A/N: Apologies for the long silence. Many things happened in real life, including a change of job and getting a new place of my own. For the record, I have no abandoned this story. In fact, Mass Effect 3's 'too little, too late' spiel has been downright frustrating and I'm more determined than ever to complete my version of the reaper war and what happens after. Thanks for sticking with me, guys!

Chapter 7

It was as though time had ceased to exist within the room. Reading each file had compelling the opening of new ones until the entire screen was overflowing with overlaying meshes of text and diagrams.

Blurred eyes and a clogged throat finally forced Miranda to lean tiredly against the backrest. She swallowed almost reflexively, half-wishing that the information now ingrained in her mind could be shoved away with the same ease.

A half-hearted swipe of her palm turned the screen dark, hiding the damning material out of sight. Reading every file in the database would take days, and she was sick to death of unpleasant surprises. Would things have gone on differently if she'd never taken the first step and ran away, she wondered dazedly.

It'd been one of her regular jaunts, figuring out how far she could slip pass her father's security web. Overhearing that fateful conversation between him and a Cerberus scientist over how he'd orchestrated her rape attempt to galvanise the development of her biotic abilities had been the last straw. In an act of vengeance, she'd killed his scientists before stumbling into the nursery where she'd laid eyes on Oriana.

It was the first time she'd seen a baby this close up. She'd already known then that Oriana was supposed to be her replacement, but strangely, resentment was absent. Staring at those tiny hands and feet, that scrunched-up face with blue eyes the shade of hers, she was awestruck that through the miracle of life, this tiny thing was as complete as it would ever be, and would eventually grow up to look exactly like herself. The real kicker was the fact that this infant would probably live her own childhood, subjected to the same treatment she'd undergone.

Running away with Oriana had constituted the biggest decision of Miranda's life back then. But it was nothing compared to the realisation that she had to give Oriana up for adoption. It was impossible not to wonder what kind of a person Oriana would grow up to become. For several agonising days, she'd ruthlessly squashed pipe dreams of keeping Oriana by her side. She was in no position to raise a child, nor was she equipped with the skills or knowledge to keep both of them safe from their father.

There seemed to be no point to compromises once that was established. Any attempt to maintain a link would only endanger the both of them, not to mention compromise her apprenticeship to become a covert agent. It was unthinkable to go that far only to fail.

Still...

In the end, the link wasn't entirely severed, not quite. To make sure Oriana was entirely safeguarded, she'd opted to maintain a distant observation. She'd always been careful, sticking to chance encounters during Oriana's childhood when their physical similarities weren't striking yet, and forcing herself to stay away as Oriana grew up. That had been one of the most painful and drawn-out decisions she'd had to make. One only recanted when it became increasingly clear that she might not survive the collector base mission.

Shakily, Miranda ran a hand through her hair. Was it prescience that'd led her to never be satisfied with just watching from a distance; for her mind to say that leaving Oriana alone was the right thing, but to fight tooth and nail for that emotional connection? A connection that, as it turned out, transcended the bonds of siblinghood.

That was absurd. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of such a foolish notion. None of them could've known. It was stupid to explain her behaviour all these years as any sort of subconscious yearning, biological or otherwise.

If anything else, it ought to have served as an early sign that letting go wasn't something that came easy to her. She couldn't help but dread meeting Oriana again. Playing the role of a sister was something that'd taken years of painstaking trial and error. They couldn't afford such damning knowledge now. How was it possible that in the span of a few hours, a dead man she was ready to declare herself free of could do so much damage to the two close ties she had in this world?

But that anger found no traction to build up momentum, no target to strike at. How would one even begin a fight with the dead?

Tiredly, Miranda laid her head down on the cold table surface again. No, the immediate problems involved the living. Did Oriana know about this? Could she bring herself to reveal the truth? Or was that decision already taken out of her hands?

A beep from her omni-tool intruded. Dazedly, she saw that it was Cordelia on the line. How long has it been since their last conversation? It felt like a lifetime ago, except a glance told her only an hour had passed. Closing her eyes, Miranda opened them again before keying the voice-only channel.

"Well?" Cordelia's voice drawled.

Her mind stuttered to an absolute blank. Anything that she could say seemed to stop far short of adequate. Taking a deep breath, she scrambled to collect her scattered thoughts.

"I think I've read enough. Enough to give us a basis to talk." She took another deep breath. "But I have some questions—how could you have known what was in these files?"

Silence stretched to the point where Miranda half-expected the line to be cut off unceremoniously again. There was no escaping the pleading nature of her question, but she was too tired to muster any degree of indignation right now.

"I'd always known about the genetic biotics angle. Cerberus had a bad habit of not cleaning up after themselves. But that can't be news to you."

The reply was strangely devoid of any sentiment. It was a big improvement, but the normalcy was also unsettling coming from someone she knew hated her beyond reason. Biting her lip, Miranda punched the button for visual contact. The holographic interface fired up, revealing Cordelia who appraised her with half lidded eyes that gave away nothing of her intentions. After a moment's hesitation, Miranda decided to take the plunge.

"What about the part on using my ova to create those born after me?"

That had an effect. It was almost indiscernible, the slight twitch of jaw muscles before Cordelia's lips stretched into her trademarked false smile.

"Quite the can of worms, isn't it? I was wondering if I ought to address you as 'dear mother'." She laughed at the involuntary cringe that flitted across Miranda's face. "It's serendipity, really. I was curious how the security system recognises you and no one else. So I engaged the services of a bio-lab to specifically look for differences in our genetic make-ups." An insouciant shrug here. "Considering our non-existent relationship, who we are to each other is ultimately an academic exercise. Not so for Ori."

It was a source of underlying frustration that Miranda still knew next to nothing about Cordelia. That gaping blank was something that'd made her reluctant to judge or take a stance that would actively set them against each other. She still had no idea what to make of the complicated kinship they shared, or if Cordelia even laid any store behind it. But there was one relationship in this entire mess she absolutely had to salvage.

With an effort, she tried to keep accusation from her voice.

"Just what have you told Ori?"

Cordelia cocked her head, that dazzling smile never once leaving her face.

"Everything. She has the right to know. Except everything here simply means the tip of the iceberg. As I'm sure you're beginning to find out."

