#but I don’t think anyone’s treated him as having like a worthwhile perspective
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The Incredible Hulk (1968) #177
#soo charmed by this#love how Adam Warlock isn’t demeaning the Hulk#like the bit where Adam wants to show Hulk all that they’ve accomplished and the Hulk says all he sees is dumb machines#and Adam responds ‘perhaps you’re more perceptive than I thought’#like not dismissing what the Hulk said as stupid but taking it as a valid opinion of their machines#and when the Hulk doesn’t know the word ‘revolution’#and Adam just says ‘few people do understand that word’#and when the Hulk says he hates guns and Adam calls him wise for it#I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this so far#like there have been people who have worked well with the Hulk and his intelligence#but I don’t think anyone’s treated him as having like a worthwhile perspective#Adam honestly does come across as like a little silly for taking the Hulk’s words so seriously#but I appreciate it 🥰#I’m also intrigued by the Hulk’s time with this group being referred to as a ‘time of learning’ for him#presumably of learning how to live with other people#marvel#bruce banner#adam warlock#my posts#comic panels
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What's your thoughts on Daryl being a racist at the beginning of the show? Or how when he drove that truck into The Sanctuary he knew the first floor was where the innocent families were along with the children. So he killed so many innocent families and children to try to kill Negan. Do you think that was justified? They showed the first floor was where the innocent people were and not the saviors. Even how negan mentioned to Carl that even he knew innocent children were in the Sanctuary. Do you find those actions justifiable?
ok this is a really great question and i love talking about this stuff!
disclaimer: i am white. i probably shouldn’t even speak on this subject but this is simply my perspective of daryl! i am aware that i cannot decide what is and isn’t racist, but this is simply my opinion so take it or leave it.
to answer your first question, i think daryl did say racist things in the beginning (i believe there was one thing in season 1 and one thing in season 2, both directed towards glenn, but i could be missing something), but the fact that he so quickly unlearned that mentality which had no doubt been taught to him says a lot about his character and how deep down, he himself was probably not a racist, but his words were. i think his actions speak louder than his words, because he clearly cared for every member of his group.
i think he began to see people of different races (glenn, t-dog) as family, and he no longer had that influence of merle to dictate his outlook. i think that daryl was being racist because that was simply how he was raised, i don’t think this ideology was as deeply ingrained in him as with merle, who we see is ten times worse than daryl, and i have no problem saying that merle genuinely is racist based on his treatment of t-dog and the sheer amount of times he says racist things. the fact that daryl quickly began to see non-white characters as real, important and worthwhile people who he cared about shows that daryl did overcome this mentality.
he grew up in the deep south surrounded by people who definitely were racist, so it’s not surprising that he picked up that rhetoric because it was all he knew. i am willing to bet that daryl is also relatively uneducated (this isn’t to say he’s not smart!! daryl is smart as hell but i don’t think he got the best education and he definitely didn’t go to college, which is where a lot of people unlearn bigoted beliefs), so while all this doesn’t at all EXCUSE his racist sentiments in season 1 and 2, i do think it explains how deeply ingrained this mentality was.
and again, we see evidence through his actions of how quickly he unlearned this—he saved t-dog (who he even saw as partially responsible in merle’s assumed death) in season 2 without hesitation, and he clearly cared for glenn in season 1 when the vatos kidnapped him. i think daryl’s words were of course hurtful and based in racism, but i also find that daryl’s character is too complex to just give the “RACIST” label to. i think the fact that daryl so quickly adapted to treating non-white characters with the respect they deserve speaks more volumes than the two things he said. of course those were still awful things to say, don’t get me wrong, but we have to consider the larger context of how he cares for these people. a truly racist person would let their bigotry get in the way of caring for anyone who is not their race.
so basically, i think daryl said some racist things but i think calling him racist as a whole is too reductive because there’s more going on there.
i’ve also seen people saying that daryl riding merle’s SS motorcycle proves he’s racist which… first of all, it’s an apocalypse and it’s the only bike he has like he’s gonna ride it. i also have seen the argument that daryl is inherently racist for caring about merle. merle is his brother to whom he probably has an unhealthy attachment, based on what we know of how he manipulated him. daryl was abused by his father but i don’t think it’s a stretch to say he was also mentally abused by his brother, so of course he had loyalty to him despite how horrible merle’s views and actions were. basically, i think those “arguments” are ridiculously short-sighted and a disservice to daryl’s character.
oh and i’ve ALSO seen people reduce daryl’s entire arc to him becoming not racist and… if you think that’s all there is to him, you watched the how with your asshole facing the screen. or at the very least, you don’t know enough about daryl as a character to even speak on him.
ok now, daryl’s decision to drive the truck into the sanctuary, letting in a herd of walkers with the intention to drive the saviors out… i think this was a very impulsive decision that was fueled by daryl’s pure hatred for the saviors and everything they did. we have to remember that daryl himself did suffer torture by the saviors. he was locked up by them for days, made to sit in a room naked and to eat DOG FOOD. he was sleeping next to his own vomit and probably, sorry, piss and shit. not to be that guy, but i wouldn’t be surprised if this paralleled his experiences of abuse as a child. it’s possible he felt like a scared, helpless child, like he had at the hands of his own father. this experience was HORRIBLE for him. we don’t talk enough about that.
so, i think this experience clouded his judgment. plus, he was blaming himself for the death of glenn, and that fueled him more—he wanted to get this done because he wanted to avenge glenn in whatever way he could. in season 8, i think daryl was just fucking out for blood. he didn’t care about morals when it came to the saviors, and he was done following rick’s rules because he was too slow for his liking. do i think this was smart? not particularly, but when you’re in that state of mind, that’s what happens. you do things without thinking them through.
i don’t think daryl is a bad person for driving the truck into the sanctuary. i think he was hurt and angry as hell, and i think he had a right to feel that way. i don’t even know if i would say he shouldn’t have done it, because in my opinion, sometimes rick’s rule is too tyrannical and people need to go against him. plus, if i recall, i believe daryl’s actions ultimately did help. i am not sure on that tho, i am about to rewatch season 8 so we shall see if that’s true.
ok… i am done now. thank you so much for your question! i love discussing daryl’s character like this 🥰
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♢ — Anonymous said: what is your opinion about love? have you ever felt it? is there anyone who caught your interest? if so, who? if not, why not?
my muse must answer the next 10 asks truthfully: [0 LEFT]
* I’ll be splitting this answer into both a GENERAL response which is essentially his views before any potential ship + one for the one active ship I have
GENERAL
Beneath the mask, a single eyebrow arched slightly at the question. Well, he supposed it was only a NATURAL question to inquire upon given how many in society were. People were so OBSESSED with it, as if their identity hinged on such an absurd little detail.
“ I don’t care to WASTE my time over such a concept. It has no place in science beyond the love of learning and experimenting, but I presume you mean loving another being. Therefore it has no value to me personally. But it can be put to good use. It is a very exploitable tool. But it is also a distraction that has made fools of otherwise brilliant minds, or led to them wasting away. What a shame. “ He frowns at the thought. So many wasted brilliance over silly little aspects.
“ No, I’ve NEVER felt it in any compacity beyond that I have towards science itself. Nor has anyone ever caught my interest. Of course, this presumes I am even CAPABLE of such feelings. Given the years, I find it quite difficult to believe. “ Dottore shrugs his shoulders slightly. “ In regards to why not, it holds no necessity to me. I have little interest in it when there are far more worthwhile things to pursue in the fields of science. I don’t understand the necessity and high value people place on it. “
SPECIFIC
“ People place an unnecessary level of significance and importance towards love. And a risk. “ Despite a NEW perspective on the matter, this much of Dottore’s perspective remained UNCHANGED. He could not, for all his reanalyzing of past observations, understand why people made is such a core aspect of themselves. Still, he did have a new APPRECIATION for it and the truth serum was a POWERFUL substance that was dragging it from his lips. “ It is...nice though, and interesting to observe resulting changes. Provided that one does not lose their individual identity of course. Science will always be a priority for me. But I can say I understand a bit more of its appeal than previously. To be seen and have a connection with someone. I had never really experienced it before prior to this. It is...warm. “ A pause. “ Do you think that the warmth a couple might experience would work as a placebo against the physical cold? That’d be an interesting experiment. Deceiving one’s own body to into a higher level of heat based on psychological reactions. Perhaps there’s something to be said for love and frigid lands. “ Leave it to DOTTORE to think of this in the midst of answering.
Credit to the asker, they left no loopholes for him to exploit. If they had asked a dozen years ago, he’d easily be able to reject such an absurd idea. It had ALWAYS been an absurd concept to him. But science was full of the strange and absurd. That did not mean he wished to ADMIT to such a thing. Try as he might to clench his jaw, the truth still clawed its way out. An effective of the Doctor’s own stubborn defiance to the world? It was a fascinating idea if a chemical reacted like that. “ Yes, I have felt it. Only once. Given the length of time it’s taken to achieve and other complex matters involved, I’m rather inclined to believe that this may be the ONLY time. “
“ The one who caught my interest is the same who has it now. “ He quiets for a moment, testing if this truth was enough to ease the forceful hand. But it seemed as though it was NOT. Gloved fingers dig into his arms and he turns his head to the side in a note of avoidant behavior. “ Pantalone. It’s Pantalone. “ He admits, and in spite of the high tension in his body, the name rolls off with a softer tone, like something to be treated with the upmost care. At least they’d not asked why or demanded he go into further detail. That was for THEM alone to know. The world didn’t need to know it.
#Anonymous#FDFHG last one really bringing it home#me just 'dottore no' when he got the experiment idea#but it is how he is#are we really shocked by this?#♢ — ❛ he whom ushers in your darkest hour ❜ ( ic )#♢ — ❛ to my chosen path I am unshakable ❜ ( hcs )
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A writer’s perspective...
I’m an Elriel shipper and an avid reader but I’m also a writer, so I wanted to add a writer’s perspective. This wasn’t intended to provide clarity on Elriel or otherwise, just a few thoughts. I apologise in advance for the long ramble.
When we start to get the first interactions between Elain and Azriel in ACOMAF, the stakes are simply not high enough, or there at all. It would have been so easy to have the “quiet” sister paired with the “quiet” brother. But who would have really cared and what impact would it have had on the reader? Very little, I imagine. Graysen wasn’t an established character that anyone cared about so if Elain discarded him for a beautiful, brooding Illyrian, then who’d blame her.
Personally, I would not spend three books dropping breadcrumbs to hint at a build-up between characters if I had no intention of making them end-game. But would I make them suffer to get their happily ever after? Absolutely! Would I put them through the ringer to make them deserve it? Of course, my readers would expect nothing less.
Even if I first intended the two characters to be together and then changed my mind, I would have fizzled it out and drawn a line under it asap. This hasn’t happened with Elain and Azriel, if anything we’ve had the opposite, and we’re at the stage now where this is a love they’re going to have to fight for, and as a writer and a reader, they’re the best kind.
Obstacle 1 – Mor
While Mor was never really a barrier for Elriel to overcome, Azriel’s feelings for her are still something that needs to be addressed. We’ve had hints of it in ACOSF, Azriel’s gazes of pining and longing towards her are less, but this is an issue that still needs resolving in the upcoming books. For their well-being if nothing else. Plot wise, it adds very little tension because as readers we know it will never be, as a writer, it needs an honest conversation between these characters.
Obstacle 2 – Lucien
We’ve had the set-up of mates and all the importance that comes with it with Feyre and Rhys, and now Nesta and Cassian.
Lucien, a beloved character, who deserves the world, is introduced as Elain’s mate during a highly charged, fraught ending in ACOMAF. Now as a reader, my reaction was: Oh! I thought she’d end up with the quiet one. And as a writer it was: Oh! What of she ends up with the quiet one? Suddenly, the stakes are a little higher, we have a barrier, there is something in the way of an easy get-together. Especially when we learn more about mating and the Blood Duel which is still legal in the Autumn Court.
At first, when Lucien goes to the Night Court with Feyre, it is because his mate is there, and he is nothing more than a guest in their court. Elain isn’t interested in the mating bond with Lucien, so fine. Reject the bond and move on with Azriel, very little to overcome. Except, fast-forward to ACOSF and Lucien’s dynamic has changed with the Night Court. Court politics come in to play. He is no longer a guest, but an ally that ties several of the courts together. They cannot afford to lose the support of the other courts. Which leads me on to:
Obstacle 3 – Rhys
I have read lots of posts with people furious with Rhys saying he was OOC etc. For him and Feyre, the dynamic changed in ACOSF, therefore, he had to change with it. He has a pregnant mate; which instinct tells him to protect at all costs. They have just faced a brutal war that affected them all and can’t put his people through that again, can’t put the ones he loves through that again and there is a shadow of one on the horizon.
All great plot points aside, that one scene in Azriel’s POV and we’re hit with the forbidden love trope. We have longing, we have tension, we have a barrier in the form of someone Azriel loves and respects deeply. The stakes are not suddenly high, they’re astronomical. What a mountain to overcome!
Obstacle 4 – Azriel and Elain
Elain needs to become something to be reckoned with. I loved the glimpses we got of her on ACOSF, she was beginning to fight back, she had bite, but now we know there is more to come – and I for one cannot wait. And as character development – oh the places she could go. She has feelings for Azriel, that is established, so no qualms there.
Azriel – this boy is a mess. Personally, he needs to love himself before he can offer anyone anything, but what a beautiful journey that could be. I didn’t lose my shit at his POV, it was a snap-shot of a moment. No, it didn’t scream of love for Elain, but previous actions have shown feelings that go beyond sexual, sitting, talking with her until the early hours etc. The scene was designed to tell us how much he wanted her. A trait often described with SJM’s males. He needs to get his shit together.
Obstacle 5 – Gwyn
Now, let’s look at the addition of Gwyn (who I adore btw). This one seems to have the ability to make or break Elriel. From a writer’s POV she has amazing potential. Azriel already has feelings for Elain so she isn’t really something to overcome, but she has already caused tension. I don’t see her as a distraction, given her background, (poor girl has been through enough) I wouldn’t want her treated like that and nothing in Azriel’s POV indicated that. She could be a friend, a different type of friend he so badly needs, a confidante, someone to help him heal. Could be.
We also have the potential of misunderstandings, which can add immense tension to a relationship. Will Elain see Az and Gwyn together and have her heart broken because she thinks he has feelings for her when really he’s confiding in his love for Elain? Maybe. (Not even touching on that necklace!) At this stage, for SJM all things are possible, and that is incredibly exciting.
Let’s say SMJ does indeed intend Gwyn and Azriel to be end-game. We’ve had sprinklings of interactions between them ranging from polite to sweet to a little flirty.
The moment with Gwyn in Azriel’s POV, I’ll have to admit, knocked me for six. I can see it; I can see them together and how she would be good for him. But for it to negate four books worth of build-up, I don’t see it happening, from a writer’s POV, and as a reader, I’d wonder what the point was. But I’m not SJM and there is a possibility she could go down this route. For me, for this to be worthwhile in the eyes of the reader, their story is going to have to be EPIC, otherwise the pay-off isn’t worth it. But as a writer, what a journey that would be.
In compense, Elain would have to do something magnificent, would have to step into her own. She herself could become something to fear, the Persephone to Koschei’s Hades. (I hope not but look at the potential). The only thing here is the relationship between Az and Gwyn. His feelings for Elain are the only source of conflict. It’s possible Azriel has had enough conflict and just wants to love and be loved in return. Gywn could offer than, but I think it’s missing something.
I think my main point, though poorly executed, is writing is a rollercoaster, and the readers are the ones in the carriages with white-tipped knuckles, gripping on tight. If it consisted of a 2-metre straight track, you’d wonder why the hell you bothered. So, however this ends, sit back and enjoy the ride and be kind to each other, whoever you ship. It will be heart-breaking and gut-wrenching, and emotional. It will hurt like hell, but by god it will be worth it.
Didn’t expect this post to be so long – forgive me!
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Sharon acted as sort of the voice of Sam’s disillusionment in this episode. Or maybe as one end of the spectrum of disillusionment and belief that Sam is struggling on. She’s the voice in Sam’s ear saying “it’s all a lie, it’s all fake, don’t believe in any of it, just look out for yourself. The hero thing is garbage.” (and for the record, I totally get why that’s where she’s at right now. I don’t blame her but it’s also clear that she’s very bitter at the moment).
