only people in the galaxy who could potentially help The Alliance track down The Illusive Man's base, because I've been there before. I'm a priority target.”

“A thought occurs to me; you could disembark with me when we travel through asari space,” Samara offered, seeing a potential solution. Judging from the serious look that crossed her features, it was not an idle proposition. “We would have to part ways not long afterwards, but it would give you more time to prepare. And it would be safer for you than travelling alone, and easier to hide. Certainly, Cerberus would have few if any allies among my kind.”

At that suggestion, Miranda felt a cold shadow wash over her. “I wish I could take you up on that. I do. But, if Cerberus had any reason to suspect that you were the last person to know my whereabouts, then they would go after you,” Miranda confessed, meeting Samara’s gaze. “I don't doubt that you could evade them, but then you'd be in the same situation as me, and that would be my fault. I won't visit my problems upon you more than I already have.”

“...That is an admirable trait,” Samara acknowledged, needing no further justification for Miranda's decision. Miranda didn’t need to guess that Samara would have said the exact same words to her, if their positions were reversed. “I respect your choice, even if it pains me to think you must face this alone.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Miranda’s lips. “If it weren’t for all that, I would have gone with you in a heartbeat, though,” she admitted to her, not afraid to say that. She would have loved to travel with Samara, even if only for a little while longer, if doing so wouldn’t have put her at an unacceptable risk of harm.

“Your path is set out before you. You know what you must do. I will say nothing that would deter you from it,” said Samara, her tone stoic and sombre, perhaps regretting that she had even put the thought in her mind. She was a woman of duty. She understood personal sacrifice better than anyone. They each had a calling they had to follow. Samara as a Justicar. Miranda fighting Cerberus.

Miranda felt a twinge in her heart as she saw Samara then, realising it could be the last time they ever saw each other. She hoped it wouldn’t be, but...

There were no promises.

She hadn’t thought this would be so hard to do. But then, this was only the second time she’d had to walk away from someone who mattered to her like this. The only thing that made it bearable was knowing it was the right thing to do.

“...I’m going to miss you more than anyone else,” Miranda confessed. She wasn’t a sentimental person by any means. But something told her she would have regretted it if she left without telling Samara that. Letting her know how much she meant to her, to the extent that a person as emotionally stunted as her could express such things. “I think you know that by now.”

Samara swallowed heavily at that, averting her gaze. Miranda didn’t see it, but Samara’s hand clenched into a fist behind her back. It was shaking. “And I you.”

Miranda felt like there was still so much more to say, and yet she didn’t have the lexicon to find the words to say it. Maybe that was just her subconscious trying to trick her into not leaving - making her feel like this moment couldn’t end.

But all things had to end eventually, even this.

It was time to go.

With that in mind, Miranda shouldered her bag, releasing a heavy breath as she looked at Samara one last time. It wasn’t lost on her that Samara still hadn’t lifted her head to meet her gaze. Maybe she couldn’t. If that was the case then, Miranda hadn’t foreseen that. Samara was taking this harder than she expected.

Then again, for kind-hearted souls like Samara, maybe farewells like this never got any easier, no matter how many centuries she had lived through them.

She had to say it now, didn’t she?

Okay.

“...Goodbye, Samara,” Miranda said softly. She walked to the door.

“Miranda...” Samara stopped her with a brief and very gentle touch on her shoulder before she could pass her by. Miranda halted mid-step, waited, and watched the unreadable thoughts play across her face. Several long seconds passed before Samara finally settled on what she wanted to say. “Be safe.”

Miranda managed something that resembled a smile. “I'd say the same to you, but I'm supremely confident that you won't need it,” Miranda commented, and that wasn't a joke, but a matter-of-fact assessment.

It honestly meant more to hear Samara say those simple words to her than she would have expected, but then again that was a reflection of how close they'd grown on this journey together. A closeness Miranda had never been searching for, and never would have predicted, but now couldn’t imagine her life without.

While these unfortunate circumstances had come about so suddenly to rob them of the chance to truly make the most of their friendship, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that they had developed a rapport that they didn't share with anyone else. A bond that almost defied space and time, given that the vastness of the years between them always vanished into nothing whenever they spoke, and made it feel as though they’d known each other for decades, even as they were always learning new things about each other.