All this was delivered without a trace of rancour. If anything else, Cordelia's attitude was one of curiosity, as though she was waiting to see which way the pieces fell. And it was with difficulty that Miranda schooled her face into neutrality.

"Put her on the line please."

Her mirror image made a show of conferring off-screen before turning back.

"She doesn't want to talk to you right now. Not till she reads those files herself, she says. And we definitely need to talk," came the dry rejoinder. "For that, you'll just have to accept that I'll be using Ori as my guarantor for...good behaviour on your part, among other things."

It was too reasonable coming from someone she suspected had a very tenuous grasp of the concept of reason. And the idea that Oriana shared similar sentiments was a thought that chilled Miranda.

"Cordelia, I assure you you'll be able to enter the tower unmolested. There's no need to involve Ori in this."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed in irritation.

"You're not even listening, are you? She wants to be involved. In fact, she wants to know as much as I do what happens next. She says she's tired of second-hand accounts. Can you blame her?"

Oriana wasn't the only one she had to worry about, Miranda realised belatedly. Cordelia was every bit as intelligent as the both of them. And she was an absolute wildcard, not above playing them against one another to achieve her objectives. Suddenly, she dreaded to think what kind of agreement they would've reached without her knowledge.

"I'll send a shuttle over," she said heavily after a while.

"There's no need," came the clipped assertion. "We'll be there in an hour or so. I'm sure you wouldn't want our reunion or the potential fallout to become public knowledge, so I'll be expecting a private reception at the landing pad." Cordelia's gaze grew intent. "Don't surprise me."

It wasn't unexpected that Cordelia would abruptly terminate the connection once again, but this time, Miranda slammed a fist against the table with a curse. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Frustration was definitely not going to serve her now, and with difficulty, she forced herself to pace the room, arms crossed tightly, until she finally walked off the excess energy.

She was beginning to suspect that regardless of what Oriana thought or wanted, Cordelia was likely the one calling the shots. Lack of information was definitely what brought about this stalemate and even now, she still had no idea what drove Cordelia to hate her so much. Cordelia, on the other hand, was entirely aware of the advantage she had and was adroitly using it to maintain an upper hand.

The question was how far she was willing to let their youngest push that limit. Under normal circumstances, she would be triaging the situation to achieve the best possible outcome. Getting Oriana to safety remained the priority, but for the first time, Miranda found herself unable to stomach the idea of writing Cordelia off as collateral damage.

Trying to rationalise the reason behind that aversion simply sent her thoughts skidding away like oil on water. Similar to the way they refuse to coalesce when she tried to imagine what she would say to Oriana. The whole trip up here, reading the files was supposed to fill the gaps in her knowledge. But the effect had been the exact opposite.

Pausing mid-step, Miranda clasped her head between both hands, her fingers pressed hard against her temples to ward off the incipient headache taking root there. No, the stalemate couldn't hold. Something had to give.

Getting through to Cordelia was the key. Her chest heaved in bitter laughter that was quickly stolen away by the pervasive hum of the databanks. One way or another, she had to find a way to breach that barrier. Even if it meant—she finally admitted to herself—that she would have to acknowledge motherhood over all of them.

2185 CE, Omega, Sahrabarik System

Cooling his heels in a smelly back alley of a dingy space station was definitely not how Shepard envisioned his day to end, far less being scrutinised by multiple pairs of eyes belonging to Afterlife's batarian bouncers.

Sitting on the floor now, back against a metal wall, he swung a bottle of krogan liquor haphazardly about and feigned an inebriated grin as he offered it to one of the batarians who eyed him with undisguised wariness. The other bouncer pursed his lips at the spectacle and then took a peremptory step forward as though he'd like to snatch the bottle away.

Shepard dropped his grin immediately, his eyes narrowing as he tracked the motion beneath lowered brows. The bouncer froze at the burning intensity of his gaze and aborted the approach in a fluster. Gesturing at his partner, the both of them retreated several steps. Rewarding them with another sunny smile, Shepard took a swig of the bottle.

The concoction tasted vile, but it was his rightfully earned trophy—a drinking dare from a turian whom he'd then proceeded to beat the daylights out of—all under the pretence of being dead drunk. The fallout of that debacle was still ongoing, with faint sounds of things being moved filtering through the loud music beyond the door. A minute later, the door opened and two turians emerged, labouring under a stretcher laden with the bulk of a very dead krogan.

He turned away at the sight, his mood taking a sudden dive. He was off duty today, damn it. For the first time in a long time, there were no calculating eyes shadowing every move he made, no reminders of his obligations to a terrorist organisation that without so much as a 'may we?' decided to take over custody of his life.

The hard-bitten crowd in there had made for a difficult audience, but at least their needs were simple. Once he'd topped a few of the more outrageous dares, they'd become downright receptive. Until the foot stomping and cheering was unceremoniously cut short by a group of regulars that took offense to his showmanship. So he'd beat them into the ground. One thing had led to another—he vaguely recalled shots fired— but the entire process had a life of its own, and he went with the flow until he found himself surrounded at gunpoint by Aria T'Loak's bodyguards. The de facto ruler of Omega had scowled at him from the vantage of her platform before ordering her men to escort him out.

Thinking back to that moment stung. Shepard quickly dismissed it and took another swig. It was potent stuff, guaranteed to sear off the stomach linings of most humans, except he'd emptied half the bottle so far with no effect. It wasn't his fault, not entirely. They were done on Omega anyway. He was entitled to squander away some of that bogus credential people seemed hell-bent on fostering on him.

Was it only three weeks and a day ago that he was on board the SSV Normandy, breathing the last moments of his life? One day after that, he'd woken up on Lazarus station to find a gigantic gap in his memory and a Shepard-size hole that'd been status quo for much of two years.

In that time, the galaxy had gone on without him, not the slightest bit hindered by the loss of his role as a ranting lunatic bent on spreading the news that the Reapers were coming. As recent as this morning, his attempt to contact former allies was once again stonewalled; friends he'd hoped would help him remained conveniently out of touch.

Abruptly, he swung the bottle by neck against a bulwark. The glass cracked sharply, splattering him with its eye-watering content. Tossing the bottle aside with a clatter, Shepard closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. No, the surrealism that was his life didn't require any sort of chemical assistance to achieve.