Sam’s certainly not as far down that spectrum as Sharon is, but she manages to pull him that way, if not by what she says than by her situation, the way she got screwed over. And he has plenty of reason for that same disillusionment and bitterness. A lot of Sam’s role in this episode was also as an observer. Not that he was a passive character, but his character arc for the episode mainly had him watching-- seeing the inner workings of Zemo, seeing Sharon’s new mercenary lifestyle, seeing the criminal underworld, seeing Bucky’s role in all that, seeing people do things that are shady at best terrible at worst because they feel those things are necessary. It’s not that Sam is naïve but he’s never been IN that world before and with the way his perspective is shifting because of the way he’s being shoved aside and rejected in his life, hearing Isaiah’s story, and seeing how someone like Sharon who was heroic gets abandoned to this life (or even how Bucky was-- this episode paints a pretty clear trajectory of the Howling Commando, Cap’s right hand being turned into a “pet psychopath” being traded around the criminal underworld) -- after all that Sam’s perspective has shifted and seeing this world is affecting him more than it might have at another point in his life.
That’s why by the end of the episode we see a major change in Sam’s position. He suggests that instead of putting the Shield in the museum he should have destroyed it. And if we’re just talking about the Shield as an object that’s not a terrible idea (logistical issues aside)-- it’s just a piece of metal, and by destroying it he would have prevented, or at least made it more difficult, someone like Walker from coming in and using it as a status symbol. But the Shield in this show is never just an object. By placing the Shield in the museum, Sam took a position that Steve’s legacy, the things he stood for and fought for, were to be admired and looked to as an example, but that no one could/should take on that mantle to continue that. I don’t really have the space here to parse out all the ideological implications of that, or the myriad of reasons why Sam took the stance, but plenty of other people have and that’s not really my point. My point is that destroying the Shield is an entirely different stance. Destroying the Shield, indicates a loss of faith in the very things that the Shield stands for. It’s a statement that the legacy the Shield represents, the things Steve represented, stood for and fought for, are either ultimately hollow and worthless (as Sharon currently believes) or are something that is actively dangerous to believe in or preserve (as Zemo believes).
Sam doesn’t fully believe either of these things. I think he made the comment about destroying the Shield as reaction to everything going on around him, sort of lashing out. In that moment, given the opportunity, I don’t think he would have gone through with it. But he’s on the edge of that point.
However, where we have Sharon and Zemo on one side of that Spectrum, in Sam’s ear, in this episode Bucky was on the other side of that spectrum. Bucky is the one still defending the need for someone to take up the Shield. And both Zemo and Sharon used him as an example of the idealism that they are so against-- Sharon when she says to Bucky “Please, you buy into all that stars and stripes crap. ... You were Mr. America! Cap’s best friend!” and Zemo when they’re on the plane and he talks about Bucky’s role in WWII. This is interesting because Bucky is being positioned as the balance against Zemo and Sharon’s cynicism, but Bucky isn’t normally what you’d think of as an optimistic character.
But Bucky is in that position in this debate. He even goes so far as to say that before Sam destroys it, he would take up the Shield himself. That’s an interesting position for Bucky to take because he hasn’t expressed any interest or even any thought of something like that before. He’s certainly not placing himself in front of Sam in his estimation of who deserves the Shield (just in front of Walker), and I think his ideal is still for Sam to take the Shield. I’m might even go so far to say that Bucky views taking on the Shield himself as a last resort-- he doesn’t want it but he believes so strongly in the need for someone to uphold that legacy that he would do it himself if it meant keeping it going and keeping it out of the hands of someone like Walker. Bucky isn’t good at expressing what that Shield means to him but it means a lot.
I think that the reason why Bucky believes in the Shield and its importance more than anyone else is going to be central to why Sam eventually takes on the Shield, if Bucky can ever manage to actually express that reason. I know there will be arguments that the reason Bucky believes in it is because he doesn’t understand all the reasons that Sam (and somewhat Sharon) has to not believe in. He’s not a black man. He doesn’t experience that racism. And that’s true in part. He knows that the racism is there, but he has a lot he needs to learn about what that actually means for Sam. But I don’t think it’s some starry-eyed, rose-colored view of America that Bucky has faith in. Bucky’s own story is not free from the influence of the worst side of America. You could make an argument about the way that he’s treated as a veteran, or the way he was hunted in Civil War, or the way he’s controlled now. But at the most basic level, Bucky worked for Hydra for decades and saw the worst side of political machinations. And yes, Hydra is a separate thing because it is a fictional blatantly evil organization. But if we’re looking at the symbolic side of the Shield we have to look at the symbolic side of Hydra as well. The point of Winter Soldier was not “oh there are spies sneaking into the government to get us”, it was that the actual members were corrupt, that there was rot in the institutions. So when looking at the actual meaning behind Hydra, Bucky was both a victim of and an instrument of the very worst parts of the American government and institutions. So no, Bucky does not share or fully understand Sam’s experiences or the obstacles he faces. But it’s also not true that Bucky’s faith in the Shield is the result of naivety or ignorance.
The story of this show is going to focus on the ways that Sam and Bucky help each other grow. I think that the way that Bucky is going to help Sam is through his perspective on what the Shield means. In the First Avenger Bucky says that he’s not following Captain America, he’s following “The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight”. And that ties into what the Shield actually means. It represents the ideals that Steve embodied. And I think where they’re headed is to a realignment of the view of the Shield. The mantle isn’t about Captain America representing the best of what America is. It’s not even about representing the best of what America could be. It’s not about representing or reflecting America at all. The Captain America mantle is an example for America (and anyone else)-- something for America to look at and reflect, not the other way around. By taking on the mantle, who ever Captain America is can embody these virtues (that Steve had, that Sam has) in a way that people can rally behind, and he can be someone who protects, and reflects, and gives hope to the individuals that are in America.
I’m not expressing it very well. But I think Bucky, by virtue of being there from the beginning, has some grasp of the distinction between the Shield as a symbol of nationalism or even patriotism, and the Shield as a a representation of something greater. Or even the distinction between the Shield as representation of America in its government and institutions, and the Shield as representation America as the individuals within it. We’re going to get to the core of what the legacy that Steve left actually is and the question of how does Sam take that on, and make it true to his own experience and make it worthwhile to become that. And I think Bucky has the faith in that legacy (and the faith in Sam) that is needed to begin that journey.
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All this trans!Nie Mingjue really makes me want some trans!Jiang Cheng, and if you want too, maybe him ending out pregnant instead of his core being melted, because if I remember correctly Wen Zhuli was honorable, so if Jiāng Cheng did get raped by one of his subordinates, I feel he’d try too limit Jiang Cheng’s suffering.
“It’s not that I’m especially opposed to an alliance by marriage, but who were you planning on having marry in?” Nie Mingjue asked Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu politely.
They blinked at him.
“I think,” Madame Yu said dryly, after a few minutes, “that we were planning on A-Cheng marrying in. Women usually do.”
“But your son isn’t a woman,” Nie Mingjue said, which he thought was quite reasonable.
“I don’t have a son,” Jiang Fengmian said. “Only two daughters.”
Nie Mingjue frowned. “You have an older daughter and a younger son. Hasn’t he told you?”
“Ah, you mean – by Qinghe standards,” Jiang Fengmian said. He sounded uncomfortable with the idea, which made Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrow and Jiang Fengmian immediately drop the notion of saying something more along those lines. After all, Nie Mingjue himself was a man ‘by Qinghe standards’, as the other sect leader put it, and starting trouble with Qinghe wasn’t on the agenda for today. “Sect Leader Nie, I appreciate your concern, but my daughter –”
“Son.”
“My daughter is a woman. We don’t practice Qinghe ways here.”
“It doesn’t really matter what you practice in the Lotus Pier,” Nie Mingjue said. He was wearing his best pleasant smile, which most people said looked like he was about to start chopping people into pieces. It was, at the moment, a fair description. “From my perspective, with my Qinghe ways, you have a son, who is a man. However you wish to treat him or raise him is up to you, of course, and I’m still willing to arrange a marriage between him and Huaisang, to be maintained or cancelled at their will when they’re older, including a marriage in which Jiang Cheng marries into the Unclean Realm. But what I will not tolerate is Huaisang getting confused by being told on one hand that he has a wife and the other a husband. He’s very fragile after our father’s death; I’m sure you understand.”
Jiang Fengmian, who’d been about to protest, shut his mouth, his desire for Nie Mingjue not to bring up, yet again, the fact of his father’s murder at the hands of Wen Ruohan – a murder that would need to be answered for, one day – outweighing his desire to argue back.
It was a petty move, but Nie Mingjue was aware that he had very few cards to play against the older and more influential man, and that meant he had to use them all no matter how petty to get what he wanted.
Mostly, in this case, for Jiang Cheng to be treated the way he so obviously identified. The damage that could be done by people who didn’t understand this sort of thing was incalculable – it was worth sticking his nose into another family’s business, no matter how rude, to try to make a difference if he could.
There were long few minutes of silence, in which Nie Mingjue stood his (tenuous) ground and Jiang Fengmian considered possible responses that would result in even more awkwardness.
Just at the point that it was getting intolerable, Madame Yu snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound for such a refined woman.
“Let him be a son and a husband, then,” she said, her voice a little waspish. “If he changes his mind later, he can resume being a daughter, and there will be no loss.”
It wasn’t exactly how Nie Mingjue had intended on settling Nie Huaisang’s marriage, but it seemed a worthwhile conclusion, even if Jiang Fengmian was clearly not entirely on board.
“Very well,” he said. “Are we agreed?”
The marriage was unofficially dissolved when the boys were twelve, if by ‘dissolved’ one meant that the entire Jiang sect had entirely forgotten that their young master had ever been a young mistress, even Jiang Fengmian. A casual comment to Madame Yu that she ought to consider finding someone to marry in to their sect so that the heir could be officially confirmed, rather than wasting him on a cutsleeve marriage out, was more than enough for the entire concept to be permanently misplaced.
(Not that he thought they would make a bad pair, but if that was the case they could always figure it out for themselves later on.)
As far as Nie Mingjue was concerned, that was the end of it.
And yet, years later, it was at Nie Mingjue’s tent in Heijan that Jiang Cheng came, a twisted expression on his face.
“I have a problem,” he said, and touched his stomach lightly in a place a little too far down to suggest a stomachache. “I don’t know what to do about it, and – when I was younger, Huaisang said – well. I thought you might have some insight.”
Nie Mingjue let Jiang Cheng into the tent and put up a silencing array behind him, the sort used to protect news delivered by the most important spies.
“I’m not sure what you want me to tell you,” he said honestly. “It’s not a problem I’ve encountered on a personal basis, if you understand my meaning. Do you want to keep it or not?”
Jiang Cheng settled down where Nie Mingjue led him, still grimacing. “I don’t know,” he said. “The idea of bearing a child for any one of them disgusts me beyond telling. But on the other hand, what did the child have to do with it? It seems unfair not to give it a chance to live.”
“It’s not a child yet,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. He could do math, and the fall of the Lotus Pier wasn’t that long ago. “There’s no way that it’s quickened this soon after. Right now, it’s a problem that can be eliminated with a bowl of medicine, if that’s what you want.”
“I know,” Jiang Cheng said. “I’m considering it. It’s only…on one hand, even if it’s not a child yet, it could be a child, if I let it. A Jiang child, with me as its father, and obviously my Jiang sect could use as many new members as possible, no matter what the other half of their biological origin. But on the other hand – wouldn’t it be irresponsible to carry a child now? I’m leading the Jiang sect’s efforts against the Wens, trying to avenge what they did to me, to my parents, to my sect, and a child would be a distraction from that…and Wei Wuxian, who might have helped me out, is still missing.”
Nie Mingjue didn’t comment on Wei Wuxian, even though he itched, as he often did, to remind Jiang Cheng that no matter how atrociously Jiang Fengmian had behaved – and no matter what the condition of his birth had been, legitimate and incorrectly categorized – he was the son and heir of the Jiang clan.
Not the child Jiang Fengmian had brought in and treated as if he’d been the son he’d never had.
(Really, Nie Mingjue didn’t understand places like Yunmeng. What was the point of not recognizing misaligned reincarnations like theirs? It wouldn’t make it any less true.)
“Depending on the way it affects you, you could be out in the fields for months still,” he said reasonably. “Certainly plenty of mothers in Qinghe don’t go into isolation until there’s only a few weeks left. And even if you aren’t, I can take charge on the battlefield while you consult on strategy from the backend, the same way you would if you’d been taken out of the field because of an injury – Lan Xichen is doing much the same thing, when he’s not acting as courier, and he’s doing it because he’s a terrible general rather than any logistical reason.”
“But it’s not an injury.”
Nie Mingjue frowned at him. “You’re making it very difficult to resist making some sort of pun about the Wen sect’s swords, Sect Leader Jiang, and I don’t even like that sort of crude humor.”
Jiang Cheng took a second to get it, then snorted. “I supposed you could say I got ‘stabbed’ a few times, yes.”
“Only a few times? They really are worthless dogs.”
And now Jiang Cheng was laughing, even though he was trying to stop himself. “That’s terrible, stop it…you know, I suppose, if you look at it from a certain perspective, I really am just suffering from – from post-stabbing complications.”
“Seems reasonable enough to me.” Nie Mingjue poured Jiang Cheng a cup of the tea that had already been cooling on his desk – a little rude, but better than wasting time making a new pot. “If you do decide to keep it, you can leave the child with Nie Huaisang once it’s born, if you like. He’s always liked children, and it’s not as if I’m going to let him get anywhere near a battlefield, now or ever.”
“Are you sure he’s not a woman?” Jiang Cheng asked. He sounded almost wistful, which suggested that the arranged marriage they’d set up so many years ago might even have a chance of resurrecting; Nie Mingjue would have to slip Nie Huaisang a hint. “With the fans and the birds and the pretty things –”
“He says he isn’t, and so he isn’t,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. “I admit it’d make it easier if he was. No one outside of Qinghe would question his below-average talent or his love of frivolities if he was a woman, however unfair that might be, and it’d make things easier for him.”
“You’d still yell at him to practice his saber.”
“Of course. What does saber have to do with gender?”
Jiang Cheng smiled and shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. “I still haven’t decided one way or another, but…it’s good to know there’s a way to do it, if I want, that doesn’t mean that – I’m not as brave as you. I don’t want people to know.”
“It’s not a matter of bravery,” Nie Mingjue said. “It’s common etiquette. Anyone who spends time thinking about another person’s genitals that isn’t planning on courting them is wasting their time.”
Jiang Cheng snickered. “No, I mean – people know about you, that you’re misaligned. You’ve never been shy about it.”
Nie Mingjue was pretty sure Jiang Cheng was thinking about the incident during a discussion conference some years back when he’d been shouting at Jin Guangshan over something or another – loud enough to be audible across half the city, it seemed, based on the number of people who talked about it afterwards – and ended the rant by telling the other sect leader to suck his non-existent dick.
“I’m not really a shy person,” he said dryly, and Jiang Cheng pressed his lips together in an evident attempt to avoid descending into giggles – he’s definitely thinking about the suck-my-dick comment. “Also, Qinghe is a bit more open about these things; it makes it easier, not having to explain exactly what it means or doesn’t mean. Don’t be too hard yourself.”
Jiang Cheng didn’t seem convinced, but nodded anyway.
“It’s not just that,” he said, though obviously it was, in some large part, that. Jiang Cheng’s complicated relationship with Wei Wuxian was proof of it, if nothing else. “It’s also – people can do math. I don’t want people thinking I’m weak, or a pushover.”
“No one who has seen you wield Zidian is likely to make that mistake,” Nie Mingjue said, but he could tell from the set of Jiang Cheng’s shoulders that that wasn’t enough. “It isn’t weakness, you know. Anyone can be captured, anyone can be tortured – some people will have to live without a leg or an arm, after what they suffered, and that’s the lucky ones that didn’t die. That’s all it ever is in war – just luck, good or bad. If I walked into a Wen ambush next week, I’d be as liable to complications from a Wen ‘stab’ as you, but it wouldn’t be because my strength wasn’t enough.”
“I guess,” Jiang Cheng said. “It’s just – if I kept the child, people would have to know, wouldn’t they?”
“Says who? If you retire from the battlefield due to complications from an injury for a few months, then the assumption will be that you found out that you got some poor girl pregnant and took on the child once you knew. If you do want people to know that you carried it, well, children come and go at their own speed.” Nie Mingjue shrugged. “Let some gossip overhear you talking about how you were already carrying the Lotus Pier’s next heir before any Wen set a foot on Yunmeng soil, and everyone will put together the rest. You know how it goes.”
“I suppose I do, at that.”