It was just a shame this was where they parted ways.

Samara’s eyes shone in the starlight. “May we meet again.”

With that one final nod of regard, Samara let her hand fall from her shoulder, and stepped aside, allowing her to leave. There was no hug. Because they weren't the type of people who did that. That similarity underscored the unspoken connection between them. Even though they'd lived vastly different lives, there was an understanding – things that never needed to be said.

Miranda was going to miss having someone like that. Looking out over the endless expanse of space all by herself wouldn't be the same without the comfortable silence she shared with Samara.

Without further delay, Miranda took those fateful steps out the door and headed up to the CIC to make her way off the ship. The elevator opened with a hiss.

“Ah!” Kelly Chambers jumped at the noise, a look of panic coming over her.

Miranda raised her hands. “It’s just me.”

Kelly sighed, massaging her temples, only looking mildly comforted by the fact that at least that time there was nobody else around to see her lose her cool. “Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

Honestly, she didn’t even like Kelly Chambers, but Miranda was starting to feel sorry for the poor woman. It had been over two weeks since the Collector attack, and she still jumped like that every single time the elevator doors opened. Just what had those creatures done to her?

When she looked up, Kelly noticed Miranda’s bag slung over her shoulder. “Oh. You’re leaving?”

Miranda nodded. “You’re all safer if I’m not here. And I’m definitely safer if I’m not in an Alliance prison.”

“Okay. Good luck out there. Stay safe,” said Kelly. Miranda started off towards the airlock. After she’d passed her by a few paces, a thought struck Kelly. “Oh, before you go, I have to know. Did you ever tell Samara how you feel about her?”

“I’m sorry?” Miranda turned back. She hadn’t been listening, too busy thinking about what her first moves would be once she alighted as part of phase one of her plan to evade Cerberus before they could catch up to her and kill her.

“Did you tell Samara?” Kelly repeated.

Having not heard the question properly the first time, Miranda interpreted that ambiguous query to mean ‘did you tell Samara you’re leaving’, to which the answer was obvious.

“Yes, of course I did,” Miranda replied.

A sincere smile came to Kelly’s face, almost as if that was the first news she had to be happy about since she’d been abducted. “Oh. Good. I’m glad.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in mild confusion, but didn’t care enough about Kelly Chambers to probe that any further, taking her leave from The Normandy.

She didn’t know then that it would be the last time she would ever set foot on it.

* * *

It was around midnight when Miranda got home. Hopefully, it was late enough that all the kids would be asleep. Although she had made the excuse about work, she did not particularly wish for any of them to ignore that and come up with their own speculation when they saw her come home at that hour. As if they didn’t already have enough baseless theories about her personal life.

She opened the door as quietly as she could, not keen to wake anyone up with the sound of her key in the lock. However, Miranda’s stealthy return home was abruptly cut short by the lights suddenly flicking on the moment she entered.

“Something came up at work, huh?” Jacob remarked, standing in the kitchen.

Miranda's eye widened, appropriately startled. “Jacob? What are you still doing here?”

“I thought I'd fix you something,” he said, gesturing to a bowl he'd placed on the table, while he was halfway through his own identical snack at the counter. “You always worked up an appetite after sex.”

Miranda frowned at him, highly disgruntled. But, damn it, he was right; she was hungry. “...You're an arsehole, Jacob,” Miranda muttered, moving into the flat and taking a seat at the table. He'd made her a curry and rice. Probably leftovers from dinner. It actually smelled delicious, especially given the state of food in London right now. And she was starving. She couldn't resist starting to eat. “Seriously though, why are you here? I told you not to wait for me.”

“I was going to head home, but then...I don’t know, call it my Dad instincts kicking in a little early, but I suddenly had this sinking feeling of what if something bad happened to the kids when neither of us were here, and then Jack found out the reason you weren’t around was because you’d stayed out late for a booty call?” Jacob hypothesised, fearing the worst.

Miranda just tilted her head, not even wanting to describe the way she was picturing Jack torturing her to death if that ever happened.

“Yeah, exactly,” said Jacob, agreeing completely. “Look, I’m not calling you irresponsible or anything. They are basically adults. Especially Jason and Rodriguez who are adults by every legal definition. But still. Maybe I would have felt a bit better if I knew you’d left some kind of emergency contact plan in place in case something happened while you were out.”