One week ago in real-time, he'd been walking past the med-bay, an unwilling dreamer, when he noticed the unusual gathering of people inside. Darting behind a pillar, he'd inched his way to the door and switched on the audio feed. The voice that filtered through was unmistakeable—the sharp cadences of Lawson, his Cerberus-appointed executive officer grilling Mordin over.

"—to my attention that Commander Shepard has been trying out a number of prototypical combat upgrades on himself. Is that true?"

"Yes. Applied ceramic-reinforced nano-skinweave to epidermal layer one week ago. Also, Shepard expressed interest in Sirta Foundation's bone sheath prototype. Still doubtful if can be applied to humans. Originally meant for turian physiology. Would probably need to—"

"Why wasn't I informed?"

Surreptitiously, Shepard had edged towards the edge of door where it met the plexiglass windows. Tilting his head slightly, he caught sight of Mordin's black pupils widening, wrinkling the skin on his forehead where a human's eyebrows would be.

"Miscommunication? Saw the forms. Shepard signed them. Didn't think additional verification was needed. Although found lack of medical history files inconvenient. Worked around it. Didn't—"

She'd cut the Salarian scientist off peremptorily.

"My point is the Commander doesn't have the authority to order those modifications!"

After a brief silence, the third person in the room, Dr. Chakwas cleared her throat mildly.

"Who does if not Shepard?"

Shepard couldn't help saluting the good doctor with a silent thumbs-up. What was even more satisfying was Lawson's nonplussed expression. But almost as quickly, she recovered her composure.

"The Commander had a lot of alterations made to his body when we brought him back. His wellbeing involves a delicate balance of the synthetic and organic parts. Anything that upsets that will affect his optimal performance at best, and in a worst case scenario, send him into cardiac arrest." She paused here before continuing on in that put-on patient tone, "That's why, Professor, I'd appreciate it if you'd inform me before applying any more upgrades on the Commander. That goes for you too, Doctor."

Shepard couldn't help his snort of disbelief. The only thing she cared about was safeguarding Cerberus's four-billion credit investment in him. Right from the start, Lawson had made it amply clear she didn't share the goodwill the rest of the crewmembers had towards him. Her attitude had alternated between low-level antagonism and cold studying looks, both expertly masked under the façade of professionalism.

It was refreshing in a way. Lawson's behaviour was exactly the kind of reception he'd expected from an organisation he'd took great pleasure in cracking down while hunting for Saren; the same way they'd had no qualms about throwing his squad to the thresher maws.

"Understood. Last prototype—simple skin graft. Easy to remove. Assuming instructions on product file are correct…" Mordin tweaked his undamaged cranial horn thoughtfully before his head perked up. "Have better suggestion! Give access to Shepard's reconstruction files. Can gauge inherent risks and complications. Needn't have this conversation in the first place."

Lawson shook her head with impatience.

"I can't do that, Professor. It's classified—"

That was it. Shepard slapped his hand on the entrance button and strode into the room. Every face swivelled towards him, but he was tired to death of getting pushed around. Time to push back.

"Don't mind Ms. Lawson, Mordin. She's just trying to be polite over your inability to see the label that reads "Property of Cerberus" stamped across my forehead." He crossed his arms and leaned casually on one leg even as he bit his words out through clenched jaw muscles. "The Alliance tends think of Cerberus as the schoolyard bully we don't talk about. Subtlety isn't one of their strong points. Not when beating something to death with a stick is the only way they know to get the job done."

An awkward silence filled the room. The target of his damning observation stared at him long and hard. Finally, she lifted her chin at him.

"If I may so politely remind you, Commander—without Cerberus, you wouldn't be standing here making disingenuous statements over our lack of subtlety."

Shepard gave Mordin and Chakwas a sardonic smile, "Make that a big stick," before upending his hand at Lawson as though showing off an exhibit, "Case in point."

Despite his smothering animosity towards Lawson and the organisation she represented, he had to admit she was a very beautiful woman. If it was even possible, her alabaster complexion became paler as her cheeks flushed a faint pink. Chakwas busied herself with a datapad here, while Mordin looked at both of them with the unabashed interest of a spectator.

"Commander," Lawson's tone was wintry-cool. "Can I have a minute with you in my office?"

He returned her exquisite courtesy by slapping a hand on the control, holding the door open until they passed through. They walked the length of the mess hall, the picture of a captain consulting ship matters with his executive officer to the outward eye.

"I apologise for my slip of tongue," she said formally once she'd parked herself safely behind her desk and the door sealed them from prying ears and eyes. "It wasn't my intention to cast doubts on your leadership."

He'd half-expected a blow up and was faintly disappointed that it didn't materialise. In the course of these few weeks, Shepard had become inclined to believe that Lawson's professionalism wasn't a façade. There was no escaping that he had to work closely with her, and it was evident she'd never played the role of a ship's executive officer before. The few times he'd had the opportunity to point out things she'd overlooked, she'd corrected every single one of them.

In all appearances, this was a woman who expected no quarters. And in assuming that he'd overheard the entire conversation, she'd wisely decided not to play him for a fool. Not that it mattered, because he wasn't in the mood to give any quarters.

"Really? You people brought me back, gave me command of this cushy ship, foot all the bills so I can stop the Collectors. And the next thing I know, my second-in-command is going behind my back to tug at my leash. How about you come clean and tell me what Cerberus's agenda really is?"

Lawson laid both palms flat on her table before looking at him.

"Commander, this has got nothing to do with Cerberus's agenda," she said slowly and levelly. "You're pushing thirty percent cybernetic, an unfortunate side effect of needing you combat-ready. But your primary organs are still organic. They can't sustain the level of activity synthetic components are optimised for. All it takes is a moment of recklessness and your heart will burst."

It was his turn to study her long and hard. And as the seconds ticked by, he could feel anger fuelling the rise in his blood pressure. The shock of waking up to find two years had gone by had been gradually replaced by an unsettling sense of wrongness. Confronted with the possibility that she might remotely be concerned for his welfare… No, maybe it was ungrateful, but Shepard couldn't muster any gratitude towards anyone responsible for his resurrection. How unfortunate, indeed, that they had to bring him back at all.

"Thanks for the concern," he drawled false cordiality. "Can't say I'm exactly thrilled, what with all the mixed messages you've been sending off. It might've been better if you'd installed that control chip. Things would've been crystal clear then."