“Huaisang could probably put together a convincing story,” Nie Mingjue said. “He’s really very good at identifying every possible point in time and place where someone could be having sex, even if the actual personalities involved make it highly unlikely. And then he illustrates it, usually.”
Jiang Cheng was smiling, and his shoulders were straight again – his burdens lifted, however temporarily.
Good.
“Let me know what you decide,” Nie Mingjue said. “I know just enough about medicine to be able to mix you up what you need using just the medicine I already keep in my general collection, so no one would need to know, if that’s what you choose. And if you choose the other way, well, I have the medicines to help support that, too.”
“You keep that much medicine?”
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the tendency of the Qinghe Nie towards qi deviations –” Of course he had. Everyone had. “– but we have a habit of keeping an awful lot of medicine on hand.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jiang Cheng said, and he was frowning a little, thoughtful, but not as stressed as he’d been earlier. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Nie Mingjue said. “Really, don’t. If I let it get out that I give advice, every misaligned sonofabitch that wants to get a promotion will start showing up at my door with problems that are really just an excuse to get a chat in with the sect leader, and then where will my troubles end?”
Jiang Cheng, who was dealing with similar problems, smirked. “That doesn’t seem like my problem. At least people know better than to ask anything of me.”
“That can change,” Nie Mingjue said threateningly. “I’ll get Huaisang on it; see what happens to your reputation then.”
Jiang Cheng held up his hands in surrender as he retreated.
Nie Mingjue wondered for a moment which way he’d pick, but then remembered that it wasn’t his business and also that there was a war on that needed his attention a bit more.
Personal problems could wait.
#mdzs#nie mingjue#jiang cheng#my fic#my fics#I'm thinking of continuing this one#could be fun#trans JC#trans NMJ#pregnancy#discussion of abortion#Anonymous
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RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Dark”
Welcome back, everyone! Can you believe it's been six weeks already? I can't. Something something the uncomfortable passage of time during a pandemic as emphasized by a web-series.
But we're here to talk about RWBY the fictional story, not RWBY the cultural icon. At least, we will in a moment. First, I'd like to acknowledge that shaky line between the two, growing blurrier with every volume. A sort of good news, bad news situation.
The bad news — to get that out of the way — is that we cannot easily separate RWBY from its authors and those authors have, sadly, been drawing a lot of negative attention as of late. This isn't anything new, not at all, but I think the unexpectedly long hiatus gave a lot of fans (myself included) the chance to think about Rooster Teeth's failings without getting distracted by their biggest and brightest production. There's a laundry list of problems here — everything from the behavior of voice actors to the quality of their merch — but as a sort of summary issue, I'd like to highlight the reviews that continue to pop up on websites like Glassdoor, detailing the toxic, sexist, crunch-obsessed environment that RT employees are forced to work in. A lot of these websites requires a login to read more than a page of reviews, but you can check out a Twitter thread about it here.
Now, I want to be clear: I'm not bringing this up as a way to shame anyone enjoying RWBY. This isn't a simplistic claim of, "The authors are Problematic™ and therefore you can't like the stuff they produce." Nor is this meant to be a catch-all excuse for RWBY's problems. If it were, I'd have dropped these recaps years ago. I'm of the belief that audiences maintain the right to both praise and criticize the work they're given, regardless of the context in which that work was produced. At the end of the day, RT has presented RWBY as a finished product and, more than that, presents it as an excellent product, one worth both our emotional investment and our money (whether in the form of paying for a First account, or encouraging us to buy merch, attend cons, etc.) I'll continue to critique RWBY as needed, but I a) wanted fans to be at least peripherally aware of these issues and b) clarify that my use of "RT" in statements like, "I can't believe RT is screwing up this badly" is meant to be a broad, nebulas acknowledgement that someone in the company is screwing up, either creatively (doesn't have the skill to write a good scene) or morally (hasn't created an environment in which other creators are capable of crafting a good scene). The real, inner workings of such companies are mostly a secret to their audiences and thus it's near impossible for someone like me — random fan writing these for fun as a casual side hobby — to accurately point fingers. Hence, broad "RT." I just wanted to clarify that when I use this it's as a necessary placeholder for whoever is actually responsible, not a damnation of the overworked animator breaking down in a bathroom. Heavy stuff, but I thought it was necessary (or at least worthwhile) to acknowledge this issue as we head into the second half of the volume.
Now for the good news: RWBY has reached 100 episodes! For any who may not know, 100 is a pretty significant number in the TV world because, when talking about prime time programming, it guarantees syndicated reruns. Basically, networks don't want audiences to get burned out with a show — changing the channel when it comes on because ugh, I've seen this already, recently too — and 100 episodes allows for a roughly five month run without any repeats, making it very profitable. RWBY is obviously not a television show and doesn't benefit from any of this (hell, modern television doesn't benefit from this as much as it used to, not in the age of streaming), but the 100 episode threshold is still ingrained in American culture. Beyond just being a nice, rounded number, it is historically a measure of huge success and I can't imagine that RT isn't aware of that. Regardless of what we think of RWBY's current quality, this is one hell of a milestone and should be applauded.
All that being said... RWBY's quality is definitely still lacking lol.
Our 100th episode is titled "Dark" — keeping with the one word titles, then — and I'd like to emphasize that, as a 100th episode, it definitely delivers in terms of plot. There's plenty of action, important character beats, and at least one major reveal, everything we'd expect from a milestone and a Part II premiere. The animation also continues to be noteworthy for its beauty, as I found myself admiring many of the screenshots I took for this recap. There are certainly things to praise. The only problem (one we're all familiar with by now) is that these small successes are situated within a narrative that's otherwise falling apart. It's all good stuff... provided you ignore literally everything else surrounding it.
But let's dive into some examples. We open on Qrow starting, awoken by the thunder outside. Robyn has been watching him and makes a peppy comment about how none of them will be sleeping tonight, followed by a more serious, "Sounds bad out there." Yeah, it does sound bad, especially when they all know — thanks to Ruby's message back in Volume 7 — that this is due to Salem's arrival. I think a lot of the fandom has forgotten that little detail because people often discuss Qrow as if he is entirely ignorant of what is going on outside his cell. Even if we were to assume that he's forgotten all about the pesky Salem issue (the horror of Clover's death overriding everything else, perhaps) he still knows that Tyrian is running loose in a heat-less city with a creepy storm going on and, from his perspective, the Very Evil Ironwood is still running the show. So it's bad, which begs the question of why Qrow (and Robyn, for that matter) hasn't displayed an ounce of legitimate worry for everyone he knows out there. Thus far, their interactions have centered entirely around Qrow's misplaced blame and Robyn's terrible attempts to lighten the mood, despite the fact that a war is raging right beyond that wall. It's another example of RWBY's inability to manage tone properly, to say nothing of balancing the multiple concerns any one character should be trying to juggle. Just as it rankles that Ruby and Yang don't seem to care about what has happened to their uncle, Qrow likewise doesn't seem to care about what might be happening to his nieces. When did we reach a point where these relationships are so broken that someone can be arrested/chucked into a deadly battle and the others just... ignore that?
So Robyn's otherwise innocuous comment immediately reminds me of how badly the narrative has treated these conflicts and, sadly, things don't improve much from here. We are thankfully spared more of Robyn's jokes when Qrow realizes that what he's hearing can't be thunder. A second later, Cinder blasts through the wall — called it! — and Qrow instinctively transforms.
The only downside to this moment is that the whole ceiling falls down on Qrow and the others because APPARENTLY these cells don't have tops on them. Seriously. As far as I can recall we don't see the stone breaking through the forcefield somehow and this looks pretty open to me.
If it is... you're telling me these crazy powerful fighters who practice landing strategies and leap tall buildings in a single bound —
— can't just hop over this mildly high electric fence to get out? Qrow can't just fly away?
We're, like, two minutes in, folks.
We transfer to Nora's perspective as she wakes up, seeing Klein giving her the IV. He tells her not to worry, that "you and your friend are going to be just fine." What friend? Penny? Klein went upstairs prior to Weiss hugging Whitley or Penny crash landing outside. I had thought them bursting through the door with another unconscious friend was the first time he learned what the big bang outside was, but apparently not.
Penny is, obviously, a mess. While I now understand the choice to make her blood such an eye-catching color when that's crucial to the Hound's hunt, I still think it looks strange visually. Like someone has taken a copy of RWBY and painted over it. It doesn't look like it fits the art style. More than that, it implies some rather complicated things about Penny's humanity, especially in a volume focused around her being a "real girl." Real enough for Maiden powers, but with obviously inhuman blood that isn't even referred to as "bleeding." Penny "leaks" instead.
Toss in the fact that she's literally an android who is made up of tech — recall the running gags about her being heavy, or it hurts to fist-bump her, to say nothing of keeping things like multiple blades inside her body — yet Klein says that her "basic anatomy" is the same and he can "stitch up that wound."
I'm sorry, what? Whatever Penny looks like on the inside, it's not going to resemble a human woman's anatomy, and Klein might be able to stitch the outer layer of skin she's got, but that won't do anything to fix whatever metal bits have been broken underneath. Penny isn't a human-robot hybrid, she's a robot with an aura. Penny has knives in her back, rockets in her feet, and a super computer behind her eyes. When our clip introduced that Klein would be the one to help Penny, my initial reaction was, "Seriously? He's a butler and a doctor and an engineer?" But RWBY didn't even try to get away with a Super Klein explanation, they just waved away Penny's very obvious, inhuman anatomy. Yeah, I'm sure "stitching up" an android wound is just like giving Nora her IV. I hope the surgical sutures he used are extra strong!
In an effort to not entirely drag this episode, I do appreciate that Whitley is allowed an "ugh" moment about the non-blood covering his shirt without anyone calling him out on it. That felt like the sort of thing the show would usually try to make a character feel guilty about and I'm glad that, for once, he was just allowed to be frustrated without comment.
Then the power goes out and May calls, which raises questions about what state the CCTS is in and when scrolls are available to our protagonists vs. when they're not. But whatever. She's checking in because she just "saw another bombing run light up the Kingdom" and —
Wait. Bombing? Salem is bombing the city? I know we've seen explosions in the sky, but I'd always just attributed that to evil aesthetic. Why does this dialogue sound like it's from a World War II film and not a fantasy sci-fi show about literal monsters launching a ground attack?
May looks pretty against the sky though. I like her hair color against that purple.
I'm admittedly grasping at positives here because we finally return to her "You have to choose" ultimatum and — surprise! — May has pulled back completely. Ruby says that once they've helped Penny, "We'll...we'll do something!" which is once again her avoiding making a decision. Ruby still refuses to choose, instead falling back on generic, optimistic pep talks. They'll figure out how to stop Salem later. They'll think about the impact of telling the world later. They'll choose who to help later. Ruby keeps pushing these problems into the future where, she hopes, a perfect, magical solution will have appeared for her to latch onto. When that continues to not happen, others pressuring her to actually do something and stop waiting for perfection — Ironwood, Yang, May — she panics and continues stalling for time. Wait an episode and the narrative supports her in this.
Because initially May was forcing Ruby to decide. Now, May enables her desire to keep putting things off. "Don't beat yourself up, kid. At this point, I don't know how much is left to be done." That's the exact opposite of what May believed last episode, that there was still so much work and good to do for the people of Mantle. This is precisely what the show did with Yang and Ren's scenes too, having people call Ruby out... but then return to a message of, 'Don't worry, you're actually doing just fine' before Ruby is forced to actually change.
None of which even touches on May calling her "kid" in this moment. That continues to be a convenient way of absolving Ruby of any responsibility. When she wants to steal airships or Amity Tower, she's an adult everyone should listen to, the leader of this war. When the story wants to absolve her of previously mentioned flaws, she becomes a kid who shouldn't "beat herself up." I said years ago that RWBY couldn't continue to let the group be both children and adults simultaneously, yet here we are.
So that was a thoroughly disappointing scene. Ruby gets her moment to look sad and defeated, listing "the grimm, the crater, Nora, Penny" as problems she doesn't know how to solve. Note that 'Immortal witch attacking the city I've helped trap here' isn't included in that list. Ruby is still ignoring Salem herself and no one in the group is picking up where May left off, challenging her to do more than wring her hands over things others are already trying to take care of: Ironwood is fighting the grimm, May has gone off to help the crater, Klein is patching up Nora and Penny. Ruby, as one flawed individual, should not be expected to come up with a solution to everything, but she does need to stop acting like she can come up with a solution to everything when it matters most (office scene) and rejecting others' solutions when they ask for her help (Ironwood, May).
If it feels like I'm dragging the flawed, traumatized teenager too much, it's not in an effort to ignore those aspects of her identity. Rather, it's because she's also the licensed huntress who wrested control from a world leader and violently demanded she be put in charge of this battle. Ruby, by her own actions, is now responsible for dealing with these problems, or admitting she was wrong and letting others take the lead, without purposefully derailing their plans. She doesn't get to suddenly go, "I don't know," cry a little, and get sympathetic pats.
But of course that's precisely what happens, courtesy of Weiss.
During this whole scene I kept wondering why no one was celebrating Nora waking up, especially when Ruby outright mentions her. Have they just not noticed given all the Penny drama? Because Nora absolutely woke up.
Aaaand went back to sleep, I guess. What was the point of that POV shot? No worries though, she'll wake up again in a minute.
Willow arrives and announces that they can fix the power (and Penny) using the generator at the edge of the property. I'm convinced RT doesn't actually know what a generator is because the characters are acting like it's some super special device that only richy-rich could possibly have. Whitley says that it's the SDC executives who have their "own power supply" and that it's "extremely unfair." Now, don't get me wrong, a good generator powering large portions of your house can run you 30k+, but you can also get one that plugs into your extension cord and powers your fridge for a couple hundred. There's absolutely a class issue here, just not the one Whitley and Weiss seem to be commenting on. They make a generator sound like the sort of device that only a politician-CEO could possible have and it's weird.
Likely, it sounds weird because it's a choppy way of getting Whitley to bring up the wealth disparity so he can then go, 'That's right! We're crazy rich with a company housing tons of ships! We can use those to evacuate Mantle.' Awkwardness aside, I do like that the Schnee wealth is being used for good purposes, but... evacuate where? To the city currently under attack by a giant whale? In a RWBY that wasn't determined to demonize Ironwood, this would have been a great plot point during the office scene instead, with Weiss offering her services to Ironwood, even if the group decides that a continued evacuation still isn't possible.
Instead, we get it here from Whitley. Do I need to point out the obvious? That Whitley is the MVP of this episode? He's done more good in an HOUR than the group has managed in a year. Give this kid some training and make him a huntsmen instead.
We're given a (very pretty!) shot of the shattered moon because it wouldn't be RWBY if we weren't continually reminded that gods once wiped out humanity before destroying part of a celestial body... and absolutely no one talks about that lol.
Blake's coat might not make any sense for her color scheme, but it does make her easy to spot as she and Ruby run across the grounds. Oh my god, they're actually doing something together! It only took eight years. They even get a lovely talk where Blake admits how much she looks up to Ruby, despite her being younger, and once again I'm struck at how much more I would have loved this scene if it had appeared elsewhere in the series. It is, indeed, as sweet and emotional as all the RWBY GIF-ers are claiming... provided you overlook that this is the exact opposite of what Ruby needs to hear right now. She doesn't need to hear that she's more mature and reliable than her elders when she's functioning under a "We don't need adults" mentality. She doesn't need to hear that not knowing what to do is totally fine, not when that led to her turning on Ironwood, despite not knowing how to stop Salem. She doesn't need to hear that "doing something" — doing anything — is a strength, because Ruby keeps avoiding the big problems for smaller ones she's comfortable with, like standing by Penny's bedside instead of deciding between Mantle and Atlas. Blake's speech is heartfelt, but it's a speech that suits a Beacon days Ruby who is having some doubts about her leadership skills, not the girl whose impulsive — and now lack of — actions is having world-wide repercussions. Everyone is babying Ruby to a staggering degree. It's like if we had a med show where the doctor is standing by the bedside of a coding patient, fretting between two treatments. 'Don't worry,' their colleague says, patting their shoulder. 'I've always looked up to you. You'll do something when you're ready' and then they continue to watch the patient, you know, die.
Also: who does Ruby look up to? Everyone talks about how much they depend on and trust Ruby, but who does Ruby look to for guidance? A number of her problems stem from the fact that she has rejected the advice of everyone who has tried to help her improve: Qrow, Ozpin, Ironwood, even Yang. Ruby is presented as the pinnacle of what to strive for in a leader, rather than a leader who has only been doing this for two years and still has a great deal to learn.
