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#i fought valiantly and still succumbed

minami-ff · 5 months

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I’ll Keep You Warm.

Captain Levi x Reader

fluff, sfw, what would comrades do when it’s bedtime but it’s freeeezing cold?

The winter moon hung low in the ink-black sky, casting an ethereal glow over the desolate landscape. Levi and you, seasoned comrades in his squad, found yourselves alone together on a mission that demanded stealth.

As dusk settled in, the two of you found a place to lay a mat and prepare for a much needed slumber. The dark atmosphere was punctuated only by the crackling flames of a small fire that fought valiantly, against the numbing cold which caused you involuntary shivers.

Though a blanket wrapped your entire body, Levi’s sharp eyes noticed your discomfort underneath. The furrow in his brow deepened as he observed your attempts to fight off the cold. Without a word, he sat up and draped his only blanket over you. You looked up at him, with surprise and gratitude, but also with worry flickering in your eyes.

“Thank you, Captain. But no, you’ll freeze.” manoeuvring his blanket towards him.

"I won't. I never feel cold." Levi said in his usual gruff tone. You appreciated the sentiment but sensed the deception in his words, conveyed for the sake of your comfort.

"As if. Please, take it back." Straining against his overpowering strength, you tussled with him, each trying to ensure the other would be shielded from the biting surroundings.

Levi's gaze held yours, "I've been through worse. Keep it." Yet you were still unwavering in your refusal. The dispute went back and forth, and back and forth, till he moved even closer.

"You're really stubborn, you know that?" his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.

"I won’t let you freeze on my account," you replied softly, eyes melting into his, teeth chattering slightly.

In a move that surprised you, but with a gentle gesture, Levi guided your shoulders to lie down. He then reclined beside you, arm brushing against yours, close enough that the warmth of his body became a soothing presence. He then reached for the edges of both blankets, doubling them up and wrapping them around the both of you. The sudden proximity had a flush creeping up your cheeks.

"Sharing body heat is the most efficient way to stay warm," Levi stated matter-of-factly, “and I see this as the only resolution to your…disobedience.” A subtle smile turned up on your face, while you hoped Levi wouldn’t stop babbling or he might hear your heart pounding to leap out.

There had always been a bond between the both of you that surpassed mere friendship, though your jobs kept any romantic inclinations at bay. The quiet intimacy of this night conspired to blur the lines between comrades and something more.

You succumbed to the lull of weariness, closing your eyes against the darkness. Exhaustion had taken such a toll on you that you were unaware of your cheek nestling against his shoulder. The last thing you heard before slipping into the realm of dreams was Levi's whisper, “goodnight, y/n”

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letterstosirsonic · 3 months

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My dearest Sonic,

Though you may never find this letter, I write in hope that someday you might.

I fear my quest is coming to an end, Sire, for it has been a long and agonising few months.

We have battled valiantly with the forces that dare threaten to take away the land you ruled, we fought and lost many amidst the rains of arrows. The army that remained, and I, led them far up to the mountains and away from your people.

The treacherous conditions of nature's towers have aided us, yet it may mark the end of my journey. Forgive my handwriting, the icy chill of the wind draws cruel.

I laugh, with what breaths of mine likely remain, and smile with my dampened eyes at the notion of the wind of yours ever hurting me.

An impossible task, I thought.

Your honestly always was an admirable quality of yours, and so I must be honest with you.

I fear I am succumbing to the injuries I collected in this battle of honour, Sonic.

What few brave men remain, lay, and I pray peacefully, in a mournful trail leading up to the cliff of where I reside now. If I could draw or paint like the artists you were so fond of, I would show you the magnificent view I have from this ledge of mine.

It embodies everything I loved about you.

Have no fear, I believe I will be comfortable here, rested against the gentle moss and smooth stones.

I face the world eastward, an almost reminder of all the times we had that I cherish in the kingdom below, and a chance for the rising sun to warm me one last time, as I go on my way to the other side.

Perhaps I'll see you there, Sire.

Though that may be the selfish side of me speaking, I have and always will pray that you are still home with the family you spoke so longingly of.

The world needs you far more than it needs me, Sonic.

I have fulfilled my duty as a Knight, I hope it was enough to have made you proud. My eyes are growing tired and I feel my breath falter beneath the toll of battle. I'm afraid this is all I may write.