Again with that cool lift of her chin. But was that exasperation creeping into her voice?

"I'm sorry you feel that way about me. Wilson's betrayal was my fault; I failed to recognise the signs and we had to blow up an entire station to cover our tracks. So excuse me if I was a little terse back then."

With efficient movements, she pulled open her table drawer and lifted a datapad into plain view.

"But that doesn't detracts from what I have to say. I've been monitoring your combat performance for the past few weeks. Your response time consistently break your previous records, right down to the split-second incremental that has saved your life more than a few times now."

Shepard raised his eyebrow in mock surprise.

"Is that a problem?"

"Commander, if you have a death-wish, I'd appreciate knowing. I didn't spend two years bringing you back so you could kill yourself on pointless heroics." Her voice was sharp with remonstration.

It was satisfying to see the haunch that he was on the right track to prick that impenetrable bubble she'd surrounded herself with materialised. But now that her flinty blue eyes seemed to pierce through his insouciance, heat rose involuntarily to Shepard's cheeks.

"And we're back to Cerberus's billion-dollar investment in me." He crossed his arms in front of him. "While we're at it, how about replacing those organs with synthetics? Tell me when you have my size, and I'll block off a date on my social calendar. Then you can safely leave me to my pointless heroics."

Her lips thinned visibly with irritation.

"There is no point to this conversation if you're going to ignore my question."

"No more than you are." Shepard bit out. "Rebuilding me with cybernetics wasn't the unfortunate effect of needing me combat ready. You people wanted a killing machine. And now you've got one. So why the hell are you holding me back?"

Lawson stared long and hard at him as though she didn't believe her ears.

"My orders were to bring back the same person you were before; nothing more, nothing less. I've done that despite having to install synthetic components because we needed you operational fast. By operational, I meant Commander Shepard, the first human spectre, Saviour of the Citadel. Not some mindless killing machine. You are entirely responsible for your current augmentations—augmentations built on top of systems that cannot support them!"

Shepard smiled a smile that never reached his eyes.

"I recall the Illusive Man gave you a new set of instructions after that – to obey my command. Since you lay so much store by orders, then act like a damn subordinate for a start. Stop interfering with how I do my job and give Mordin full access to my files."

He'd left soon after, not caring that Lawson's face was livid with anger. It was a childish victory, pointless defiance against all that was beyond his control. But what was done couldn't be undone.

There was no denying Project Lazarus had done a superb job bringing him back to life. He'd never been in better form, and going into combat augmented by improved reflexes and enhanced strength brought on a greater adrenaline rush he could ever imagine. Calling himself a killing machine? That wasn't so farfetched. But beyond that…

In building the SR2 and engaging ex-Alliance personnel like Chakwas, Joker, Ken and Gabby to man the ship, the Illusive Man had hoped to recreate the sense of normalcy and belonging lost with the original Normandy. What wasn't accounted for, however, was how that masquerade shredded at the most innocuous of moments. The dissonance was such that the carefully orchestrated artifice came crashing down like a ton of dead elcor, tearing everything else along with it. Today had been a parade of those moments with the coup de grace wrapping the evening in a disastrous package.

He was sick of this place, Shepard decided.

Dropping all pretence of inebriation, he rose to his feet in a smooth motion. From the corner of his eye, his batarian minders reacted with agitation. He turned to stare at them sullenly, daring them to stop him until the taller of the two lifted his hands in placation.

"Boss says wait. Someone from your ship is picking you up."

"Thanks for the concern. I know the way back."

Fresh commotion filtered through the club walls at this moment. A few seconds later, the lock flashed green and the backdoor opened and Lawson's svelte figure strode through.

Instead of the black combat armour she favoured outside of the ship, she was dressed in her Cerberus uniform. It was very likely she'd been called up on short notice, which would make anyone testy, but her expression remained calm and guarded. The only sign that suggested otherwise was the way she wrinkled her nose as she approached him.

The bouncers who were brazenly nudging each other as they eyed her form-hugging attire came forward like flies drawn to the scent of honey.

"Come pick up your troublemaker, pet?" The taller batarian drawled as he leaned casually against a wall. "He made quite a mess, but we've got him under watch, nice and easy. Night's still young, how about joining us for a couple of drinks, loosen yourself up for some personal engagements?"

His partner sniggered on cue and made a crude pumping motion with his hand. Slowly, Lawson turned around to face them, and for a whimsical moment, Shepard was glad he wasn't the object of her withering scorn this time. What came out of her mouth next, however, surprised the hell out of him.

"I'm here at Aria's personal request, as courtesy for her assistance with the work we had to do—work made needlessly difficult thanks to the riffraff that populate this station." She sniffed with disdain. "My superior officer was looking for some hard-earned R&R tonight. Piss-poor welcome you've shown him."

The batarian blinked all four eyes in disbelief.

"You've got to be shitting me, lady. Your friend here trashed a good part of the club! Not to mention—"

"Be grateful all he did was break some tables and kill a couple of krogans. Your décor needed the change and they probably deserved it." Lawson interrupted haughtily. "In our month-long stay, I've yet to see any evidence to Afterlife's claim of being Omega's most exclusive club. In fact, you should thank Commander Shepard for ridding you of your worst elements. If this keeps up, you might actually achieve that distinction."

It was an outrageous bluff, made convincing only by that exquisite upper-class snobbery few could pull off. The batarian was obviously out of his league, his mouth working soundlessly. But before he could get another word edgewise, Lawson cut in with ruthless timing.

"So don't dream of pushing the blame on us if you can't keep a tight rein on the kind of people you let into your premises. Consider that free advice. And if we receive anything remotely resembling a damage bill, you can be sure Aria will hear about it."

She turned towards Shepard in a smooth movement, the perfect personification of dismissal.

"Shall we go, Commander?"

It was all Shepard could do to stop from bursting into laughter. With effort, he wrestled on a straight face and said gravely, "Lead the way, Ms. Lawson."

They left the vicinity of Afterlife in decorous silence which gave plenty of time for his mind to wander. It was impossible not to notice the lush form that walked before him. Any man with heterosexual inclinations must be dead below the waist not to feel their blood quicken at the sight of Lawson, especially in that attire that left little to imagination.