Anyway, they get the generator on and the Hound shows up.
I am begging RT to just make RWBY a horror story. All their best scenes the last three years have been horror I am bEGGING —
Anyway, while Ruby waits to be eaten we cut to Willow and Klein, the former of which is reaching for her bottle, pulling back, reaching again, all while her hand shakes. This is good. This is what we should have gotten with Qrow. Which isn't to say that their (or anyone's) addiction should be identical, but rather that this is a far more engaging and complex look at addiction than what our birb got. Willow tells us that she doesn't drink in the dark despite bringing the bottle with her; tries to resist drinking when she's scared and ultimately fails. Qrow just decided to stop drinking after decades of addiction, seemingly for no reason, and that was that. Why is a side character we only met this volume written better than one of the main cast?
Blake manages to call Weiss about the Hound and she asks if Whitley can handle the airships without her. I mean, I assume so given that Weiss is looking at the bookshelves while Whitley does all the work lol. He makes a teasing comment about how he can if she can handle that grimm and she comments that they still need to work on his "attitude."
No they don't. Weiss stuck a weapon in her kid brother's face. Whitley made a joke. Even if Weiss' comment is likewise meant to be read as teasing, it's clear that we've bypassed any meaningful conversation between them. That hug was supposed to be a Fix Everything moment even though, as I've laid out elsewhere, it didn't even come close.
We cut back to Ruby getting thrown through a wall into the backyard and the Hound creepily coming after her. She's freaked out by this clearly abnormal grimm and Blake is weirdly... not? "It's just a grimm. Just focus!" Uh, it's obviously not. Have we reached the traumatized, sleep-deprived point where the group is sinking into full-blown denial? I wouldn't be surprised. They've been awake for like... 40+ hours.
Because the Hound knocks Ruby out with a single hit. Just, bam, she's down. "Focusing" is not the solution here.
Weiss calls to warn the others about the grimm, telling them to stick together. Willow (understandably) starts freaking out and flees the room (classic horror trope!). Klein is left alone when Penny wakes up with red eyes. Oh no!
Don't worry. You know nothing meaningful happens.
She shoves Klein before (somehow?) resisting the hack, her Maiden powers going wild in the process. Just when it looks as if Penny might cause some serious damage, Nora wakes up, takes her hand, and says, I kid you not:
"Hey... no one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do... It's just a part of you. Don't forget about the rest."
Okay. I want to re-emphasize that I love hopeful, uplifting, victory-won-through-the-power-of-love stories. Istg I'm not dead inside, it's just that RWBY does this so badly. I mean, what is this? It has similarities to the character shouting, 'No! Resist!' to their mind-controlled ally, but this is not presented as a desperate, last-ditch effort by Nora. She just speaks like this is the most obvious truth in the world. If you don't want to have your mind taken over... just don't! It's that simple. The problem definitely isn't that Watts has changed her coding and has implemented a command she can't override, it's that Penny has forgotten about the "rest" of her personhood.
And this works. Granted, not for long, but we leave Nora having successfully calmed Penny down and until her eyes unexpectedly go red again scenes later, we're left assuming that this is a permanent solution. That, imo anyway, is taking the Power of Love too far, overriding the basic reality of Penny being hacked. It’s not a personal failing she must overcome, it’s an external attack. I would have rather had Nora react to the scars she saw on her arm, or have a moment with Klein, or get some love from the group. Not a wakes up, falls asleep, wakes up again to save Penny with a Ruby level 'Just ignore reality' pep-talk, then back to sleep again.
So Penny isn't attacking her allies, or mistakenly hurting her allies with wild Maiden powers. Not that the group doesn't have enough to deal with, but still. Weiss arrives to help with the Hound and attempts a new summon, only to fail when two minor grimm burrow up into her glyphs. I really enjoyed that moment, both for the wing visual and the knowledge that Weiss' glyphs can fail if you break them somehow (which makes sense). Also, I just like that she failed in general? Weiss is, as per usual now, about to demonstrate just how OP she is compared to the rest of the team, so it was nice to see her faltering here.
The Hound tries to make off with Ruby and Blake does an excellent job of keeping it tethered. Ruby finally wakes, only to realize that the grimm is actually after Penny since it's staring at her power up through the window, no longer trying to escape. Moments like this remind me that there's someone on RT's writing team that knows what they're doing, at least some of the time. The assumption that the Hound is after Ruby as a SEW, the surprise that it's actually Penny, realizing it holds up because Ruby is covered in Penny's blood and Blake is not... that's all nice, tight plotting. More of that please!
The Hound drops her and Ruby's aura shatters when she hits the ground. I want everyone to remember this moment as an example of how strong the Hound is. The group may be tired, but unlike YJR they've been sitting around in the Schnee manor for a number of hours, regaining strength. We saw the Hound hit Ruby twice — once through the wall and once to knock her out — and then she falls from a not very high distance for a huntress, yet her aura is toast. That's the level of power and skill the Hound possesses. Decimating YJR, knocking Oscar out, same for Ruby, avoiding Blake and Weiss' hits, soon to treat Penny like a ragdoll. Just remember all this for the episode's end.
Blake tells Weiss she'll take care of Ruby, you go help the others. Yay breaking up the duos more! Bad timing though as the new acid-spitting grimm pops out of the ground and Blake is now left alone to face it.
Weiss re-enters the mansion, knowing the Hound is somewhere nearby, but not where. Suddenly, Willow's voice sounds through her scroll with an, "Above you!" which... doesn't keep Weiss from getting hit lol. But it's the thought that counts! Willow has accessed the cameras she's set up throughout the manor, watching the Hound's movements, and I have to say, that is a WAY better use of her separation from Klein than I thought we were getting. I legit thought they'd have Willow run away in a panic, meet the Hound, die, and then Weiss could be sad about losing her mom.
It does say something about RWBY's writing that this was my knee-jerk theory, as well as my surprise when we got something way better.
The Hound runs off, uninterested in Weiss, and she asks Willow to keep tabs on it. It heads for Whitley next (also covered in Penny's blood) and very creepily stalks him in the office with a, "I know you're here." Whitley is seconds away from being Hound chow before one of Weiss' boars pin it against the wall. He runs, then runs BACK to finish deploying the airships, before finally escaping assumed death. Goddamn this boy is pulling his weight.
I assume all these ships are automated then? I hope someone takes a moment to call May. Otherwise it's going to be super weird for the Mantle citizens if a fleet of SDC ships just show up and hover there...
I don't entirely understand how Weiss saved him though. She's nowhere to be seen when Whitley leaves and he runs a fair distance before he and Willow encounter Weiss again. We know her summons don't have to keep right next to her, but are they capable of rudimentary thought, attacking an enemy — and an enemy only — despite Weiss being a couple corridors down and unable to see the current battlefield? I don't know. In another series I'd theorize that this was a deliberate hint, a way to clue us into the fact that Willow, someone who we currently know almost nothing about, had training in the past and summoned the boar herself. Weiss and Winter certainly didn't get that hereditary skill from Jacques. Hell, we might still get that, Weiss reacting with confusion next episode when Whitley thanks her for the boar, but I doubt it. That scene with Ruby and the Hound aside, the show isn't this good at laying groundwork and then following up on it.
Case in point: Weiss says, "I didn't forget you" to Whitley after he gets away from the Hound, the moment trying to harken back to her promise to Willow. Key word is "trying." Because she absolutely forgot him! Weiss threatened and ignored Whitley until he proved his usefulness. I also shouldn't need to point out that, "Don't forget your brother" does not mean, "Don't let your brother die a horrible death by abnormal grimm." Weiss acts like her saving him is a fulfillment of her promise, rather than just the most basic of human decency. And also, you know, her job.
So that part is frustrating. The entire Schnee dynamic is a mess, from Weiss making a joke of her father's arrest, to Willow (presumably) fixing their relationship by putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Okay.
Then Weiss cuts off the Hound by summoning a giant wall of ice. My brain, every time this happens:
YOU COULD HAVE FIXED THE HOLE IN MANTLE'S WALL.
Moving on, Blake's fight against the acid... thing has some great choreography, including Blake using her semblance which we haven't seen in AGES.
I really like the fight itself, just not what Blake is shouting the whole time. "I need you, Ruby! We all need you!" This has really gotten ridiculous. Ruby is presented as everyone's sole savior despite failing time and time again. It's not that I don't think Blake as a character should have faith in her leader, it's that I don't think the writers should be crafting a story where everyone puts their unshakable hopes in an untrained, disloyal, impulsive 17 year old. I mean, Ruby is currently unconscious, yet Blake is acting like if she doesn't wake up — she, as an individual, if Ruby Rose does not re-join this fight — then all is lost. If Ruby doesn't save them, no one can. Which is, of course, absurd on numerous levels. Blake doesn't need the passed out, aura-less Ruby right now, she needs the still very healthy Weiss pulling out multiple summons and an ice wall! Use your scroll and call for backup again.
But of course, Ruby wakes up and kills the new, terrifying grimm with a single hit. It's a preview of what's to come with the Hound and it's just as ridiculous here as it will be there.
Speaking of the Hound, am I the only one who thought this was... cute?
I can't possibly be the only one. That head-tilt is exactly what my dogs do and my brain instinctively went, "Aww, puppy!"
Murderous puppy.
The Hound realizes none of the Schnees are who it's looking for and runs off. Penny, meanwhile, has been fully taken over because, well, that's just what's convenient now. She resists long enough keep Amity up, then succumbs, then resists to apologize to Ruby, then succumbs, then resists because Nora asked her to, then succumbs once it's time to knock her out. If RWBY was willing to commit to consequences, Penny would have been taken over and that was that. The characters would need to deal with whatever outcome happens as a result. Instead, the show very carefully avoids any of those pesky consequences by having Penny successfully resisting at key moments, despite no explanation of how she's managing that.
She shoves Klein again (Klein is having a Bad Time) and starts walking down the main steps. When Whitley wants to know where the hell she's going, Penny mechanically responds that she must "Open the vault, then self-destruct." I suppose the change Watts made was the self-destruct order? Ironwood obviously wants the vault open, though not necessarily Penny's death. Think what you will of his moral compass, she's a damn powerful ally — a research project, perhaps — and a Maiden to boot. At the very least, her death may give the powers to someone even worse.
God, please don't let them have brought Penny back and made her a Maiden just to kill her again.
The Hound arrives though and, as said, knocks Penny out. We're back to square one with her, then. Note though that this attack is near instantaneous. She grabs its hands one second, is hanging limply the next. Wow, the Hound sure is a terrifying antagonist!
Not for long.
"That's enough," Ruby says and one-shots it with her eyes.
Now, I want to talk for a moment about the implications of that line. "That's enough." Obviously Ruby is #done with this situation and emotionally unwilling to let the Hound kidnap Penny (congratulations, Nuts and Dolts shippers), but there's a meta reading here as well. Not intentional, but glaring to me nonetheless. Basically, the idea that the Hound has, from a plot perspective, done enough. It has served its singular purpose. It kidnapped Oscar and now it dies. Never-mind how insanely powerful we've established the Hound to be, never-mind how Ruby's eyes also work or don't work according to whether anything of actual import is on the line. From a plot perspective "that's enough" and the Hound can be disposed of instantly. It got Oscar and gave us an episode of filler creepiness. Move along now.
The idea behind Ruby's eyes isn't bad, but the execution absolutely is. RT has undermined a huge portion of the stakes by giving their protagonist an instant kill-shot that always works precisely when she needs it to. Starting with the Apathy, we have yet to get a moment where Ruby's eyes fail to save the day when she really needs them to, no matter how incredible the challenge. The Hound was very intentionally written to be a grimm outside of the group's current power level. It thinks, it talks, they literally can't touch it. This creates the expectation that the group will need to grow stronger — or at least become smarter — in order to surmount this new obstacle, yet Ruby's eyes undermine all of that. The group hasn't grown in years, the show just makes enemies weaker as needed (Ace Ops), or has Ruby pull out her eyes as a trump card. It wouldn't be that bad if we'd at least gotten a good battle out of it, one where the group gets close to defeating the Hound on their own, but needs Ruby's eyes to finish it off. Instead, she literally walks up without any aura, announces to the audience that this antagonist's time is up, and blasts it out a window.
Granted, Ruby's eyes don't completely finish it. The Hound pulls itself to its feet and we see this.
Yup, that's a guy and yup, those are silver eyes.
I would like to issue a formal apology to the "It's secretly Summer!" theorists in the fandom. I mean, I still think it would be ridiculous (and at this point highly improbable) that Ruby's dead mother has actually been a grimm mutant this whole time, just hanging out in Salem's realm while she waits for the plot to start before attacking the world, and then sends some no-name faunus dude after the group instead of their leader's mother for extra, emotional torture... but you all were definitely right about the “It's a person” part! I... don't know how I feel about this. Admittedly, it seems to be a logical continuation of the other grimm-human hybrids we've seen — namely Cinder and Salem herself — and it finally explains why Salem wants Ruby alive (even though it actually doesn't because WHY did she want more SEWs for Hound grimm when she wasn't even attacking back then? And already has all these other insanely powerful tools??), but at the same time, it feels like it's complicating a story that doesn't need further complications. The group fights monsters and has an immortal enemy. You don't need to add 'Some of those monsters are secretly human' to the mix.
It doesn't hurt that this twist is giving me Attack on Titan vibes, which, ew. A dark time in my fandom life, folks.
The Hound staggers a few steps before Whitley and Willow dump a suit of armor on it. That's all it takes to kill the most dangerous grimm we've ever seen: a single flash of silver eyes and some heavy metal. This also wreaks havoc with the implication that Salem wants SEWs alive because they create such powerful grimm. Obviously not. I mean yeah, normal huntsmen are going to have serious problems, we’ve seen that this volume, but any other SEWs nearby will take a Hound out instantaneously. For a villain with so many other powerful abilities — immortality, magic, endless normal grimm, her nifty soup — Salem would be much better served just killing SEWs straight out. Clearly, creating Hounds isn't worth the effort.
The Hound leaves some bones behind and Ruby collapses to her knees, overcome with the knowledge that this was once a person. Again, uncomfortable Attack on Titan parallels.
We finish our premiere with Cinder clearing away rubble to reveal Watts. Honestly, I like that we ended on this because her rescue is hilarious. She just slings him over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes and blasts off with her magic fire feet. Fantastic.
Note though that with this scene we've seen almost everything from the clip and the trailer. What's to come in the rest of Volume 8? No idea. Outside of Winter leading the charge with the bomb, we got it all here.
Time to update the bingo board!
I'm crossing off "Introducing new grimm that are quickly abandoned." Between the Hound and acid-dude both falling to a single blast/cut from Ruby, we've more than earned this square.
It doesn't look as if we'll get another Watts-Jacques team-up now that he's left, but you never know.
Maria's got me worried. I feel like her Yoda fight against Neo is the one thing she'll be allowed to do this volume, but given that we didn't see anyone except Ruby's group this episode, we don't yet know whether the story is now ignoring her and Pietro, or if they'll re-appear in another episode like YJR.
Qrow is free. Will he get a drink before trying to murder Ironwood? Perhaps.
Still no bingo :(
All in all, the episode was by no means horrible. I think there were lots of horrible parts, but also some legitimately well executed moments, fun action, and scenes that I can easily imagine as squee worthy if you lean back and squint. Everything is comparative and in the growing collection of bad RWBY episodes, this one isn't securing a top slot. Which doesn't mean I think it's good, just... not as bad as it could have been and primarily only bad due to long-running problems, not things this specific episode has done. That's my bar then, so low it has officially entered the underworld.
Still, RWBY is back and a part of me is eager to see where this volume takes us, for better or for worse.
Until next week! 💜
[Ko-Fi]
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Surprising no one, Duke and Tristan for the character meme 👀
The dynamic duo!!
DUKE!!
• First impression: I hated him in the show! I’m sorry! 🙈 I thought he was sleazy and gross, for the way he treated Joey especially, and his whole revenge plan against Yugi was misguided and confusing.
• Impression now: RIFE with potential. GNC icon. Pretty much the opposite of the character in the abridged series parody. Also literally everything they do makes more sense in the manga (and is also less sleazy and gross).
• Favorite moment: The way they’re kind of just chilling in the Virtual World Arc. They can play Duel Monsters but they just don’t care about it the way the others do, like they remember other games exist, so they’re along for the ride but not taking it to 11. It’s very funny to me that there’s someone who is also obsessed with games but has enough perspective to not act like Duel Monsters is the most important thing in the world.