“When you put it like that, I appreciate you staying,” Miranda acknowledged. That being said, it was a bit overzealous. She had been living on her own and looking after herself since she was younger than some of these teens.

On second thought, maybe that didn’t make her the best judge of their maturity.

“For the record, I'm not mad at you, but I'm only here to look after your place and your kids when you're actually too busy to get home. That does not extend to babysitting for you every time you want to go home with a guy. Not unless you start paying me for it, anyway.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Miranda apologised, aware that she shouldn’t have bullshitted him with that fake excuse about work. Even though it hadn’t been her intention to foist the kids onto him, she’d still left him in the position of having to make that decision at the last minute, without any forewarning, and no backup in place. “It was a very...spur of the moment thing. It won't happen again.”

“Until you have another spur of the moment,” Jacob surmised.

“No, I don't plan to,” said Miranda, poking at her midnight snack.

“Of course you don't. You don't plan spur of the moment things. That's what it means,” Jacob pointed out.

“Yes, but I'm normally very good at regulating my own behaviour,” Miranda stated.

“And that part of you was...where, exactly?” Jacob teased, obviously enjoying having one up on her for a change. “Oh, wait, don't tell me – this random guy you met at a bar was so special that you just had to fuck him before he vanished into thin air,” he joked, emphasising the absurdity.

Miranda snorted. “How do you know it was a bar?”

“You called me. I heard it.” Jacob shrugged.

“Mmm.” Miranda pursed her lips unhappily. In retrospect, she should have predicted this would happen. “Okay, fine, Jacob. You're right. I'm just making excuses. I didn't have to do this tonight. I should have...arranged to see her some other time, but, frankly, I didn't want to. I embraced my selfish side. I made a conscious decision to be irresponsible, so go ahead and blame me for that.”

Jacob just squinted at her, no longer listening. “Her?” he echoed.

Miranda froze.

Fuck.

“I didn't say 'her',” she dismissed the idea, trying her hardest not to look at him.

“Yeah, you did,” he responded, absolutely certain of what he'd heard. “You distinctly said that you should have arranged to see 'her' some other time.”

Fuck.

“...Did you go home with a woman?” he asked the now obvious question, leaning back against the kitchen counter, clearly very entertained by all this.

“Even if I had done, that’s not really any of your business, is it?” Miranda said plainly, continuing to eat her meal.

“No, it isn't, but you did, didn't you?” he deduced, her response only confirming his suspicions. “Miranda, we are friends, and friends do talk about these things.”

“Oh, please.” Miranda shook her head at that ridiculous assertion. “You never asked for any details when I was with men. I'm not going to indulge you because you find the idea of two women together appealing.”

“Meh. Actually, I'm not into that. Feels kind of gross to take girls being with girls and make it into some kind of...male fantasy.” Miranda knew Jacob was lying. She'd read his Shadow Broker file – she knew what porn he watched. “And the reason I didn't ask about it when you'd been with a guy is because it's not incredibly uplifting to hear details about your ex having sex with someone else, regardless of gender. But this isn't about that. I don't want a play-by-play,” Jacob assured her. “You just never told me you were bi.”

“I don't know that I am,” Miranda conceded. She didn't know what she was. Hell, the more she thought about it the more she was questioning whether she had ever truly been sexually attracted to anybody at all, save for two people, one of whom was in the room with her, and the other being Samara.

“If you're into women and men, then 'bi' sounds like a pretty solid start.”

Miranda sighed and rubbed her temple, wishing she could make like Kasumi and turn invisible to escape this conversation. But it wasn't like she had anyone else to confide in about this. On reflection, that was probably why she wasn't shutting up despite her brain urging her to stop talking and keep eating.

“Frankly, I'm not sure who or what I'm into anymore. Although I guess it’s looking more and more like I’m on some kind of spectrum,” Miranda acknowledged aloud.

“Well I’ve known that about you for years,” Jacob quipped.

“Oh ha ha,” Miranda sarcastically laughed, not really in the mood.

Jacob raised his hands defensively. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Continue.”