This was the first time he felt comfortable admiring what was before him. He hadn't been inclined to indulge at her expense as long as they'd remained antagonistic. Thinking back on his behaviour a week ago, and how he'd persisted in breaking through her cool exterior almost made him ashamed. But as fast as that thought surfaced, indignation rose to combat it.

I'm such a sorry ass. She offers one olive branch and I cave like a man lost in the desert, selling my soul for a drink.

He turned his eyes away in disgust. There was every reason to believe that she was trying to repair Cerberus's reputation tarnished by his antics just now. Right from the start, her cool disdain had been strangely familiar, a mantle he could wear comfortably like a pair of old Alliance fatigues. It was far preferable to the disarming goodwill that radiated from just about every other crewmember; something he had no idea what to do with. But most importantly, Lawson made it amply clear that she owed him nothing.

His mood became as dour as before when he arrived at that conclusion. The mental exercise absorbed all of his attention that when he finally looked up, Shepard realised that they were heading towards Normandy's docking bay.

"I'm not ready to go back," he announced.

Lawson turned around, the dull red lighting of the dingy corridor imbuing her pale complexion with an unearthly glow.

"It's past midnight local time, and we're undocking at o-six-hundred tomorrow."

"I'll be there," he muttered as he prepared to walk away.

"Shepard, are you drunk?"

The concern in her voice brought him up short. For a second, he almost laughed, suspecting sarcasm at his expense until he realised he probably reeked of spilled liquor. Suddenly, he was inexplicably tired of all the second-guessing.

"Why do you care?"

The expression on her face seemed to say she'd have thought the answer would be obvious.

"It's unwise wandering around Omega drunk in the night."

He had half a mind still to simply walk away, but he was beginning to realise that he wasn't really inclined to wander around Omega the whole night drunk, or in this case, perfectly sober.

"That's not what I meant." He leaned against a bulkhead in a deceptively casual manner, ready to hunker down for a long conversation to the outward eye. "Why do you care at all?"

Her frown carried more than a shade of exasperation when she digested his question.

"I've said it before. Regardless of Cerberus's investment in you, I spent two years of my life bringing you back. It may be my job to assist you with the mission, but that doesn't mean I don't have a personal interest to see you succeed."

"Really?" He gestured at the direction they came from. "What was that just now if not salvaging Cerberus' reputation after my fight?"

All this time, her eyes darted around to survey their surroundings, making sure they were the only ones in the vicinity. But he definitely detected a flash of a grimace as she raised her chin ever so slightly.

"That was to fix my mistake of undermining your authority. I don't make the same mistake twice." Crossing her arms, she continued firmly. "And for the record, I'm done jumping through hoops trying to prove my intentions. We'll be in each other's company far longer than either of us will prefer. If you're still not convinced by the end of the mission, chances are it won't matter because we'll all be dead."

As much as Shepard wanted to call her out on it, her assertions so far rang with the sound of truth. He was beginning to find out he could fault Lawson for any number of things, but lack of character integrity wasn't one of them. Still, he couldn't help but raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"That doesn't match with what you just said about helping me succeed."

Lawson made a sound of impatience.

"It's called a suicide mission for a reason, Shepard. Extraction is secondary to the objective."

"So you don't believe we can survive past that? Doesn't sound like you to settle for less."

Lawson finally stopped her constant lookout, all sense of wariness and reservation abandoned.

"On what grounds should I believe it?" She studied him before she began pacing the breadth of the corridor, her cadence forming a brisk staccato with her footsteps. "Normally, I'd look to my commanding officer for guidance, but you haven't given me reason for confidence. Frankly, I've read your Alliance personnel file until I can quote it verbatim, but I've yet to see a glimpse of the man it describes." She shrugged. "Just empty promises and little more than that."

All of it was damningly true even if there were reasons she wasn't privy to. Shepard's nostrils flared in response.

"Did you think I could actually refuse your Illusive Man back then? I was disoriented, alone in a hostile space station, cut off from all communications. If you were me, what would you do?"

"Was that a rhetorical question or do I get a shot at answering?" she retorted.

It was his turn to be nonplussed. Finally, Shepard lifted his palm outwards in invitation. When she spoke again, her voice was low with suppressed frustration.

"I was ready to dismiss you as a lost cause when the Illusive Man showed me your file. But you put your life and career on the line to warn the galaxy about the Reapers. Because of that, he was convinced of the threat. He persuaded me that you'd understand setting aside differences for a greater good." Her eyes sought his unerringly. "Was he mistaken? Have you decided it's no longer worth the trouble?"

Shepard found he had nothing to say to her. The recent days had been a test of his resolve as he gritted his teeth to maintain the semblance of normalcy, the coherence of a competent command. It was an orchestrated dynamic that he detested, to the point he wanted nothing more than to tear down the whole masquerade. Sullenly, he stared at the dingy floor.

When it became evident that silence was the answer, Lawson turned away and threw her hands up in the air.

"Is that a yes? Why don't you come out and say it and we can stop wasting each other's time?" She gazed around, taking in their surroundings, the discoloured walls and piles of rubbish underfoot. "And why aren't we having this conversation back on the ship? Why the hell are we talking in a public corridor on Omega?"

Finally a question he could answer unequivocally.

"I told you I'm not ready to go back to the Normandy."

She swivelled back to face him.

"Why?"

Shepard gazed at her from lowered brows. The plea in her voice was unmistakable. All pretences were gone from her striking blue eyes—the studying looks, the impenetrable mask, the cold and distant personality. Perhaps it was time to stop the posturing. They had been doing that since the moment they met, neither willing to show any signs of weakness, and had gone nowhere all this time.

He leaned his head against the metal wall and slowly unlocked his knees, allowing his weight to pull him down.

"You're right." He exhaled as his thighs hit the floor. "I tried to back out of the agreement. Can't expect me not to. But your Illusive Man did a great job sewing up all my options. I tried to contact the Alliance again today. Managed to reach a colonel this time, the highest ranking personnel I could get to so far."

Lawson crossed her arms, but the furrow that appeared between her brows was the product of a mind trying to understand instead of chastise.

"What did he say?"