• Idea for a story: I wish other answers would stop doubling as unpopular opinions, but Duke’s the one who actually likes designing games in the story! (I know Takahashi has said something about Yugi designing games on Instagram, but I do not remember it coming up in the actual story literally one time. Like not every student athlete wants to go pro, and they certainly don’t need to invent new sports. I know it’s not a perfect metaphor but whatever.) He’s the one who should go work for/with Kaiba!
• Unpopular opinion: I like all the jokes about their gorgeous hair but I think their hair is just as ridiculous as everyone else’s. 🙈
• Favorite relationship: Hmmm... tough one. What I mostly remember is the anime making them and Tristan buddies (for some reason??) but also rivals over Serenity, and it’s sort of annoying and pointless. I’ll have a better idea when I finally get to their parts in the manga.
• Favorite headcanon: I don’t have Duke headcanons, I simply learn about them from you, go “Oh of course, that sounds correct,” and accept it. So far this strategy has increased my interest in and enjoyment of Duke 1000% so I’m sticking with it.
TRISTAN!
• First impression: I don’t really remember having a strong impression of him at all. He was just an extra, basically?
• Impression now: UNDERRATED. Loyal. More of a romantic than he gets credit for (anime filler of him being a creep to Serenity DNI). Cooler than he gets credit for (motorcycle!!).
• Favorite moment: Probably during Death-T, when he says back when he was fighting, the person he really wanted to hit was himself (Joey says something similar but I’m 80% sure this line was actually Tristan’s). Combine that with the way he acts when he has a crush on Miho (in the manga) and you see he’s a lot more emotionally sensitive than you would think.
• Idea for a story: God this is SO self-indulgent but I don’t think Joey knows how much Tristan admired him when they were younger and it could mean a lot to Joey to hear he did have value at a time he still thought he had none. This is something I actually want to write out at some point because I also think this would make Joey more conscious of how good a friend Tristan really has been to him.
• Unpopular opinion: DSOD saying he works for Kaiba fixing Duel Disks or whatever is stupid as hell. Not everyone (or anyone) needs to have their entire career revolve around their high school hobby, but especially not Tristan, who never cared about DM at all and barely played.
• Favorite relationship: Him and Joey!! He’s stuck with Joey through a lot for a long time, and saw something good and worthwhile in Joey a long time before anyone else did. During the yoyo arc he says before he and Joey became friends, he already really admired him for the way he wouldn’t beat up guys who were weaker than him and looked out for younger/weaker guys in the gang. Tristan has seen Joey at his worst and is always going to get him in a way no one else will because of their shared history.
• Favorite headcanon: SUPER SPY HONDA
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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.
* * *
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Shadow Weaver, One Good Thing, and Moral Shades of Gray
Some Season 5 rambling for whoever wants it regarding Shadow Weaver, her actions, and the end of her character arc.
I might revisit this later more from her perspective, that scene (you know the one) felt very complex to me and I have a few different feelings about it, this is one of them.
Spoilers below the cut!
Okay, I really loved Shadow Weaver this season. I’ve loved her every season, she’s such a great character and her concept, animation, and voice acting all work flawlessly together to breathe some real life into her. I just love her! Great bad guy!
And this season? No one is letting her fucking breath without body slamming her.
It was one of the things I loved about her interactions with everyone, that she’d say something and immediately get told off. No one was falling for her shit. And you can see the way she’s super annoyed and confused, amazing how much a mask can portray, “Excuse ME I’m a GOOD GUY now?????” No one was forgiving her, no one liked her, they barely even tolerated her. I feel like it was wearing her down. I haven’t re-watched yet, but I think we saw Weaver with or near cups several times, but regardless, for sure when Catra found her she was drunk. She was half fucking slurring as she drank at what could be the end of the world. It was a rather pathetic sight, and now the joke about Shadow Weaver being drunk at 8AM makes more sense. This is just some stuff to keep in mind as we mosey along.
Noelle has talked before about shades of moral gray in the series and how people can shift and move along that line, and how people can also still be good people making bad choices or bad people making good choices.
I think Shadow Weaver is being used to display that. She is a few baby steps away from the beyond Vanta Black of Horde Prime. She is not a good person, she is not a hero; even if some of the things she’s done are good for others or could read ‘heroic’.
There was also a running theme this season of “One Good Thing”.
Catra is an obvious one, “I just want to do one good thing in my life!” And she goes from thinking she’s made a heroic sacrifice of sorts by saving Glimmer to getting the chance to actually move forward. And even if her steps faltered, Catra moved forward and did far more than just one good thing.
Hordak had a few moments of getting to see him lower his walls with Entrapta, but the thing that stuck out to me was his face as he held a happily cooing Adora. “Oh…okay, I guess- I guess this baby is mine? WAIT NO, CAN’T DO, ABORT, NO EMOTIONS, EMOTIONS ARE FOR HORDE PRIME, GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!” (Okay so that wasn’t all just his face, but that’s the gist). Hordak didn’t kidnap Adora, he went where sensors showed a portal would be and found a baby. He could’ve left her there, he could’ve done a lot of things, but he had a one good thing moment where he chose to take that baby with him. Cradled close. It’s a kind action in some ways, and not in others. I think Hordak hoped the baby might have an answer or solution to the portal (talk about high hopes buddy). But I think he also didn’t want to leave a baby to die alone in a field. It’s not a big great declaration or heroic moment, but it is still a good thing. Hordak’s one good thing.
I think Shadow Weaver has always held a twisted sort of care and love for Adora, and I also really think that Shadow Weaver would have held just as disgusting and awful a brand of ‘love’ for Catra if Catra had done/been what she’d wanted (which let’s be real was unrealistic and was a bar she would’ve kept moving). Shadow Weaver’s love is not pure. Perhaps as Light Spinner it could have been. As Light Spinner she was still an awful person willing to use anyone including children to get what she wanted. She wasn’t a good person. But even bad people can feel true love for others. I’m not saying that her love was pure or was always good intentioned as Light Spinner, just that I think she had the capability for it. But once that entity/parasite consumed her? Once she let her lust for power overwhelm her basic humanity? No. I don’t think her love would have been good in any form FOR SURE after that.
So her insistence that, “Didn’t you hear? I’m one of the good guys now.” rings just that much more hollow and cracked. Her motivations have always been selfish and her choices rarely take other’s into account beyond ‘how can I use this to my advantage’. Her kindness is faked, her goodness is incidental, her love is poison, everyone else knows that. Everyone else treats her the way they should, cautiously at best and hostile as needed. But Shadow Weaver doesn’t get that. She truly believes that she’s a good person now and is baffled that no one else will believe her and if frustrated/upset that she can’t even go ‘pure evil’ because she doesn’t have the legs to stand on for it. “I’m a good guy,” fuck you.
I think this shows with Catra. She’s still an absolute bitch and a half to Catra, and again I’m not saying what she did or said was good or right. But I think Shadow Weaver had a few moments of legit thinking, “Okay, fine, gotta tone this shit down because I’m a good guy.” She was always in control of her behavior and this was such a fine razor to cut with. It’s like the idea of an abuser who just “loses control” and destroys things then apologizes. It’s never their things they destroy and they don’t help to clean up or replace anything. The apology is a lie. They never lost control, they knew what they were doing. Same with Shadow Weaver. It was disturbing to watch her interact neutrally or her warped ass version of nicely with Catra. Because we all know it’s not that Shadow Weaver was out of control before, so we know she could have acted this way the whole time. It still wouldn’t have been good. But I think going from torturing kids and threatening them with death, to basically cold indifference is a half step forward and a full step sideways. It still would’ve caused harm, it still would’ve left destruction in its wake but a different kind of it. I don’t know, I just thought this was a wonderfully god awful way to show that. It also shows that she thinks she can either smooth things over or control the situation, which good luck with that.
Got distracted a hot second there, my example in this is actually when she grabs Catra to cover her mouth. It’s a move that if literally anyone else had done it wouldn’t have felt so fucking skeevey. But it’s Shadow Weaver physically touching Catra, her favorite chew toy. Catra has a very justified reaction to that, and you can still see the wheels turning in Weavers head. “Ungrateful, I’m trying to save you, I’m a good guy!” Fucking hell this lady.
So here we are, with a genuinely awful and bad person who believes they’re a good person now and trying to pantomime what they think a good person would do. With her very twisted version of “love” and the realization coming ever closer that she’s not in control of anything, no one trusts her, and no one likes her. I think she absolutely is thinking about her legacy right here, I think she is definitely trying for one last manipulation to put a big underscore on “Shadow Weaver was a good guy”.
I also, however, think she manipulates so well because she always draws a grain of truth into what she’s saying.
My example of this is her “You remind me of myself and I wanted you to be better, stronger than me.” Bullshit. Catra might have reminded Shadow Weaver vaguely of herself, but the rest is pure bullshit. Shadow Weaver doesn’t hate herself and certainly never did shit to make Catra a ‘better and stronger’ person. It’s 90% lies, but that 10% helps her sell her abuse.
So I think in her final moments there, Shadow Weaver does some complex mental gymnastics. She knows that Adora has to make it to the heart for anyone to survive. She knows that Adora loves Catra and that Catra loves Adora. She may know that if she doesn’t save Catra it is very likely that Adora will very likely not survive. Adora has always been ‘distracted and pulled down’ by Catra, so now she needs her ‘crutch’. I think Shadow Weaver also knows that once this is all done, no one will have a use for her and I don’t think she wants to face a world where she has no power and no control.
So she steps forward and puts one last manipulative play into motion.
And I think she sells it with a semi truth.
I’ve always thought it was interesting that even after joining the Rebellion that Shadow Weaver seemed so dismissive of Catra. Even as Catra was steam rolling them in Season 4. That Shadow Weaver didn’t even have a moment of, “Well damn, don’t like you still but I guess there was something competent and worthwhile underneath it all.” I can’t even remember if she mentions Catra at all by name when they aren’t in the same room together.
I think that Shadow Weaver was impressed, to some degree. She had always seen Catra as a pest, a gnat flying in her face and distracting Adora. Worthless, small, weak, and dumb. I think seeing how far Catra actually does make it is impressive to her. Not “oh wow that’s amazing!” impressive. More like, “huh, okay then” with a side of bitchiness. I think she never mentions Catra directly because of that. She hates Catra. She doesn’t want to admit she’s impressed by anything Catra’s done. She hates her and hates it and hates the whole thing.
So when Shadow Weaver removes her mask (definitely to play on them seeing her as a person first and not a monster) (although I think it also is a very good way to remind the audience that monsters are human too and that is far scarier to deal with, think about those photos of Nazi’s smiling on their weekend away from work where they helped kill thousands) and says, “I am so proud of you, Catra.”
90% is a lie, 10% is truth. Shadow Weaver might not think that’s the ratio, she might really be buying her own line. That’s something to explore another time perhaps.
And then she goes out in a blaze of glory with no need to face her own bleak and uncertain future, ‘protecting’ Adora, who she holds a dark and twisted affection for, and secures her legacy as a good guy. One final, “I fucking told you so”.
Shadow Weaver’s death is not a redemption. I think she hopes it is, and knows that even if it isn’t, Catra and Adora can never deny the impact she had on shaping them. That they’ll never really be free of her, and therefore no one else will either.
She will never truly have to face the consequences of what she’s done. For all that the other characters shut her down, no one gave her the true blue knock down drag out no holds barred VIBE CHECK she deserved. And without that this ending is very unsatisfying for some. For others that missing piece adds.
My take?
She’s a bad person, doing her One Good Thing, not realizing that it doesn’t take her from bad to good. Her sacrifice is, in this way, in vain. She’s a bad guy and will be remembered as such. She did her one good thing.
She’s still a monster.
#Shadow Weaver#She Ra#SPOP#spop spoilers#spop spoiler#season 5#s5 spoiler#s5 spoilers#she ra season 5 spoilers#she ra season 5 spoiler#I love Shadow Weaver#she is an excellent bad guy#is this my first fandom breakdown/meta?#...#it might be
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Title: Between the Sky’s Grasp
Author: @magioftheseas
For: @kokikomachi
Rating/Warnings: T (darker themes such as abuse and violence are mentioned in a story within the story but in the main plot, there’s just the underlying toxicity of idol culture, permeating the atmosphere with a off-putting stink)
Prompt: Idol Izuru goes on a date with a Fan Komaeda (with an additional reference to the Sweets Paradise DR X Illustrator Cafe Collab Designs because I have no self-control)
Author’s notes: You probably wanted something fluffier and I’m deeply sorry if that was the case. I spend more of my time thinking about Perfect Blue than I should but while the story isn’t nearly that dark, I did still aim for the more darker elements since I’m pretty invested in them. I also feel bad because I feel like I could’ve worked in all three prompts and ultimately left one out, but hopefully this is still good! Dark fairytales are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine and yeah, I could talk all day about idol culture, so hopefully this fic has appeal on those grounds if nothing else. I hope it has a more general appeal, too, aha. I kinda dig how the characterization turned out. I feel like this fic could easily be expanded, but for now, it’s a modest 5K. Please enjoy. <3
The song playing is one of his own. Someone hums along as they shift through CDs. With a restrained squeal, that person finds what they are looking for—and Kamukura recognizes the cover immediately. It’s his latest single.
“They have it after all!” is exclaimed. “How lucky!”
“So, you are a fan?” Kamukura asks softly and coolly. The other jumps, cheeks pinking as they twirl on their heel to face him. With that pallor and snow-white hair, the red of their blush stood out significantly. “I could not help but overhear.”
“I-I, um—yes!” They seem to be having trouble meeting his gaze. If Kamukura Izuru wasn’t already confident in his disguise masking his features, any remaining concerns would have been waived from just how uncomfortable and anxious the other was when being addressed. “I’m sorry, was I being too loud? When I get excited—I hear I can go a bit overboard, aha.”
“It is alright,” he said simply. “I spoke up due to being curious about you.”
“Are you a fan of Kamukura Izuru, too?” There’s a flicker within that gaze, though the fan’s eyes remain modestly diverted. “I collected everything of his—even the stage musicals. Even now hearing his voice puts my heart at ease.”
He’s infatuated. How boring. Kamukura clicked his tongue, remembering his manager’s words. I should still press further.
“There are other rising stars growing considerably in popularity.” Because they are more human. Because they put forth more emotion. Emotion which makes up for the lack of talent. “Kamukura Izuru being overthrown may be inevitable.”
“I-I definitely don’t believe that! Kamukura-kun’s incredibly talented and his voice is indescribably striking!” the other protested. “There’s no one else like that!”
Talented. All I really have is talent. This fan has provided me with nothing else. How boring.
“True. I suppose he is one of a kind. Just like anyone else.”
“You’re quite rude, you know,” the other pointed out irritably. “And I thought my social skills were poor. What bad luck. But I suppose I should’ve expected it.” With a pause, he gives the CD a fond smile before pushing past Kamukura. “Excuse me.”
“What is your name?”
“My name?” They paused, lips pursing. “Komaeda Nagito. What of it? I’d rather not continue to associate with you.”
Kamukura’s lips twisted at the irony.
How interesting. How will you react, then?
“That is a shame. I would prefer to continue our interactions, then, even if you already detest me.”
“Haaah? Why? Are you a masochist?” Komaeda’s head tilted. “What’s your name?”
“Hinata Hajime.” The lie slips off his tongue with ease. “Allow me to treat you to dinner. As an apology for my…poor social skills, I suppose.”
Komaeda blinks at him, eyes wide for a moment. The invitation left him baffled and mulling over it, and Kamukura could tell he was too taken aback to immediately say no.
“I insist,” he pressed. “I really would like to apologize.”
Even if I truly do not care.
Komaeda finally shrugged.
“If this ends with you stabbing me in an alleyway, I would still turn out alright. So why not? Oh, but, if this is an elaborate ploy to mug me, I’ll give you money here and now if you want. Um.” He waved the CD. “After I buy this. May I at least keep this?”
Huh.
“I have no plans to steal from you. Or to stab you.”
“If you say so…if you lied, that’ll reflect worse on you than on me.”
This fanatic—is actually peculiar as a person.
Interest flared in Kamukura’s gut, his heart picking up at the realization. It was an odd, almost overblown reaction—but it was one that drove him forward in a way he’d never experienced before.
Is this love at first sight? Or mere excitement?
His manager would be so shocked to hear of this, and that did bring a smile to Kamukura Izuru’s face.
“I’m not lying. Purchase your find and we shall leave together.”
Komaeda nodded.
“Okay, Hinata-kun.”
I can’t help but hope this feeling will fester.