“What I mean to say is that it's...more complicated than just men or women,” Miranda reluctantly admitted, and that was true in more ways than one. Jacob pulled a face, having no clue what that was supposed to hint at. God damn it, Miranda thought. She was going to regret saying this, wasn't she? “For starters, she wasn't a human,” she mumbled.

Jacob's expression fell, losing his prior levity. “...An asari?” he assumed.

Miranda didn't respond.

“Oh my God.” Jacob ran a hand down his face. “Miranda, you’re so stupid.”

His bizarre reaction prompted Miranda to utter a short laugh. “Wow, you really are different from most men. Joker would have been in a coma if I'd told him that.”

“This isn't a joke; this is serious,” Jacob said sternly. “Did you even think about the consequences?”

“She's not an Ardat-Yakshi,” Miranda told him, perplexed by his sudden severity.

“What if she has a kid?” Jacob pointed out. “Congratulations - you’re the father.”

Miranda hesitated. She honestly hadn't entertained that possibility before. But, in retrospect, she didn’t know why it had slipped her mind. She knew full well that asari could have children with anyone, including human women.

Then again, she supposed Jacob hadn't given children much consideration either until Brynn unexpectedly conceived, and that was in a circumstance where it was ingrained to be aware of the potential to fall pregnant.

“That's her choice, if she wants to,” Miranda said nonchalantly, deciding it didn't change anything. After all, it wasn't like she'd never attempted to use anonymous men for the purposes of procreation herself. It would be hypocritical if she took issue with Shiala doing the same in this hypothetical scenario. “It doesn't matter to me if she uses our meld to create a child.”

“Even if it turns out she wants more from you than a randomised genetic sequence?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest disapprovingly.

“What, you mean like a family?” Miranda scoffed. “Yeah, no. I hardly think that's likely, Jacob. Asari have their own ways of dealing with reproduction in their culture. Most of them raise their children alone. There's no expectation for fathers to be involved.” Just like Miranda had no interest whatsoever in the potential fathers she'd sought in the past. They were donors. Nothing more.

“What? And you'd be okay with that, if that did happen?” Jacob asked, sceptically. “Being...cut out of your hypothetical daughter's life forever? I mean, yeah, sure, you say that now, but seriously think about that. That’s a big deal.”

“I don't really get a say in the matter, do I? It's not my body, so it's not my choice. Plus this is an entirely imaginary fantasy you’ve fabricated in your head. It was just a one-off hook-up,” Miranda reminded him, gesturing her fork at him.

“I know it is, but this is what I’m saying. The fact that you even need to think about this as a scenario that could happen, which you clearly didn’t, this is why you don’t do one night stands with asari,” Jacob elucidated his whole argument. “For real, though, there’s nothing you can do on your end to prevent it. That’s the problem. It’s entirely someone else’s decision. If there were some kind of condom you could wear for melds, I’d tell you to knock yourself out and go for it.”

“I appreciate your support,” Miranda sarcastically retorted, not enjoying getting the third degree over how she chose to spend her night. After a moment, her expression faltered. “Honestly, even if Shiala had considered the idea of wanting a relationship or a child with me, I'm pretty sure she’s lost interest at this point.”

And, even if she hadn’t, Miranda had certainly lost what little interest she had to begin with. She had no plans on sleeping with her again. She’d distracted her for a night, and been a...somewhat unfulfilling experiment. She’d served her purpose.

“Ha. Not surprised that it was her. Shiala’s been crushing on you for a while. Not even subtle about it.” Jacob paused and arched an eyebrow, amused by an unspoken implication to the extent that it distracted him from his prior train of thought. “...Are you saying you had bad sex?” he asked, finding that comical.

“N-No.” Miranda shook her head, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Jacob wasn't buying it. “Bad is an overstatement. I think.” She glanced down, focusing on her curry. Jacob just stared. “...Alright, so it was awkward and bloody mediocre. Are you happy?” she admitted, taking another mouthful.

“Those aren't words I would have used to describe you when we were together,” Jacob wryly remarked. Miranda wouldn’t either, in fairness.

“Yeah, well, you're a human and all my limbs worked back then,” Miranda noted. God, it was no wonder sleeping with Shiala hadn't done anything to take her mind off Samara. “Long story short, that's why I came home early.”