Shepard replied with hollow equanimity, "He refused to believe that I wasn't lying about my identity. Said he's entertaining my call anyway because he had explicit orders based on rumours I might still be alive. The Alliance would not be budging from a non-association policy where terrorists were concerned. In fact, I was ordered to turn myself in for psychological testing pending status reassessment. A reassessment, he hinted, would take years to complete. I was given ten days to comply. Failing which I'd be written off as going MIA in the heat."

From the corner of his eyes, Lawson looked down and shook her head. He gazed at her until he got her full attention.

"This is where you get to gloat. He was puzzled when I demanded to know what the Alliance was doing about the disappearing colonies. Nothing, he said. It was just pirate activity. Those colonists had to know what they were getting into relocating to the Terminus Systems. Ever wonder what it feels like to be shitted on by your own organisation? I do now."

She raised her head with an irritated toss, flicking dark hair from her face.

"Why on earth would I gloat? Nobody benefits from Cerberus being the only group to heed your warning. The stakes are too high to be saying 'I told you so'."

Shepard gave a puff of a laugh. "I must be so lucky you people thought it worthwhile spending two billion credits bringing me back then. Want to know why you haven't seen the man you read about? Your Illusive Man thinks he can throw me onto a vaguely familiar ship, stuff it full of people I've worked with and expect me to perform miracles. Too bad it doesn't work that way, eh?"

A faint sigh was the response as Lawson kneaded the bridge of her nose.

"The Illusive Man has his reasons which I don't presume to understand," she confessed quietly, as she approached the section of the corridor where he'd deposited himself. "Personally, I had no illusions working under you would be a breeze. After all, I'm part of the carrot, as opposed to the stick, that sews up your options." She crinkled her nose as she surveyed the floor. In the end, she settled for leaning against the wall beside him.

"What I didn't expect was how rocky things would be," she continued. "I'll admit I became a little obsessed with you during the Lazarus Project. I had to, to stay focused on the job. But after all this time, you still don't make sense to me, Shepard. So maybe the Illusive Man made a mistake. How is it supposed to work?"

He propped his elbows on top of his raised knees.

"You asked me if I was drunk. I downed two bottles of ryncol—didn't do squat. You people bring me back wrong and then parade me like I'm the cure to an indifferent galaxy. Well, I've got news for you. My shelf-life's expired two years ago. Everyone I've known has moved on. This body—it doesn't feel like…me. It's like I-I don't even feel like I'm human anymore."

There was brief silence, after which a deep intake of breath prefaced her slow but firm declaration.

"I won't apologise for the timeframe it took to bring you back. The process was as complicated as it was gruelling. But that dissonance you described was something I'd hope to prevent. Given a few more months, you wouldn't have needed biosynthetics at all." Here, her voice trailed off into a murmur, "Although I must say your reckless pursuit of performance upgrades doesn't help your case one bit…."

Shepard bared his teeth in a non-smile.

"I didn't become the first human spectre in a vacuum. It's the people around me that made it possible. That's all gone, no thanks to your boss. Your people still think I shit eezo because I'm Commander Shepard. Now the only option left is to become a killing machine. Damn straight I'll be the best there is. Wouldn't want the Illusive Man to realise he's throwing good money after the bad, would we?"

A long and terse moment followed his outburst. On his part, Shepard refused to see the reaction on Lawson's face. He'd never intended to pour his heart out like that, and he had to wonder if he'd made a fool of himself, or if she even cared.

"Get up," she announced suddenly.

He frowned.

"We're not going back to the Normandy," she said, anticipating his protest, as she pushed herself away from the wall and began retracing their route. After a few steps, she turned around and crossed her arms in impatience. "Would you rather sit here till undock? What else could I possibly do that'd top bringing you back to life?"

Shepard couldn't help his brief bark of laughter. She was right, as before. Rising from the floor, he finally had enough presence of mind to check his neglected pistol. He'd gone into Omega this morning looking for trouble, without so much as a bullet-proof vest. Well, better late than never. Especially if they were going to take a jaunt on the station in the middle of the night.

The red glow that illuminated the winding claustrophobic corridors gradually gave way to sickly yellow lighting as they emerged onto the open concourses. The nature of Omega's crowd saw noticeable change this late in the day cycle. Hapless refugees and beggars were replaced by shifty-eyed ruffians, lounging carelessly against niches and bulkheads. What shops that remained open had guards stationed, semi-automatic weapons out in force. They walked beside each other with a calm and purposeful gait, watchful, but not drawing attention to themselves. On his part, Shepard tried as much as possible to use his body to keep Lawson out of sight from the riffraff.

"Remind me to requisition for something less eye-catching," she muttered as her hand moved to tug at her collar. He grunted wordlessly, taking it as cue to keep his own eyes from straying.

The concourses closed in to become labyrinthine corridors again as Lawson took him into areas areas that were new to him. They winded their way through maintenance hallways and atmospheric control stations, and into rickety cargo lifts and hidden stairwells housing rusty ladders, climbing upwards all the while. Signage became less and less frequent until they vanished entirely and Shepard lost track of what level they were on.

Finally, they emerged onto an open-air platform. A vast differential in air pressure somewhere created a gale-force wind that roared through the space. One side of the platform was wielded fast against a massive wall of solid rock. They were right against the skin of the hollowed out asteroid that formed the body of Omega. Safety protocols dictated that the rock barrier had to be twenty metres thick at least, but Omega wasn't known for its stellar engineering record. It was entirely possible a hull breach nearby was the source of the pressure change.

Lawson hugged the wall as much as possible as she led the way through the network of gantries. Light from structures far below threw long and deep shadows, revealing a rocky expanse that stretched steeply upwards and overhead into darkness. It seemed they weren't just on the skin of the station, but also near the top of the asteroid. Still, she led them inexorably upwards, navigating ladders slowly but surely towards the highest platform.

Deeply intrigued, Shepard followed wordlessly. This was a part of Omega he didn't know existed, and he had to wonder how she'd have stumbled onto this place. More than anything else, it brought home how little he knew of her compared to the databank's worth of information she had over him.

They climbed the last leg, the rock wall mere metres away from their backs. The wind blew continuously while they cleared the last rung of the ladder, lessened in intensity, but still strong enough to whip at hair and tug clothing. Lawson took it in stride, approaching a sharp turn ahead where a massive metal strut anchored to the rock above bisected the walkway, blocking the rest of the platform from view.