–
“Tell me about yourself, Komaeda Nagito.”
“So demanding off the bat. How comforting,” Komaeda remarked with wry sarcasm as he sipped at his soda. “Um. I guess I’m a college drop out. I’m looking to get back into class but there have been—difficulties. I don’t have a job but I get by on inheritance. I have no outstanding features or abilities. Except I guess I’m good at cleaning. Maybe I should get a custodial job, then?” He begins to more muse to himself. “I have no need for money, though. I’m utterly aimless.”
“Interesting,” Kamukura replied. “You contribute nothing to society.”
“Yep!” Komaeda chirped. “I’m a total waste of space! I do try to help out other people who are much more worthwhile and capable but I tend to mess that up a lot, too. I really have nothing going for me except ridiculous luck, probably. The fact that I’m alive in spite of my many shortcomings and flaws must count for something. Haha.” A pause. “Although maybe a custodial job would be good for me after all…but I worry about making a bigger mess than I can clean up…”
Someone this useless should definitely evoke a number of emotions. Exasperation. Frustration. Disgust. Contempt. Pity. Such emotions could be applied to a song. I doubt this is what the manager had intended, however.
“You’re just listening to me ramble,” Komaeda observed, head tilted. “Don’t you have anything better to do, Hinata-kun?”
“No, I do not.”
“Oh. Okay.” He sips more of his water, quiet and contemplative. Likely still confused by this turn of events. Kamukura considered, for a moment, about informing him of the truth—but to shift that look of pondering curiosity into fervent fanaticism had little appeal. Especially when Komaeda met his stare, and those wide gray-greens narrowed. “So, what about Hinata-kun?”
“You want to know about myself?” Quirking an eyebrow, Kamukura pressed his elbow against the table as he leaned into his hand. A gesture made only because of the seeming appropriateness of it. “I am much like yourself. Directionless. Aimless. There is little to discuss.”
“Oh. I see.” Komaeda frowned. “Is this a social experiment?”
“Yes, it is. Quite perspective, aren’t you.”
“Ah, my luck would put me in this kind of situation, wouldn’t it,” Komaeda murmured. “Now is this good luck or bad luck? I wonder what to expect.”
Expect?
Kamukura did straighten at that.
“Komaeda Nagito. What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Komaeda cheerfully brushed him off. “It doesn’t concern you, Hinata-kun, if you really are just some nobody experimenting.”
Kamukura frowned. He couldn’t help but feel—frustrated at such a response, but he said nothing more as no response felt appropriate.
Their food was set out by the friendly waitress, who predictably smiled when Komaeda cheerfully thanked her. With a nod and the typical boring platitudes, she was off. Kamukura paid her no further mind. Instead he focused on Komaeda, humming as he bit into a slice of toast.
“It is unusual that you ordered breakfast food for lunch,” Kamukura remarked. “Perhaps that is a mere preference.”
“It’s not that strange,” Komaeda said through a mouthful of toast. “Quite a few people are like that.”
“I suppose.” He began to cut his meal into perfect pieces, each the same size. When he brought one to his mouth, it was with elegance. Not a drop out of place.
“The way you eat is much more unusual,” Komaeda pointed out. “But, I guess it’s endearing.” He softly chuckles into his hand. “Is this your first time on a date?”
“Could you tell?” Kamukura asked dryly. Komaeda laughs again.
“I-I’ve never been on a date before either and yet somehow I could still tell, haha!” Komaeda Nagito ends up coughing a few times, having to down more of his drink so that he could breathe. His cheeks are flushed from the exertion, and he clears his throat while avoiding the other’s gaze. Despite that, his lips are still curved upwards and it’s—certainly a sight.
“How would you say this is going?” Kamukura asked, less dry than before. “Would you care for a revisit?”
“What kind of wording is that?” Komaeda snorted, covering his mouth. Another muffled string of giggles. “I-I’m sorry, I-I don’t mean to laugh so much, it’s just…it’s just…!”
People laugh for all kinds of reasons. Mirth. Humor. Embarrassment. Disbelief. Misery. Although I have never laughed at all. Another aspect that others find unnerving. Inhuman.
“Another date,” he found himself saying. “After this one.”
“M-Mmm…” Finishing the rest of his drink, Komaeda’s eyes were wide and inquisitive. “Okay. If you’re going to demand with such a scary face.”
Kamukura nods, eyes intent and intense and yet Komaeda smiles without a care.
Oh.
Oh.
Komaeda’s smile is bright.
–
“Yooo, Kamukuraaaa! Heeeey!”
Kamukura pointedly ignores the calls in lieu of staring out a window, out at the clouds.
“Hey, heeeeeey!!”
Rather obnoxiously, he can see the caller reflected in the window glass. A wide smile—but not like Komaeda Nagito’s. Not like his at all. Komaeda wasn’t so outstanding with his appearance and force of personality. Kamukura stares at his own reflection, at his own features that have been called striking many a times.
“Enoshima-san!” someone else calls, firm yet friendly. “Kamukura-san seems busy. How about I show you around elsewhere?”
“Urgh, laaaaame! But would you really do that, Maizono-san? Aww, such a doll!”
That Enoshima is finally led away, and Kamukura lets his eyes flutter. He can’t see Maizono’s expression in the window, but he has observed her enough times.
“You do seem pretty deep in thought, Izuru-kun,” is remarked by another presence. The more mild-mannered man who likely kept his head down when entering rooms, although he too, had a particular smile. One that was likely as weathered into his face as the early wrinkles despite an arguable youth. “Have you been thinking about what I suggested?”
“Go out more, have more experiences, you may find the world more beautiful,” Kamukura droned, ever unimpressed. “Truth be told, those suggestions were too vague to be helpful.”
“Ah, sorry about that,” the other apologizes, smile apologetic. Again, Kamukura thinks of Komaeda. “But, for what it’s worth—you do seem to be in a better mood than usual. Has something happened after all?”
“You could say that,” Kamukura spoke more to the window, eyes more entranced by the overcast clouds floating above, blanketing the blue sky. “Kirigiri-san, your only desire is for efficiency. The details do not matter.”
Kirigiri’s face surely twisted a bit, but that smile would still remain.
“I do worry about you as a person, Izuru-kun, not just as your manager,” he goes on to say. Kind and gentle, like any well-meaning adult. “So, when you suffer a slump, it concerns me deeper than you may think.”
He assumes I think so shallowly of him. Even though he is, indeed, a shallow person.
“Perhaps,” Kamukura says. “The next song should be based on the sky.”
“Ah.” There’s a soft laugh from his manager. “That’s a surprisingly quaint subject for you, Izuru-kun. Head in the clouds, huh?”
He’s a shallow, shallow man.
“Something like that, I suppose.”
The perfect manager for an even more shallow individual such as myself.
–
He does not always write his own songs, because he finds he has too much and too little to say at the same time. And yet, when he finds a topic to focus on, it’s with perfect precision. Like a surgeon with a scalpel, he cuts through the ideas and meanings to delves into the core. Kirigiri had once compared his lyrics to a scholarly paper with one of those not-quite laughs. Despite the dryness of such a comparison, he had still been entranced by the song when recorded.
And yet, Kamukura Izuru could not say he felt much. Once he poured out everything, he was nothing more than a husk to be detached and left to rot. And yet, he was expected to continue. To write another song. And another.
Eventually, he is given the option to have a different songwriter—but he is told the results are less effective. Less interesting. More boring. And the brightness of the spotlights—both literal and metaphorical—are headache-inducing.
Truth be told, he’s not sure what the point of it all is. He simply remains because he has no direction.
No direction except for Komaeda Nagito, waiting by a sculpture of birds, with a couple pigeons even flocking by his feet. No aim towards anything except Komaeda meeting his stare and waving him over with a grin.
“Hinata-kun! It’s a special exhibit today!” he exclaims. “It’s the Underworld! One of the pieces is a re-imagining of Orpheus and Eurydice! There’s also paintings of spirits related to Taiwanese folklore…”
“Death is our certain, its hour uncertain,” Kamukura replied, cryptic and lyrical and Komaeda’s eyes sparkled.
“I recognize the reference! Hinata-kun’s actually quite well-read! How impressive!” Komaeda gives a round of applause. “You might have well seduced me then and there! Aha, kidding, kidding!”
With a twirl on his heel, Komaeda beamed up at him.
“Come on, Hinata-kun! Let’s hurry up and go inside!”
Kamukura is well-used to simply falling in line. To being manipulated and pulled along without complaint. He follows Komaeda ever compliantly here as well—and yet.
There is something else. Something that pulls him in rather than along. Even though Komaeda is lost within the museum booklet, still rambling about the various displays and exhibits. There is a minimal amount of space between them; it is all that could be considered necessary. And yet, Kamukura contemplates being closer. Pressing his shoulder to Komaeda’s. Allowing for the tickle of those wild white curls against his cheek.
It’s different. It’s odd.
“The map says this way, Hinata-kun!”
Kamukura follows. Ever compliant.
–
“Y’know, one of my favorite songs from Kamukura Izuru is about death,” was said at one point. Komaeda is looking upon a depiction of the Underworld, ever taken in. “It’s a natural human curiosity—and yet, it made me feel like no other. In that moment, Kamukura Izuru could’ve had his hands around my neck with how taken I was.”
“I see.”
“Such an impassive response!” Komaeda did pout but it was good-naturedly. “Hinata-kun, you strike me as hard to please. Except you’re here with me so I wonder how true that is.”
Komaeda skipped ahead to look at more art pieces. Kamukura followed after him. It’s largely quiet, despite the humble crowd gathered and scattered about. There are some couples, but mostly it’s groups college students, taking notes and talking amongst each other about their assignments. Komaeda does glance at them as he passes by but he’s careful not to linger. He doesn’t even make a remark.
There’s laughter from the group, and Komaeda nearly trips. Kamukura catches him swiftly, and takes note of how Komaeda’s face is flushed.
“I’m sorry,” is said as his date almost slumps into his arm. “Um. I feel like—I’m suffocating, Hinata-kun. Can we go outside for a bit?”
“Mm.”
–
There was a song I heard once—about a pair of children trapped in a museum. I listened to it, listened to the supposed heart in the song, and I still felt impassive. However—
Komaeda had clung to him as they made their way outside. Komaeda was slight and frail, as if simply dropping him to the ground could shatter him. Even through his coat sleeves, he felt the chill of Komaeda’s grip sink into his skin.
He remembers his song about death. The one Komaeda had mentioned. It is then and there, he realized how shallow and vapid it was.
“Sorry, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda murmurs to him in a soft voice, one that could so easily be crumbled by the wind. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Kamukura presses him close, embraces more of that chill and softness. Komaeda stiffens but he relaxes despite his clinging grip remaining ever tight.
How shallow and vapid have I always been?
–
The words come to mind, but never with emotions behind them. There is an art, of course, to pace and cadence. To beats and melodies.
“You really are talented, Izuru-kun.”
He thinks of wrapping his fingers around Komaeda Nagito’s neck. The image is quick to morph, with his hands moving upwards to instead cup Komaeda Nagito’s jaw. Brushing his thumbs over Komaeda Nagito’s cheeks and lips. Komaeda Nagito’s smile without a care.
“While you’re brilliant, you’re just—missing something.”
Komaeda Nagito sighing, pressing into his touch. Relaxing. Smiling.
“Why don’t you go out and just—experience the world a bit? You’ll find what you’re missing sure enough.”
It had been a ridiculous suggestion, because he knew what his manager wanted was undefined and vague. It was ridiculous, because to ask an idol to open up more to the world was dangerous. Treacherous. One might as well welcome contempt.
Kamukura Izuru knows that idols are expected to exist within a constrained paradox. Open to everyone, available to no one. Sincere while obscuring most of their true selves. Expected to act human while seated atop an inhuman pedestal. The perfect person in turns of looks, charm, and personality—a façade that was never to be shattered lest the pieces cripple the person.
It was—boring. Uninteresting. Egregious and yet expected.
Even Kamukura Izuru, who never really saw himself as a person, recognized the folly and impossibility. Really, approaching someone in spite of the dangers was an inevitability. Fixating on them for a change of pace was expected. Logistically speaking, it could have been anyone. It didn’t have to be Komaeda Nagito.
“Whenever you’re all deep in thought like that, I can’t help but worry, Hinata-kun.”
“About what?”
“About whether or not you’ve decided to kill me!” Komaeda exclaims with such wide-eyed seriousness, Kamukura notes birds scattering from the sound.
“If you truly held such concerns, you should worry more about your instincts of self-preservation,” Kamukura pointed out, settling on the bench, listening to the leaves rustle below and above. “You’re quite the peculiar person, Komaeda Nagito, not rejecting someone you distrust.”
“I haven’t seen a reason to reject you quite yet,” was Komaeda’s simple response. “And it’d be boring to avoid every bit of potential danger. Besides, I’m curious about you, too.”
Curious, he says. Thus, anyone else could be in my position. In this situation. Sitting with Komaeda Nagito in the park, staring at nothing in particular.
Kamukura tugs idly at his hat, conscious now of his wig and color contacts. The disguise he wore that reflected in Komaeda’s innocent stare.
“Do you wish to know more about me?”
In that moment, the rest of the world felt disconnected. Komaeda hummed thoughtfully, and he shrugged.
“Maybe? I wouldn’t know if I’m that curious about you.”
“Have you ever been that curious about anyone?” Kamukura finds himself asking. “Your beloved idol, perhaps?”
“No way! That’s way too presumptuous! Besides.” Komaeda laughs. “We’re not on the same level at all.”
“I suppose.”
“You only suppose! So naïve, Hinata-kun!” Another laugh. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t understand at all?”
“I cannot read your mind, Komaeda Nagito.”
“No.” Komaeda pauses briefly, rubbing his lower lip with a perplexed furrow of his brows. “Ah. Maybe it’s—you don’t understand why I love Kamukura Izuru as an idol?”
“It’s because of his talent,” was the obvious answer.
“Maizono Sayaka-san is also a very talented idol and I don’t love her nearly as much,” Komaeda corrected, shaking his head. “It’s more because of his presence. Even when in the same vicinity, Kamukura Izuru feels so distant.”
Distance is both a strength and a weakness for an idol.
“Come to think of it, Hinata-kun gives off that feeling too,” Komaeda went on. “Even when right beside you, you feel unreachable.” He leans against him. “It’s not as comforting as it is with Kamukura Izuru. If anything, I get incredibly anxious.”
Komaeda presses against him, rubbing his face into his shoulder.
“Mm… Kamukura-kun.”
His fingers trail down his arm, tugging gently at his sleeve.
“Even like this, I’m rather anxious. Shouldn’t you reassure me?”
Kamukura patted his head. Komaeda clung to him.
“Better than that.”
Kamukura kissed his forehead. Komaeda flinched, flushing quite darkly.
“W-Worse than that! Too much! Too much!” He rubs where Kamukura’s lips had been. “U-Urgh! I-I might faint, Hinata-kun…!”
Kamukura snorted softly.
“Ah!” Komaeda covers his eyes next. “Way too much! Now you’re smiling, Hinata-kun! It’s creepy!”
Smiling?
Kamukura stilled, impulsively wanting to feel it with his hands. He doesn’t. At least, not when Komaeda is still close to him like this. It would be—inappropriate.
“A-Ah, Hinata-kun!” Komaeda lets out a squeal when Kamukura presses him even closer, presses him into his shoulder so that it is physically impossible for Komaeda to see the expression on his face. That expression which no one else has ever seen.
“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda whined. “P-People are going to stare.”
“We can go somewhere more private, then,” is the obvious remark.
“E-Eh?!”
“Somewhere like your home, Komaeda Nagito,” Kamukura says then. “Shall we go?”
“What a thing to ask… Hinata-kun, you’re so dangerous.” Komaeda laughs. “And I’ve always lived so recklessly.”
He has no idea how this goes both ways, Kamukura thinks and it’s the first time it truly occurs to him. If anyone were to know—if even Komaeda Nagito were to know… I could be destroyed so easily.
The idea was beyond exhilarating.
–
Komaeda lived modestly but also sparsely. While it was a comfortably-sized home, it also was minimally furnished save for shelves of books and CDs. There were a couple of trinkets, but little else décor. Kamukura slipped off his shoes, and he breathed in the smell of bleach.
“I just cleaned earlier,” Komaeda explains about seeing his nose wrinkle. “I enjoy cleaning. I might even be good at it, ehe.”
“If you cleaned any further, I wonder what would remain of this place,” Kamukura replied, shuffling after him. “Goodness, your kitchen looks completely unused.”