I will lay here, facing the rising sun, and place down my paper and quill.

I shall savour each crisp breath of thin air, and rest in the comfort of your presence.

From my body, flowers shall grow.

I am them, and that is eternity.

We shall meet again, Sonic, amidst a celestial tapestry of the stars.

Yours lovingly,

Lance.

#lansoni #satbk sir lancelot #satbk #sonic and the black knight #sonic the hedgehog #satbk sonic #letterstokingarthur #letterstosirsonic #edvard munch quote

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starlightsearches · 1 year

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NSFW headcanon: Eddie M's favorite spot for a quickie.

the answer is all of them, but he's a sucker for novelty :0) shout-out to @theold-ultraviolence because this is another idea we chatted about forever ago

CW: this is probably too long to count as a drabble but we all knew that was going to happen, language, pussy eating, fingering, semi-public sex.

send me a nsfw headcanon for a 5 sentence (lol) fic

The wooden sword was a mistake.

Sure, it was only like three dollars, and the guy who sold it to you was nice enough, but the look on Eddie's face as soon as he got a hold of the hilt should have told you everything. It's a miracle you both still have your eyes in their sockets with the way he's been swinging the fucking thing around.

Maybe you shouldn't encourage him. Maybe you shouldn't laugh so loud while he's crossing blades with a six year in a pirate costume.

But he's so fucking cute.

Eddie can't keep the smile of his face when the kid stabs at him, cleverly positioning his body so the sword slides between his rib-cage and his arm. Eddie's death is loud and dramatic and slow, his tongue hanging out of his mouth when he finally succumbs to the injury.

The kid retrieves his blade, running off to let his parents know about his victory. You drop to Eddie's side in the grass.

"I fear my wounds are fatal, my lady," Eddie says in his dungeon master voice. He holds your hand tightly to his chest, and his breathing is even ragged.

He’s selling it, but your acting leaves something to be desired. "You fought valiantly, my brave knight."

"Please, fairest maiden," he's whispering now, squinting his eyes at whatever distant light he's imagining, "with my dying breath, I only ask for one reward, as payment for my bravery."

He breaks character for the first time with a little grin, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes.

"What payment would that be?"

You lean in close, brushing a few strands of hair away from his eyes with delicate fingers.

"A kiss," Eddie whispers.

You lean over him, like you're the prince in a fairy tale and he's the sleeping princess. It's almost sweet, until you feel his big hands wrapping around your hips.

Eddie yanks you down on top of him with a menacing little giggle, letting you fall against his chest with an oof—your flower crown knocked into the grass.

He kisses you, deep and serious, his tongue breaching your lips. It's a bedroom kiss, and the idea that anyone could be watching you makes you flush, breath going shallow.

"You're so fucking pretty, baby," he tells you, dropping his head back to the ground. His fingers are soft when they pet a few loose hairs back behind your ear.

Eddie's hips shift beneath you in a way that's too sharp to be accidental, and your toes curl in your sandals.

"Wanna go somewhere?" he asks.

There's nobody around on this side of the tents—just a couple of trucks for the people who cart the faire around and some discarded tent poles. Not that Eddie would care if you had an audience. Not with the way he's touching you.

He's got a fierce hand at your waist, pressing you tight against the side of a horse trailer. His other hand sneaks up to cup your tits.

"Fuck, baby," Eddie groans, mesmerized by the way you're spilling out of the peasant top of your costume, "you should dress like this all the time."

"We'd never leave the house, Eds."

You try to laugh at your own joke, but it comes out as a moan when he latches onto your neck, sucking a bruise into your skin that will definitely be visible for the rest of the day.

"Mmmh. Promise?"

He's got his hands sliding your skirt up your thighs, bunching the fabric in tight fists. You're legs are shaking so bad it's hard to stay standing.

He grips at your cunt all mean, prodding a few fingers at your entrance because he just can't help himself.

Eddie keeps his eyes on you when he drops down on one knee. He's got your skirt hiked up around your waist—your cotton panties, and the giant wet spot in the center of them, uncovered for anybody to see.

His nose trails a gentle path up your thigh, lips following close behind. Your shoulder blades dig against the trailer, and you're sure you’re about to collapse. You thread your fingers through his hair to steady yourself.

"I think," Eddie tells you, snapping the band of your underwear against your skin, "you're desperately in need of some princess treatment. Am I right, baby?"