“Why were you even randomly hooking up with Shiala anyway?” Jacob wondered aloud with a shrug. “Not that you need a reason, but...I've known you long enough that I think I would have picked up on it by now if you were into her, or into asari in general like that.” He was right. Ever since they broke up, Jacob hadn't been oblivious to her one-night stands with other men, though it wasn't something they'd discussed. He did know enough to be aware who she slept with.

“Maybe I'm not,” Miranda replied. “It would explain why we didn't click terribly well. Although, still, I’ve had worse. A lot worse.”

For starters, she and Shiala hadn't been overburdened with chemistry. Not on her end, anyway. Miranda had only enjoyed herself when she was able to imagine Samara in Shiala's place instead. Although melding had felt nice, and she had been getting that itch scratched before Shiala abruptly put a stop to things. She didn't object to the idea of sleeping with a woman again (human or asari, come to think of it), but she didn’t doubt that the night would have gone better with someone who sparked more of an interest in her. Someone less awkward.

Preferably Samara.

Shame that was impossible.

“So, what? You just out of the blue decided to bang Shiala to, what? To see what it was like?” Jacob asked, not believing that for a second. That wasn't like Miranda. “You'd never do that, unless—“

He trailed off, a realisation dawning upon him.

“Unless what?” Miranda prompted, impatiently. She didn't like not being privy to whatever he was speculating about her. It wasn't a pleasant feeling to be the subject of this inquiry.

“Unless there is an asari you're interested in,” he concluded. Miranda was really beginning to hate him for knowing her so intimately. “Is it Samara?”

Fuck. Why did everybody--?!

Miranda tried to maintain her complexion and her composure, doing her best to avoid immediately giving everything away by her reaction to that statement alone. “I never said—“

“Well, if it's not her, then who the hell else is it?” Jacob pressed, gesturing for her to fill in the blanks, if he was indeed mistaken. But he knew he wasn't. “I can't think of any other living woman – human, asari or any other species – who would make you think twice about them.”

“You're presuming an awful lot about me, Jacob,” Miranda pointed out. Despite how good she was at concealing her response, Jacob wasn't deterred; he knew he was onto something.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but you are really hard to impress, and you're justified in that. You're on a different level than most people, and not because of your genetics. You deserve someone exceptional. I've always known that's why...you and I never worked out.” Jacob briefly averted his gaze at that, but it didn't seem to trouble him too much. That was history now.

“With Shepard gone, Samara's probably the only person in the galaxy I’ve ever met who'd be worth your time,” he continued. “She operates on some whole other kind of cosmic, spiritual plane entirely that I don’t even fully comprehend. And, don’t tell her, but she also intimidates the hell out of me. Always has. So, for real Miranda, if it’s not her...then by all means, enlighten me.”

Miranda's resistance faltered. She sighed and let her head rest against two fingers. “...Just because you're right doesn't mean I want to talk about it.”

“You know, Miranda, I am a straight man,” said Jacob, pulling up a chair opposite her. “If there's one thing I can relate to, it's how it feels to fall for an unattainable woman. And, go figure, you happened to fall for the only woman in the universe I can think of who fits that definition even more than you do.”

“Exactly. She's unattainable,” Miranda reiterated. “You know it. I know it. So what's the use in sitting around mulling over it like a bloody whinger?” Miranda asked, shaking her head. “It's pointless.”

“Do you know that, though?” Jacob pressed. “I mean, have you spoken to her about it?”

Miranda snorted. “I've spoken to her a grand total of three times since I've been on Earth. Once, I was half-dead. The second time, I damn near had a panic attack just from standing within five feet of her. The third time, I snapped at her, told her I needed space and she vanished again, as she does. Besides, she’s off doing Justicar things now. I don't expect I'm ever going to be inundated with opportunities to bring it up. If I did, it would just alienate her.”

“I think you give her too little credit,” Jacob countered.

“No offence, but I know her better than you do,” Miranda shut him down.

“Wow, Miranda.” Jacob uttered a strange chuckle, crossing his arms together on the table. “If you were a guy, I'd be calling you a massive coward right now.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze, somewhat affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Are you really going to hide how you feel because you can't toughen up and face rejection?” he challenged, seemingly as a form of motivation. “I didn't think you were like that. Pretending to be a friend when you can't even tell her you want more is what we in the Corsairs used to call 'a bitch move'.”