“I don’t use it,” Komaeda said, just a little flustered. “I don’t know how to cook. My fridge isn’t really stocked either. I typically eat out. It’s not the healthiest way to live but—it is what it is.”
“Convenience is a virtue in these bustling times.”
He runs his fingers along the various spines of books. He pauses when he notes that there’s a journal on the table. He politely ignores it as he sits.
“Sorry, I don’t have a television,” Komaeda apologizes almost meekly. “I also still need to buy a new tea kettle. Actually, all I really do when I’m hope is read, write, and sleep.” He gives an almost careless shrug. “Maybe stare out the window for hours if that’s the mood.”
I’m the same way. I know how empty such a pattern is.
“I like writing stories and song lyrics!” Komaeda exclaimed next, lighting up as he indicated the journal finally. “This is full of ideas. They’re all awful, but not having anyone to share them with is boring so feel free to read through.”
With a huff, Kamukura flipped through. Indeed, there were meager attempts at poetry, even a few mindless scribbled sketches with the skill of a toddler. One in particular, caught his eye.
“The Rotten Wolf?”
“Ah, that one’s embarrassing,” Komaeda laughed, cupping his cheek. “But what do you think of it?”
Kamukura squinted, trying to decipher the truly abysmal writing before skimming through.
There was once a boy lost and starving in the forest. As he sulked, he was found by what seemed to be a friendly wolf. The wolf led him to his owner’s house, which was made of candy among other confectionery treats. Happy, the boy gorged himself to his heart’s content. When the witch returned however, shrouded in shadow and insulted by the insolence, that witch imprisoned the boy and snapped at the wolf.
The boy was terrified as the wolf was ridiculed. Eventually, however, the witch had the wolf bring the boy meals meant to fatten him up. Realizing that he was going to be eaten afterwards, the boy refused to eat anything. The wolf tried to cajole him, but it was to no avail.
The boy would then begin to cry, to the wolf’s dismay. Any attempts at comfort were ignored, even the wolf apologized frantically for putting him in this situation. After days past, the wolf was further scorned, punished, and even starved for the boy’s disobedience. The boy saw how cruel the witch was, how the witch sneered at what a pitiful monster the wolf was.
The witch finally grew fed up with waiting and decided to throw the boy into the oven then and there. However, while preparing the oven, the wolf snapped and shoved the witch inside, shutting it and trapping the witch to their death. The boy, dazed and dizzy from his self-induced starvation, could only watch as the wolf retrieved the keys to his cage and trotted over.
Mustering up the last bit of strength he had, the boy not only freed himself but sank to his knees in gratitude before the wolf.
“The witch was wrong,” the boy said, running his fingers over and over through the wolf’s coarse fur. “You are not a monster, wolf.”
For a while, the wolf enjoyed the affection he had never known before. His tag began to wag furiously, thumping like a racing heart against the ground.
“No,” the wolf said, for he too, was delirious and giddy and salivating. “I am a monster. But I will keep your kindness within me always. I’m sorry.”
And with that admission, the wolf gobbled the boy up, laughing and sobbing all the while.
Kamukura blinked once at the ending, he blinked again at the crude scribbles of what was to be assumed was a wolf tearing a boy limb from limb.
“It’s a miserable story, Komaeda Nagito.”
“I thought so, too!” Komaeda exclaimed, as if affronted. “It’s so depressing! Not hopeful at all! And, yet.” He frowned. “When I thought about the wolf taking the boy home, it didn’t sit well with me.”
“Perhaps this is a reflection, then, of a deeply held belief,” Kamukura said. “One so unpleasant that even you do not like to acknowledge it, and yet, it still resurfaces. Time. And time again.”
That of an abused monster who takes further destruction over compassion and forgiveness. I wonder—if Komaeda Nagito learned the truth about me, what would he think? Immediate love? Reverence? Or would he be wary and afraid the way that boy should have been?
“Aha, you sound so contemplative, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda hummed then, a smile tugging at his lips. “Did something strike you?”
Komaeda’s gaze briefly flickers between him and the open notebook. That smile waned. His lips pursed.
“What I would give to know the thoughts swimming behind that dense gaze of yours.”
You would surely drown if you knew.
“Y’know, Kamukura Izuru’s voice is also so densely packed with meaning, regardless of the words being said,” Komaeda went on. “It was overwhelming. Suffocating. And yet, I found myself enraptured. Hinata-kun is—different from that, of course. You’re tangible for one thing.”
An idol should not be tangible.
And yet, all the same, he took Komaeda Nagito’s frail, pale hand and held it within his own.
“So much of you is vague and indecipherable,” Komaeda went on, ducking his head with pinking cheeks. “However, you are still tangible, Hinata-kun.”
He squeezed Komaeda’s hand. It’s cold.
“I…think this is enough.” Finally, finally, he releases and pulls back, putting the appropriate distance between them. “I apologize. I may have pushed boundaries if not outright crossed them.”
“Eh?” Komaeda’s expression remains innocent if inquisitive. “Why does that matter to you now, Hinata-kun?”
What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the answer be obvious? Then again, Komaeda Nagito really has no self-preservation at all, does he. He allowed it to escalate to this extent, and was clearly prepared to matters to go even further. Even deeper.
“I apologize,” he found himself saying in lieu of anything else. Explanations. Confessions. He felt deeply in the wrong. How bizarre. The sudden wave of guilt was—painful. “I truly apologize.”
Komaeda frowns.
“Goodness. I really don’t understand you at all. But I guess I forgive you.”
“I used you,” he burst out with. “Are you that detached?”
“I let you use me because I didn’t care, yes,” Komaeda admits it so easily. Kamukura sees himself and it’s startling. “I thought it would be interesting, after all.”
Despite that, despite everything, Kamukura takes Komaeda’s hand and squeezes.
���I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry. I didn’t care either at first—and that was wrong of me.”
How treacherous this is, not just for an idol but for a person.
“You’re upset, Hinata-kun.” Komaeda’s frown deepens. “I really—don’t understand.”
“One day I hope you do,” Kamukura whispered, running his thumb over Komaeda’s bony knuckles. “For now, it’s best we part. Thank you for indulging a stranger—but please, for your own sake, be more careful.”
“Aha! What are you, a parent?” Komaeda laughed without a hint of mirth. “I’m not a fan of that, even if I’m definitely going to feel a little lonelier after you leave. Please don’t forget about me when you go, Hinata-kun?”
“I won’t.”
“Oh, but if you’re going to use me to tell embarrassing stories, I’d rather you didn’t,” Komaeda went on, waving his free hand. “I’d rather just remain in your thoughts if that’s okay.”
“Very well. I—do not think I can share you with the rest of the world either way.” Kamukura inhaled. “Because, I would like to keep you safe, I’ve realized. Which is why—it is best that we part.”
“Mmm, still don’t understand but I’ll accept it all the same, I guess.” Komaeda smiled brightly. “Hinata-kun, it was nice meeting you. Oh! Should I give you a farewell present for putting up with me this long?”
Kamukura is quiet for a moment before he reaches out and ruffles Komaeda’s hair. Komaeda giggles at the gesture.
“Just your regards are enough, Nagito. Thank you. I apologize. Please—take care.”
With that, he stands. Komaeda skips after him, following him to the door.
“If I ever see you again, can you tell me more about yourself?” Komaeda asks as he retrieves his shoes. “Like, maybe your actual name, perhaps?”
Ah. What a selfish desire on both our parts.
“Kidding!” Komaeda chirped. “I’m not nearly as indulgent as you are!”
Kamukura hummed, not responding as he slips on his shoes and opens the door.
“Take care, Kamukura-kun.”
He immediately froze, but by the time he spun on his heel, Komaeda had already shut the door between them. And there was nothing more to it.
Nothing but to duck his head in further apology before finally going on his way.
–
“Ah, good morning, Kamukura-kun.”
“Good morning.” He nods politely, playing with the petals of the various flowers set in a vase. “Early as usual, Maizono Sayaka-san.”
“Haha, yes, and that’s not the only thing we have in common either,” Maizono chirps, holding up her own bouquet of lilies. “How have you been? How are things going with Kirigiri-san?”
Always so quaint. Always with ease.
“I arrived early to give myself time to think about what to tell him, actually,” he said. “I would not be surprised if a certain someone caught wind of the ridiculous assignment that he gave me.”
“Enoshima-san might have mentioned something like that,” Maizono admitted rather sheepishly. “If you’re insecure about it, you shouldn’t worry, Kamukura-kun. Kirigiri-san’s not really expecting anything grand, I don’t think. Of course.” Brushing past him. “You’re not the type to admit to insecurity, even as part of the performance.”
“No, I am not. But. I did realize the folly of Kirigiri-san’s demands.” A pause, in both his words and Maizono’s steps. “He asked for something impossible. And something I ended up unwilling to share, anyway.”
“Ooh, how scandalous,” Maizono joked ever good-naturedly, such a practiced actress that the edge was near perfectly obfuscated by her sweet laugh and smile. “But it’s good to have some privacy from the public eye. Just be careful.” She does hesitate for a moment before smiling again. “You know how Enoshima-san is about gossip. And even Kirigiri-san can be stern. Not like his daughter, though.”
It’s similar. The way Nagito smiles compared to this.
“It’s selfish, but I hope I see that person again,” he whispered.
“I hope so too,” Maizono said honestly. “I can already tell you’re much brighter, Kamukura-kun. Just try not to be blinding! I can’t lose to you, after all!”
With a cheerful wave and skip, Maizono fled that scene. Idly, Kamukura wondered about her, but inevitably, his mind went back to Komaeda Nagito. It’s painstakingly simple for that image to warp in various ways. From twisted and troubling—to soft and sublime.
There was a note attached to the letter he got. The handwriting is neat and fancy, nothing like Komaeda Nagito’s shaky penmanship.
Too dizzying. Too distracting. Too blinding.
And despite that, a smile pulls at his lips despite the fact that he is still utter devoid of joy.
There is no scientific explanation for him and what he evokes the way there is for the sky and its sensations. And even though that is absolutely illogical, Komaeda Nagito is both as consuming and as distant as that same sky. How difficult for an idol. How difficult for me.
All the same time, he thinks he would have remained in blissful yet wretched emptiness if not for him and that counts for something.
I do want—to see his face in a crowd one day, but I’m not that selfish.
“Ah, Kamukura-kun!” Kirigiri lights up easily upon seeing him. “Ready for today already?”
“Yes,” Kamukura says, turning away even as everything about it lingered. “Of course.”
I’m happy to have just been heard by you. I do pray I can meet you properly one day. Perhaps at the end of all of this where the sky ends and the world begins.
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Hi sorry that you're getting anon hate, I hope you know that you are a lovely person who doesn't deserve it. I liked Rose, she was a welcome addition to the trio, with her passion and her emotions and her perspective of being not on the front line but behind the scenes of the Resistance. What would you like from Rose in RoS? I hope she kills kylo with a spanner! Why do you think Kylo doesn't have to die? He killed my boy Han Solo! The villains always die in star wars and no prison could hold him
Thank you so much, I do know I don’t deserve it, though if I was less lovely I wouldn’t deserve it either.
Now I don’t know if killing Kylo is the only worthwhile thing for anyone to be doing. If he does die a villain there’s a lot of possible scenarios for that and a lot of characters who might want to be involved. In my last post I said I’m partial to him dying to Chewbacca, Threepio, or the Falcon itself (like it yeets him into space). I think it would be a very strong way to assert that normal hierarchies are being overturned, for him to meet his end at the hands of characters who are usually treated as accessories.
As for why he doesn’t have to die? Mostly because I won’t rule out the possibility of good writing being able to execute that idea. Like, the quality of the content usually outweighs the appeal of the concept. If I were writing the films I’d probably kill him off because I think I could write it well, but maybe the writers of TRoS feel more confident and enthusiastic about something else.
I know Rose is going to be commander of an engineering corps in TRoS and I think that’s really cool, like if she’s the character people are going to for info on how to defeat the latest FO threat. But I really wouldn’t want her to only have a functional use in the plot. I’m worried they’re not going to continue her emotional and ideological journey, because I think she could be the character who realizes a key piece of the puzzle in saving the galaxy, that it has to be done by uniting the oppressed and challenging the capitalist class and not just defeating the fascist arm of the elites over and over but letting it grow back in the meantime.
Plus I kind of would like her to still have a conflict that she can resolve for herself. I think characters can be a lot more exciting if they’re not perfectly fitting their role in saving the day until the very end. Let her be more than a tool for the rest of the heroes to use! And honestly let her ride another space horse, if Finn and Jannah will be on those furry pleistocene lookin beasts.
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OK- I decided to combine all the anons I have about Fiona/Zhora/Stalkers because it’s ALOT.
Anonymous said:
Ok, I must vent. It chuffs my ass to no end to see these bitches brag about how this is their 3rd time meeting Tom at stage door! They're taking up space in line when someone who has never had the chance to meet him but wants to yet doesn't get that chance. Meanwhile they think the more he sees them he's going to magically fall in love with them. They're so fucking selfish. You've met him. Get over yourselves and let others have the same chance. 😠 Btw, before you say anything, I live in (pt1)
(pt2) states and have no chance of seeing the play or meeting him. And I'm fine with that. It just really pisses me off to see these immature bitches act so selfishly. News flash: He's NOT going to fall for you so get on with your lives! Thanks for letting me vent.
Anonymous said:
To anon saying you should have Fiona on your podcast. No, don't be dumb. The problem with you guys is you're so fixated on your hatred of Zhora that you'll ally with anyone she argues with... But those people are just as bad as her. It's not a win to have a creep on your podcast just because she hates Zhora. That's hypocritical.
Anonymous said:
Lmao someone asked Fiona if Tom knew she rented Airbnbs near his house and so on and she didn't answer, just got all sanctimonious again 🙄🙄🙄 What's your opinion on Fiona then, Zero? You seem to have a very wishy washy opinion on the issue. Half the time you scream stalker at anyone you hate, then you downplay it or suggest others do the same when you like them?
Anonymous said:
Actually the legal definition of stalking in the UK includes "loitering (in any public or private place" as one of the potential factors. There's a lot of wording about how many factors have to be present to bring a case of stalking to the police, but these fans tick one or two behaviours that *can* go hand in hand with stalking. Loitering in a public place... Near his house... If Tom really wanted to I bet he could bring a case against one or two fans, and threaten a few others.
Anonymous said:
Also lmao at FR coming on here to whine about Zhora. Honey, Zhora DID talk to you about this, more than once. And you and your pack of dogs hounded her off Tumblr last time she called out your hypocrisy. Zero, I know you hate Zhora but she was right on the money about Fiona. Fiona's a hypocritical creep. She grandstanded about Grace when she's exactly the same, maybe even worse. Plus, hon, not everyone who talks about you is Zhora. You brag about this shit all over your various SM handles.
Anonymous said:
I don't think Tom's "bothered" by the stalker fans, but I think he's not aware that FR also stays in his area on "holiday" and so on. That might change his outlook somewhat? But still, even if he doesn't feel threatened by it, he knows what they're doing and why. It's not like he thinks they're really cool and should be his BFF (or sex partner like they dream of). Plus him not being outwardly bothered doesn't mean its okay!!!! It's still fucked up.
Anonymous said:
Talking about stalkers, two french girls keep "bumping" on Tom. One even left france for months to live there and the other met him multiples times same for cumberbatch and a few others actors.
Anonymous said:
Diff perspective on 'stalker' fans-I have a few degree separation w/intl famous band & spouse & friends involved w/fan fundraisers/events worked w/mngmt etc. Had issues w/some stalker fans & I got irritated cuz seemed like they got 'special' treatment from band but had VERY revealing convo w/mngmt & security once on how they were all VERY aware & it was more a case of "keeping them close to keep an eye on them". So just cuz TH is smiling doesn't mean he's cool with everything (+ he's an ACTOR!)
rllca submitted:
“as long as the frequent flyers stay reasonable”…..but middle-aged women spending that much money and seeing his play so many times is totally UNreasonable. He must think they’re nuts!
tomhiddlestonangel said:
Keep holding up the mirror to these crazy stalkers. There is nothing more terrifying than having a reflection you don’t recognise. Denial is one of human natures worst enemies. Their just a bunch of Buzz Lightyears waiting for their epiphany 💡 Keep going Z, if nothing else their reactions are hilarious 🤣
Anonymous said:
Here’s some piping hot tea for you: Zhora Salome is old enough to know better than to behave like a goddamn child. Why do the rules she set up not apply to her? I hope someone makes her take a long walk off a short cliff.