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson filth #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fics #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #my writing

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jinx-on-mars-19xx · 9 months

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A God's Gift

⚔️ All Previous Parts Here ⚔️

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: ABO (knots, slick, mpreg), Viking/god Col, fae Dom, birth chapter, somewhat graphic descriptions of birth, Big Warning™️ for momentary fear of losing a child (it's only for a moment but if you're sensitive skip please, take care of yourself!), scared Dom, strong Col, drug use (sort of), siren song, accidentally cuming untouched, hand job, helpful big brother Cia, super helpful Tom, Col discovering his power, panic, biting/marking, teasing, babies ☠️ rating: mature/explicit ☠️ shared ideas by @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

"I- I don't know if I can do this!" Tom's voice was a harsh whisper in his lover's ear, his hands were squeezing the halfling's wrist tight. "And gods I definitely can't do this! Look at him Mush. He's so strong but they are trying to break him!"

Modig's eyes were a little wide but he still almost laughed. "You think the babes that insidious?" He hummed back, pressing a soft kiss to his mate's sweat wet temple. "Dom can and will do this and sweetheart-" He bit back a chuckle as he pressed his palm over the selkie's small bump. "It's a bit late for that."

They'd been locked in what was fast becoming a sweat lodge for hours. Tom was starting to genuinely worry for his best friend. They had to light their fires it grew so late and though the babe fought sleep valiantly he eventually succumbed and was curled around his mother's belly. Dom was attempting rest but the pains were growing too close, they could tell even Kol'son was starting to get anxious. They'd thought with so many they'd just push each other out from the pressure but no. They weren't sure if they were holding each other back or if it was just slow labor. Technically he wasn't even meant to be in it yet.

Kol worried for his mate and he worried for their friends- he could hear them whispering, the hut wasn't that big. All he could do was pet through his wife's hair or rub his back. He was trying to be comforting and yet his children were refusing to come out. As his fear grew his power did as well. He could feel it pulsing in the room like a live thing. The beast inside him was scratching to get out, demanding that he shift and let the wolf lure them out, but Dom had asked him to stay and he would help in any way he could.

The siren started to whimper in his half asleep state, the next wave of pain building fast. "Da-mmm-" Dom whined, groping around for his husband's hand. He was stripped down by this point, laying directly on his best friend's fur. "Summat feels- f- fuck!" His voice broke in a cry and suddenly a new scent joined the other's clouding the room. Kol's nostrils flared and his ear tried to twitch, it was almost a noise he could hear when his mate's water finally broke.

"What now?" Tom asked but a calm came over him. He only let himself panic when Dom was resting. He never failed his prince, no matter what he was feeling. Even though their relationship had shifted so drastically since finding a home, that hadn't. He moved to crouch behind him and when his knees hit so much wet he cursed under his breath. "That now. I see. Damhnaic, will you kneel for me?" He tried to ask gently but when he didn't move an inch Tom moved instead. His gaze met Kol's, their eyes locking for just a moment but that was all it took. "Get your arse up brat prince. Would you like their first impression of you to be how bloody weak you are?" He slipped into their old tongue, something to comfort and rile the boy.

Dom's eyes had never snapped open so fast and when he moved next it was to turn and slap his kin's shoulder. The jerky movement made something ache even worse in his belly and he cried out, thankful when his god caught him carefully. The moment their skin touched though, the second Kol'son pulled him chest to chest a heat washed over him that he knew was his daidí's power. It plunged through him, calming his mind and warming his heart. When it rushed through his belly he felt those butterflies flare and he was surprised that even his arousal reacted. His body was needy for something, it was just too overwhelmed to know what. When those reflective jade eyes landed on his love's he wasn't surprised to see that in-between violet that happened when Kol fought his shift. He was surprised though by the noise they heard next, a small soft howl.

Kol didn't mean to jump but when he felt warm fur brush his leg there was a small part of him that thought 'spider!' and reacted. When he looked down though he was glad he didn't move to brush it away because it certainly wasn't an arachnid. No… "Ciarán?" He asked and the blonde pup next to him yipped. It was strange, he no longer felt the intense need to shift and it hit him all at once. "Um… I think I did that." He mumbled sheepishly as he met his wife's steady glare.

"Ya fink?"

"Um… with the-"

"Wiv the magic? Yeah. Caught tha'. Wha' the fuck Kols?"