He was briefly disoriented when he bumped into her. She'd stopped just after the turn, her attention on a figure at the far end of the platform. It had human proportions and joint alignments, which meant it was either human or asari. Mystified, he turned back to Lawson who stood her ground with an undecipherable expression. Was this someone he was supposed to meet? When she showed no inclination to clarify, he took a step forward. So far the figure didn't seem to realise that it was being observed.

Almost imperceptibly, the figure walked to the very edge of the platform, both hands gripping the waist-high railing at arm's length. He was close enough now to see the feminine form and the head full of backswept blue appendages. She was wearing the garb of a pole dancer, probably just knocked off after the night's work.

The asari became aware of their presence at this moment, head turning back to reveal a beautiful tear-steaked face with wide eyes that grew bigger at his proximity. It was only then did Shepard realise her intentions. Before he could do anything, she bent double over the railing and threw herself off the platform.

The wind snatched away his scream before it left his mouth, the same way his limbs braced for a dash one second too late. After a heartbeat, he ran to the edge of the platform, the blue glow of biotics outlining his limbs, and peered down into the station depths. Free-flying debris and industrial smog hid almost everything below from view, a deceptively slow-moving curtain of grey whorls from which stained structures jutted out of. It was as if the asari never existed.

In a fit of anger, he whirled around. Lawson was in the process of walking to him, her face an impassive mask.

"Why didn't you stop her?"

She peered over the edge before murmuring almost pensively.

"Wasn't expecting to find anyone here, though I wouldn't go so far as to call it a stroke of luck…"

With supreme effort, Shepard clamped down on his rage.

"You knew what she was about to do. Why the hell didn't you stop her!"

Her nostrils flared subtly at his outburst.

"Are you asking why I'm not trying to stop everyone that's tried to kill themselves on this station? This place is one of Omega's best kept secrets, a popular suicide spot for those who prefer—a more traditional way to end their lives. An average of seven people jump off this platform every day for reasons ranging from as banal as heartbreaks to ruined lives no one bats an eyelid over. How many do you think I can stop, and would I be even doing them a favour?"

"Don't strawman the issue and extrapolate it to encompass the goddamn galaxy," Shepard snapped. "You could've stopped her, buy time for us to find out what she wanted to end her life over. This is Omega, ruled by might of arm. I can't save every soul that gets caught in it, but when I see one, I'm damn well going to do something about it. And in all likelihood, there'll be something I can do!"

"Why start with her? Why not play guardian angel to the whole godforsaken station? Isn't it a day late and a dollar short to decide you'd begin solving problems when they become suicide cases? That's a rather capricious yardstick, don't you think?" She shot back and then lifted a hand to push windblown hair away and face him directly. "Look, I'm not going to argue over semantics. My point is it's not our fight. Saving the helpless on Omega will not stop the Collectors or shed light on the incoming Reaper invasion. Those are our priorities; if we fail, nothing here matters."

Shepard stared hard at her. His immediate impulse was to shout her down, an urge he had control physically with clenched fists. But as soon as that moment passed, he had to grudgingly admit she had a point.

"Then why bring me here to show me all this?"

"The tragedy here isn't that she decided to take her own life. It's how she's lost along with it the chance to make anything worthwhile of her existence. You said it; her problem was likely trivial enough that we could've solved it. Unfortunately, she doesn't get a second chance." Here, her gaze seemed to pierce through him. "You do."

He narrowed his eyes at which she lifted a peremptory finger.

"For all it's worth, I'm sorry about the personal confusion you're going through. But I'm not sorry for bringing you back to life. Contractually-speaking, you're only bounded for the Collector mission. The Reapers remain a threat that will require all the galaxy's resources to defeat. Your work has only just begun."

"Provided we survive your Illusive Man's suicide mission," he pointed out in vexed irritation.

She raised her brow to that in a deeply-ironic manner.

"Perhaps it's time to make good your promise. From what I've read of your files, getting us back alive still wouldn't count as your most outrageous accomplishment."

Shepard responded with a wry grimace. After taking one last look below, he retraced his steps around the corner where the gale-force wind was much abated. The act of sitting down now felt far less like a concession to weariness and more like catching his breath while figuring out what next to do. She joined him without a fuss this time, her legs hanging freely in space, beyond the safety of the railing beside his, in a deceptively carefree manner.

"I didn't expect to find anyone here in case you were wondering," she cleared her throat, her eyes staring at the distant surface of the rocky asteroid. "That scene wasn't planned for your benefit. I'm afraid to say the possibility that you'd feel your humanity at stake didn't cross my mind either."

"Backing out of my agreement will be the least I'd do if I thought you'd planned for it." He turned to look at her with an intent that belied his mild tone. "And I think we've established that empathy isn't your strong suit."

As far as he could see, the accusation failed to faze her.

"More like why would a fish have any reason to think about the water it lives in?" came the murmur. "I didn't anticipate your problem because it's something I've had to live with all my life."

Shepard frowned at her, suspecting sarcasm. She continued staring into the distance until the sound of the wind was all that filled the space.

"I don't have a mother," she announced firmly after a while, as though she'd arrived at a decision. "My father was a rich megalomaniac who designed and assembled my genetic template down to the individual nucleotide. His ideal daughter was a perfect human specimen. Superhuman strength, senses and reflexes, a greatly extended lifespan, top of the percentile intellect—nothing was left to chance. That practice went on well after I was born. Every medical procedure was for my good, I was told, even as I wondered if I was born wrong."

She shook her head. There was no knowing if the gesture was made in deprecation with her hair falling free to cover her expression.

"He kept me locked in a tower, with no peers apart from a boy two years older than me. He was a cleaner's son. I learned I had to watch my strength when I broke his wrist during an arm-wrestling match. This and other incidents taught me how my body worked. The whys came much later. But along with everything else, it wasn't enough."

Faintly, she sighed, a gentle release of air that was quickly snatched away by the turbulent atmosphere. Shepard was half-inclined to scoff at her outrageous claims, but Lawson had proven herself to be truthful to a fault. There was no denying her capabilities would give any lesser mortal a lifetime's worth of inferior complex—from her consummate ease swapping between the roles of a combat operative and a ship's executive officer to the extensive medical knowledge and expertise she possessed.