Anonymous said:
“Photographic evidence” First of all, he’s an actor. He’s spent years acting excited to see the same people over and over again. Second ... have you looked at the body language in those pictures? He’s entirely angled away from them, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he looks like he wants to sprint into the night.
Anonymous said:
If instead of paying ten grand to see him now why not invest it in something worthwhile, wait five years when his career isn't what it is now, then take it out and have a few more dollars to see him at a convention or in his latest theater project?
rllca said:
$10 000 for a few minutes of small talk, then you go on your way. He doesn't give a shit about you.
Anonymous said:
Tom is probably really flattered that these fans spend so much money going to see his play multiple times, who wouldn't be. He seems to enjoy interacting with fans at work e.g. stage door etc. I think if he realised she was staying so close to his house that she can see in to his courtyard he would probably not be so happy.
Anonymous said:
Congrats Fiona, when's the wedding?
Anonymous said:
www.instagram.com/p/ByJU1b_F1jb/?igshid=1xkp9nn1bqujk Ugh. She keeps conveniently skirting over the fact that he probably doesn't know she lurks around by his house every time she's in London. I remember her and Saney being bitches about Grace, when isn't Fiona exactly the same? It doesn't matter if Tom looks happy to see her, the FACT is, she shouldn't be lurking around his neighborhood like a creep. Stick to stage door, ffs.
------------------------------------------------
To the third anon down asking me about my opinion- I feel like you are probably the same person who called her out on her blog. I don’t know Fiona- she messaged me just this last week to tell me about the Omaze thing- probably to get ahead of it and I have been honest with her that I have been very vocal about my thoughts around this obsessive fan girl behavior and her reply was actually pretty reasonable- she wasn’t a bitch about it and didn’t try to change my mind. But I have received more information from other blogs and anons with receipts that she is lying that she’s never stayed near his house and she in fact has very recently. I don’t like the lying- admit it or else you KNOW it’s wrong.
EIther way- I don’t have to shit talk every single one of these frequent fliers, I don’t want my blog to become just a place to bitch about them- there are SO MANY that it’s too much to keep track of, and I’m sure there are plenty more who don’t post on open social media accounts who have been there a zillion times- I know of plenty that I’ve said nothing about. I said my peace on my blog and podcast and this Omaze raffle was it’s own whole drama.
In conclusion- I will be very happy when this play is over and this issue stops being drama and everyone can stop treating him like a zoo attraction. I”m sure the anon is right that the frequent fliers will be all of over the place this week getting their last fix.
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Cold Pursuit (2019)
directed by: Hans Petter Moland
written by:Frank Baldwin
Thoughts:
Originally filmed in 2014 Cold Pursuit is an American remake of a Norwegian movie . While I usually don't love people remaking perfectly fine movies with more budgets to harvest financial gain (See LOL, Head full of Honey, The Upside), I guess it can be an opportunity to outdo yourself and reach a wider audience which I think was what happened here as it was directed by the same guy both times. Anyways in this case I was sold after watching the trailer. To the tunes of Bad Moon Rising you get one perfectly cut scene following the other (though sadly not in the original version). And I have to say the film delivers what you'd expect after the trailer: exactly the kind of macabre humor that I'm into.
It was funny because of its absurdity. A snowplow driver living in quiet skiing resort Kehoe starts killing members of a local drug cartel after the murder of his son with skills he learned by reading crime novels. One after the other dies without so much as a black title card acknowledging his death. The way they establish a distance to the brutal violence depicted by the characters being so incredibly sober whilst committing it in a Preacher kind of way is what I loved about it.
You also sometimes get things entering the frame in funny and unexpected - in short Edgar Wright sort of- ways like the protagonist dragging the gangster he just beat up across the car park or the dead son being pushed up on the rack from below.
However while I was digging the overall tone and humor I also noticed that they overused the stylistic and comedic device of a steady shot of silence with one sound disturbing it. I mean it was funny the first time but the fifth time around...
And there was an abundance of steady shots in general. Sometimes there were shots that just kept on forever that in my opinion could have easily been cut. I think it might have been a conscious choice to create the sort of calm atmosphere that makes all of the action even more absurd but the movie in addition to the advertisements added up to three hours and I believe that not every single one of the scenes had to be as long as they were.
But that's not to say that the movie was boring or deprived of clever directional and creative choices. For example as I saw it there were clear motives such as the act of disappearing in death and life as the several characters disappeared without any striking impacts on the ones that were left (apart from one exception that I'm going to mention again later) thus making you wonder about it and perhaps even more present the exploration of father-son-relationships.
The first one isn't really dissected as much as it is simply omnipresent throughout the plot (the end credits literally read “In order of disappearance”), the second one however is what I would describe as the essence of Cold Pursuit: It follows a father who seeks revenge (or something of sorts) for the murder of his son. His opponent is a drug lord whose innocent son is later kidnapped by our protagonist and the drug lord`s opponent, the leader of the Native American cartel wants to avenge the murder of his son. The two fathers who deeply cared for their sons and lost them were the two left while Viking whose son served as a moral authority and a mirror for his father died at the end.
I could go into detail about how else the father-son-relationships were shown and kept coming up but the movie already does that. Now inevitably because it is a movie about fathers and sons there are not a lot of meaningful female characters in it. But to be honest I didn't really care that much. The problem isn't with one film not passing the Bechdel or the Mako-Mori test anyways it's about the scarily huge amount of them. Having said that I totally acknowledge the right for movies like this one to exist as well. After all movies should be about the human experience and yes, surprisingly men are also human. I also didn't really care that much because even though most if not all the important roles were men you could still identify with them because of the plot's reliance on relationships and every character having a purpose. It's interesting to note here that the protagonist actually loses all his relationships (there were only three family members to begin with, two of which died and one leaving him) throughout the movie while going on a killing spree and not sparing a line about his motives and still seems weirdly likable so I guess you'd need to congratulate Liam Neeson's acting and the way his character is written as such a blatantly and genuinely nice guy.
Notwithstanding he's not without flaws. His wife actually leaves him due to their complete lack of communication by leaving a blank card which I think is really smart and might be a commentary on women's roles in the movie but also doesn't seem do have any repercussions on the protagonist.
Apart from the female perspective being less present there is also a general issue and conflict of representation that I think might be rooted in the fact that it's a comedy.
The issue is the following, people are represented for example there is a Native American drug cartel and there are feisty women but in the one moment they are treated with dignity and in the next their faith or behaviour is played for laughs as if it wasn't valid in the first place or as if a women being superior to a man were something hilarious. I felt like especially with the Native American cartel there was a dissonance between validating its members experiences (e.g. when their leader went into a souvenir shop full of forged Indian cultural objects) and just making fun of them (e.g. when one of them couldn't light a branch at the place where another had died). Then there was the only black character who is a hitman that gets killed for his lack of loyalty, which is just great. And then there is the protagonist's brother's Asian wife with whom the brother talked in her native tongue and seemed to be on one level with on the one hand but who was still characterized in such a superficial way on the other hand.
Now I think the conflict is that it's a comedy. And I could stop right there. It's a comedy and it's supposed to be funny so it's going to make fun of everybody. Which I think it did very well. Even the white villain (if you can even call him that because it would mean drawing a distinction between which people someone kills when really you shouldn't ever kill anyone at all if it can be avoided) was presented in a mocking way. He's the boss of a drug cartel but obsessed with eating healthy, screams and has a tantrum during which he throws around a stability ball. All pretty funny but for some reason kind of terrifying and intimidating at the same time. He is also the only openly racist character so... good job.
It's not all bad either though. I do believe that they did a pretty good job with the black screens and choosing to show different symbols according to the faith of the person who died, instead of always taking a cross.
I also loved that they included a gay couple that wasn't a walking stereotype or only there for laughs. Of course one of them had to die though but it was the only death or disappearance that had an impact on the story because the remaining one later betrayed his boss for having killed his partner.
My overall assessment is that although there was something a bit off about Cold Pursuit which I think was due to its long lasting shots and precarious handling of representation it was also what I expected in the best way possible: a dark comedy and a good one at that, the writing of the characters especially, the acting and the unique setting of the story were what made watching it truly worthwhile.
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I just read your whole Akito feminist analysis and I have to say it was amazing and the Furuba fandom can always use more quality content like that, just one little thing I took issue with. It seems like you were trying to depict the Shigure/Akito ship as a healthy ideal relationship? Yeah sure they might be healthier when compared to Kureno/Akito but the ship is still problematic as hell when you consider that Shigure's 7-8 years older than Akito and how the relationship even started...
For anyone who missed it, an article I wrote for AnimeFeminist about love, power, sex, and (kind of!) healing from abuse in Fruits Basket just went up on the site! You can read it here. It focuses on the manga, and Akito Sohma in particular, so definite spoiler warning as well as CWs for emotional, physical, familial, and partner abuse.
I’m so glad my piece was a rewarding read for you, anon! But regarding Akito and Shigure’s relationship--I think it’s complicated. Their relationship is indisputably problematic: Akito repeatedly lashes out at Shigure physically, and frequently attempts to emotionally manipulate him; Shigure antagonizes her when she’s emotionally vulnerable and, uh, fucks her mother. They’re messed up people, and it follows that their relationship is messed up!
Regarding the age gap, though--Shigure is stated on the Fruits Basket wiki to be 26 during the events of the manga, and Akito is explicitly stated to be in her 20s. The difference in their ages is probably around four to six years, which isn’t a huge gap between two adults! Age, and the life experience it carries with it, can absolutely be used to manipulate, isolate, and otherwise abuse a romantic partner, but I don’t think it’s fair to treat that as inevitable as long as we’re considering relationships between, again, consenting adults.The way the manga implies that the attraction between them has been present since childhood is, to be fair, pretty weird. Their ages are ambiguous, but even a small gap between very young children has a significant impact on levels of emotional and mental development. But the interaction we see in the ‘you are always on my mind’ flashback still has a lot to do with the Zodiac curse. The manga frames this scene as genuinely romantic, but it’s a disciple’s love for their god as much as it is a little boy and a little girl exploring a childish first infatuation. Although Shigure doesn’t love Akito less after the dissolution of the curse, it’s clearly indicated that something has changed for him, which suggests that although his feelings for Akito as a child may have been different from Kureno and Hatori’s feelings, they were still influenced by the curse. This makes me, personally, less uncomfortable with their dynamic.
The main point I was making in the article regarding Akito and Shigure was just this: “[Shigure] is often selfish, vindictive, and manipulative, but consistently acts in a way that rejects and undercuts the power disparity between himself and Akito.” Because of Shigure’s rejection of a relationship defined by the inherently unequal roles of “God” and “disciple/worshipper” and Akito’s WHOLE ARC there’s the possibility for them to work together toward something good. Their relationship isn’t particularly aspirational, but it is a significant part of a powerful narrative about healing from abuse. It’s totally okay to still be uncomfortable with their relationship and how it’s presented in the manga! Anyone who tells you to just stop being uncomfortable is a jerk! But this is my perspective and this is why I see something worthwhile there.
Thanks so much for the ask, and I hope this overly long answer clarifies some things, or is at least of interest. As always, you can keep up to date with my writing and chat me up, especially about LGBT animanga, vintage shojo, and boys kissing, on twitter and in the FeministFujoshi discord server!
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I feel like the trauma that was induced in me... is induced the right word? Maybe incepted is better? It was an altering of my mind and ways of thinking, to be fair. Anyway, I feel like the trauma I suffered has led my brain to found a connection to people that might not have been remotely good for me for a variety of reasons. This process may mean that my brain struggles with moving on from those past relationships for a variety of reasons, even if they are long over, even if they were always damaging, even if they caused me pain, and even if I am better without them.
They have led me to believe I have low value, because if these relationships did not work out, then surely it shows I am an awful person? And if that is the case, it fulfils ever dangerous and bad thing my parents made me feel about myself. Which is triggering, because if puts me back in the emotional space I was in, and leads to flashbacks and anxiety. Which are now starting again after a long period without them.
But do those relationships really define me? Do they truly show my actual value? How many people, say, stay with the same group of people forever, anyway? Take me in primary school. By high school, my peer group was entirely different. Me in high school was somewhat different to me in college, and then different again at uni. With different jobs come different people, moving to different places changes things. You lose touch, you grow, you meet new people, your tastes change.
My best friend in primary school would no doubt think I'm a weirdo and a pervert. My best friend from high school doesn't, as I still know him and he's still my best and most loyal friend. My best friend at uni wasn't even really that much of a friend. My best friend at my first proper job is long gone from my life, and the friend after that became a drug addict. My best friend from my days clubbing is now ever so slightly fucking crazy. On and on.
And what do these relationships say about my self-worth? Is my value dependent on the opinions and lasting friendships with others? No, because interpersonal relationships have no real, measurable value. They are intangible concepts, only existing as a side effect of chemicals in the brain. So, if the emotions we attach to them have no value in and of themselves, why bother?
I guess because emotions are what stealth-Christian tosspot right-wing dipshits would call a "hidden economy". They aren't, but belief in an intangible thing can affect our worldview of intangibles and concepts and emotions. What it kind of means is that these things have value to us, and there is some kind of emotional give and take between us via our bio-organic feedback loops with reality.
Worse, the filters on such communicative loops can become warped and distorted by trauma. Someone hits you, and so your filter always anticipates violence, for example. So a friend raises a hand to brush hair from your face, you see it, your brain tries to protect you, you react as though they are about to hit you, and then their own feedback loop kicks in to react to that.
But trauma always means others will assume guilt on your part for a reaction, rather than seeing the hidden hurt that was caused by others. The gossipy low-rent Judgy McJudgepeople will always say that a flinch away is you judging them, as a pretense to allow them to judge you. Rule number one: most people reinforce social rules that will allow them to behave in a certain way should they deem it necessary. That's why we should ostracise anyone who thinks assault or sexually abusive behaviour is something worth explaining or worthy of being an apologist for.
So, back to my friends who, because of trauma, I may have a needless attachment to which should probably end.
Let's consider them.
J was an assault/abuse apologist, a manipulator, and a liar, and likely saw it as a way to allow space for her own similar behaviour. Is the loss of them a reflection on me? No. Is my going insane a reflection on me? I couldn't control it, and begged the NHS for help they didn't give me, so no.
L was an abuse apologist, a liar and a a vindictive, vengeful passive-aggressive abuser, who was using her own hurt to attack me in a way that would make me hurt. Her actions don't reflect on me, or my reaction to her which was to apologise, try to explain, and eventually walk away from most of a friendship group to put a stop to it, even if I had a screaming temper tantrum when I was grieving over my grandad dying.
J2 showed a distinct lack of empathy for my grief, when their own grief was treated with respect and kindness. She has been bossy, was nasty to me exacerbating a nervous breakdown, and throw whatever friendship we had in the bin out of spite solely because, like a lot of my friends, actual emotion terrifies them and is considered impolite. It doesn't reflect on me that she considers bullying fine so long as she doesn't have to deal with it, and my reaction was, again, beyond my control.
D suddenly vanished an abandoned me at a time when I was in greatest need of help and support, without explanation. Could constantly post online, but couldn't even send a message my way when I was trying my best the other way. It doesn't reflect on me that they behave in that manner, and my reaction was to do basically nothing, so no blame there.
A broke promises to me that made my health worse, kept getting me to come meet her and not showing up or replying to messages (despite being online 24/7 the rest of the time), had fucking unrealistically crazy expectations of the behaviour of others, and then tried to gaslight me. I exploded at her in anger, but, you know what? Good. The fact that I couldn't speak my mind around such a person without worrying it would end our friendship shows what a bad friendship it was to begin with. It doesn't reflect on me that they did this, the only thing that reflects on me was that I put up with it for so long. And in return, I have said and done nothing, and have been let down even more as a consequence by her.
Meanwhile, Z really hurt me, but we've made up and she apologised. She's growing and trying to change and get to a happier place, and I'm proud of her. And she's been through a lot of trauma, too, but you have to give people the opportunity to change and show they can get better and improve and be the awesome people you thought they were originally, even though that's only one side of a many-sided entity called "the human".
So, I feel down. But writing this put things in perspective for me. I'm not the bad guy. There are no bad guys. All these other people are just as fucked up as me, as any of us, and maybe they are just trying to save face, maybe they just react like I do. Well, except that some of them are quite frankly not good for my health and I'm better off not being around them, but how do I fix my filter so that I don't behave the same way with actual worthwhile people? Maybe I need to write on here more. Get more in touch with my own feelings on this. It might help fight off the flashbacks.
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