“Charming. Except it's not pretending,” Miranda muttered, resenting having to defend her intentions. “I am her friend. That's not fake. And it has nothing to do with being scared of rejection. It's not going to break my heart if she doesn't feel the same way. I know she doesn't. She’s shown zero indication otherwise.”

“So what have you got to lose?” Jacob prompted.

“The connection we already have?” Miranda supplied, not wishing to tarnish their rapport or scare Samara away. “It's insensitive and disrespectful to dump my feelings on her when she's made it perfectly clear she has no interest in that kind of relationship with anyone, after how it ended last time. She already met the love of her life, and that person died a long time ago. Now she's married to her Code, and it's not my place to tempt her away from it. Even if being with her was an option, I'm not entirely sure I'd want things to change between us either.”

“Wouldn't you?” he asked, doubting that very much. “In all the time I've known you, this is the first time I've seen you give up on anything. You're many things, but you're not a quitter.”

“I'm not giving up, I'm just being realistic,” Miranda insisted, failing to see the point in pretending impossible outcomes warranted consideration. “This is an issue I need to deal with, and I'm simply narrowing down my list of solutions, the same way I would with any other problem. My approach shouldn't be any less logical simply because I'm dealing with something emotional.”

“...I still think you should tell her. Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you, but Samara definitely cares about you a lot. Even I can see that. I mean...” Jacob paused, held a deep breath and released it, as if wondering if it was his place to tell her this. Eventually, he decided to come out with it. “When Samara came back to London, and I told her that you were alive and well, I swear to God, I have never seen that woman come so close to breaking down. She damn near cried on the spot she was so happy you were okay.”

Miranda’s eye shimmered when she heard that. She could believe that. She probably would have reacted the same way if their positions were reversed.

“Thank you for telling me that. But it doesn’t change anything,” Miranda somewhat reluctantly answered, touched though she was by Jacob’s revelation. “I already know Samara cares about me. That’s not the question. That’s not the problem. If anything, it just confirms why I’m afraid of pushing her away.”

“Jeez. Even that won’t convince you to be honest with her? Alright, fine, be that way,” Jacob gave up, gesturing as if to wash his hands of the issue, at least for that day. Evidently it was late and he was annoyed. After a moment, though, something seemed to dawn on him, an intrigued look passing over his features.

“What?” Miranda asked, suspicious.

“It just hit me that you know what it's like to be with an asari now,” he observed.

“Yes.” Miranda's features only soured, sensing where this was going.

“So, like we both sort of hinted at earlier, we're tight enough that it's not going to be weird if I ask you what it's really like,” he continued.

Miranda just stared at him, unamused. “Congratulations on fulfilling the stereotype and being exactly like every other heterosexual male in the galaxy.”

“Come on,” he urged. “It's not a...perverted thing. But there's so much Extranet bullshit out there about asari that even you had to have been curious about how they actually have sex - or meld. This is your chance to set the record straight.”

“And it has absolutely nothing to do with having an anecdote that will score you free drinks for the rest of your life, and even less to do with the fact that you’ve seen all twenty-six instalments of the Asari Confessions series and talk about it online,” Miranda dryly remarked, not stupid enough to be fooled.

Jacob blinked at her.

“I spied on everyone on The Normandy, Jacob,” she reminded him.

He sighed heavily, deciding there was no point in being embarrassed Miranda knew about that. “If it makes you feel better, whenever I make a comment, I promise no one will suspect I got my information from you,” Jacob said.

Miranda huffed. However, Jacob was basically her best friend, and the only person she really had left. Maybe it was normal to talk about this sort of thing. Besides, at least if she gave him an answer, he'd never bother her about it again.

“...Have you ever...played around with magnets or electromagnetic fields?” Miranda asked, unable to think of a better analogy. Jacob nodded. “Well, it's sort of like that, except without any magnets or electromagnetic fields,” she unwillingly explained. “Their skin also feels like latex.”

Jacob fixed her with a look. “Has anyone ever told you you're not fun to talk to?”

“Frequently, yes,” Miranda confirmed.

* * *

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

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