"Nothing I did pleased my father." Lawson continued at a clipped pace, not once turning to gauge his reaction. "A test done well was rewarded with a harder test, whether it was in classrooms, labs, on treadmills or operating theatres. I… gave up when I reached my teens. I had to do something or be under his control for the rest of my life."

As confessions went, it couldn't get more barebones than this. She made no attempt to embellish her claims, just enough examples to ground them in reality. No, it wasn't farfetched to believe she was being entirely honest. Entranced by the story as much as her delivery, Shepard gently prompted, "What did you do?"

"I ran away," she replied matter-of-factly. "It almost ended in disaster. I hadn't anticipated how much of a control freak my father was. He saw me as the basis for his 'dynasty' and he'd rather see me dead if it meant I'd be free of him. As usual, hindsight's twenty-twenty."

She finally turned around to look at him. He couldn't help his surprise at the stark bitterness in her voice. "I'm not free. I can never be. Every time I accomplish something, I'd wonder if it was because of how he made me. There's no escaping that the gifts will always play a part."

It was the most unguarded he'd seen of her, and Shepard found he couldn't tear his gaze away. Lawson's eyes were an angry blue, raw in their intensity. It was an incongruous realisation even as he felt his awareness slip away under the strength of the moment.

With effort, he shifted his attention away. The breaking of eye-contact snapped tension like a taut string.

"I take it your Cerberus involvement is somehow linked to this?" he cleared his throat and hazarded gruffly.

"They offered me sanctuary. My father used to be one of their major backers. He cut off all ties after I joined them. Lucky for me." Lawson shrugged as she moved to stand up.

"So perhaps you can understand why it didn't cross my mind that you'd have a problem," she said as she rubbed her palms to rid of dust. "If it's any consolation—who or what we are may make for sleepless nights, but in the face of galactic extinction, none of that matters. It's what we do that counts. The fact that we're made better than anyone else means failure is doubly devastating."

Shepard made no attempts to get up as he studied her speculatively. It was a harsh statement, but one that seemed to sit comfortably on Lawson's shoulders. He was beginning to see why and how her experiences would shape her radical outlook in life. But her words also carried signs of unrealistic expectations, made more interesting in the light of her strong cynicism.

"That's only true if you think the war can be won going up against the Reapers one-on-one," he was compelled to say. "When push comes to shove, this will be a fight that'll require everyone's effort. You might as well stop beating yourself over it; that superiority card is not going to make for much leverage."

Lawson's lips thinned visibly. "Perhaps. But you cannot discount the effect on morale when we make a mistake."

"The kind of mistakes you're talking about usually takes a committee to achieve," he pointed out and because he couldn't help himself, continued with, "Besides, you've got a bigger problem if the accountability of say-an organisation lies entirely in the hands of one person."

"The same could be said about the commanding officer of a ship and said commander ignoring all offers of advice. If you're such a big advocator of teamwork, that might be a good place to start," she retorted and then muttered with a shake of her head. "God, what is it with you and riling people up? Even if the Illusive Man does have your options sewn up, the crew knows nothing about this. The credit you earn from the ground is genuine."

"Present company excluded," he stated flatly.

"That hasn't bothered you before." She pointed out in irritation. "And in this instance, my opinion doesn't matter. It's my job to scrutinise you and everything about you. I didn't spend all this time and effort bringing you back just to watch you fail. And as much as I hate to admit, you have a quality that compels soldiers to follow you into fire. So stop bloody wasting it!"

Shepard couldn't help his smile as he clambered to his feet.

And as usual, she's right again.

He couldn't discount the admiration that came along with the frustration this time. Lawson pulled no punches. While she was fully capable of subterfuge, she chose to stand up to him one-on-one. He was beginning to think that he liked this executive officer and spy that Cerberus had saddled him with very much.

Her sobering reminder that his problems paled in comparison to the possibility of galactic extinction also struck home. Sure, it wasn't quite the same world he'd woke up to, but at least he had a purpose, one challenging enough that success wasn't guaranteed, even with the new tools he had at hand. For the first time since he'd crawled off that examination table on Lazarus Station, Shepard could finally see a vista of possibilities again.

Lawson was regarding him with a puzzled look when he finally returned his attention to her. Heaving a cautious sigh, she said slowly, "There's no need for any of what we shared tonight to be common knowledge. If it helps, my door is open should you need to talk. And I'm sure the Illusive Man has more important things to worry about. So… do we have an agreement?"

Shepard didn't bother to conceal his laughter anymore. How much did it take for her to offer something like that, he wondered. It was a humbling experience; at a time when all he wanted was to be given a pat on the back for his sacrifices, he ended up getting a harsh and entirely justified wake up call instead.

Time to snap of his funk. He'd wallowed in it longer than he'd thought possible. Truth was he was getting sick of himself. But it'd be a very short epiphany unless there was something to stop him from such self-indulgence again.

"On one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you always give me the benefit of your thoughts. Without my asking for it."

Lawson frowned. There was definitely a wary expression on her face.

"Is this about trying to win me over again? Look, it's enough that you do your job. We'll have more than we can handle in the incoming months."

She began to make her way down the gantry before turning back to see that he hadn't moved, an expectant look on his face.

"What? Oh—fine, you have it," she muttered. "Although it's certainly nothing I'd lose sleep over it and neither should you."

Shepard couldn't help his grin despite her brusque delivery. Funny how in the span of a few hours, he'd had his head pulled out of his ass and handed to him by the amazing woman in front of him.

In another time, he would've balked at the glimmering of the idea that was taking root in his mind. Every soldier knew that a man with nothing to lose was the most dangerous foe on the field. It took a lot of mental adjustment to recognise he was one such man now. They had a common goal, Cerberus and himself. But once that was over, all bets were off.

As Lawson had made him realise, the crew's regard of him was indeed genuine. Plus the Normandy SRII was a marvel of engineering, capable of fielding missions months away from any space port. The assets he had in hand might just be enough to release him from the Illusive Man's clutches when their ways part.

But for that to happen, he had to secure one crucial link. For the first time tonight, Lawson was wrong. If there was anyone on board the ship whose goodwill he absolutely had to earn, it was her's, he decided as he drank in her lithe and graceful form leading the way back to the ship. The fact that he looked forward to it beyond the purpose of organising a mutiny made it all the more sweeter.

Definitely something worth losing sleep over.