The chieftain was surprised they were able to have a tiff in the middle of everything happening but when Dom got frustrated he had it out right then and there. Even as a thrall he'd been obstinate. No matter how many spankings he gave him his wife would always be a brat and he loved every second. "I didn't mean to! I was trying to help you."

"Yeah? 'Ow- 'ow- so-oh gods!" Those pinprick fangs clenched tight and Dom's body shook as felt something inside him move.

"There we go, good boy. Just spread your legs. You certainly know how to do that." Tom mumbled as he helped his best friend get his legs better positioned under him. They all laughed, even Dom somehow, but it was such a pained noise it hurt his heart.

"Fink you such a badarse alpha- making me pup shift and me- me fucking- bastard!" Dom was worked up and truly thankful for it. It was far easier handling that much pain when full of frustration. It felt like he had something to prove, though he wasn't sure what. "Pick 'im up! Tha' whine gonna break me 'eart." He whimpered before biting gently at his lover's mating mark. Something about the shape of it soothed the fear and pain. It helped. Everything about the man helped.

Kol'son rolled his eyes, he wanted to be focusing on Dom but he scooped up their tiny pup and plopped him over his shoulder. A small pink wiggly tongue licked the tears off Dom's cheeks and in the midst of his pain the siren smiled. "Ya know… he's pretty damn cute."

"Oi, come off it. Now who knows if he'll- fuckme- if I'll get a seal pup!" The sentence turned into something like a scream but Ciarán never backed down. He didn't squirm off his father's shoulder and he didn't bark unless it was to soothe Dom. The alpha was always proud of his heir but gods he was being an amazing little champ. Better than uncle Mush was handling it, that was for sure.

The faint scent of herbs filled the room and they were all surprised when the seer blew smoke around them. Dom had meant to do it completely sober but at the same time he didn't think he'd ever been more thankful to the fae. He was hurting too much for it to get him high but it eased the ache just enough he could breathe again. His head fell back, his body relaxing until the moment fingers teased over his core. "Oh- oh shit." Kol laughed softly, and the prince relaxed when he realized the touch was his.

"Daidí?"

"I can feel them. It's time ástin min." Kol'son whispered, pressing gentle kisses over his wife's face.

The fear was cold in Dom's chest but first he met the small pink eyes of his son- not yet an alpha, and then the violet of his husband's. He couldn't stop what was to come no matter how scared they were over being able to protect them. They just had to trust themselves and each other. He was shocked when a warm hand curled around his soft cock, his mate was trying to distract him from the pain as the first pup crowned. Gods it felt like a fire was burning through his core and lighting him up from the inside out. The pressure was almost more than he could handle but Mod filled the room with smoke and everything started to blur as his daidí stroked him off.

Tom felt nothing but focus and pride as he watched his prince fight through immense pain. The herbs were affecting even him but he tried to stay alert. Somehow even though he'd been so terrified just moments before when he saw the dark head of hair and squirming small body make its way free of his kin a tiny part of his mind and heart looked forward to enduring it for himself. "Almost there." He soothed, rubbing Dom's back. He and Kol'son both reached for the babe but they were distracted when Cia wriggled off his perch and tumble rolled onto the fur below them. For a moment he laid on his back and wagged his tail but when Dom let out a cry of relief the puppy rolled over and toddled to his brand new sibling.

Dom gasped, time was moving strangely and everything hurt but when those feet fell free and he didn't hear a cry he started to worry. He glanced down, wondering why no one was reaching for the babe but what he found made him quiet as well. His little boy was licking over his siblings face and nose and finally- "That's our girl." Tom laughed but it was a wet sound. Dom didn't have to look to know his best friend was crying.

"Girl? I got my princess? My… other princess." Kol corrected but he choked on tears. There was a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow and he so badly wanted to look but they weren't even close to done and his wife needed his attention. Cia yipped happily, even growling at Tom when he tried to clean the girl with a towel but when the next wave of pain gripped the siren they all focused on him. Tom took their daughter as Mod filled the room with haze again. Perhaps it wasn't best for the little ones but every Viking grew up like that. "Fuck princess I'm so proud of you. You're doing so good. Can you give me another?"

Dom wanted to say no. He wanted to slap or claw that beautiful smile of his mate's face until the bastard tried pushing something that big out himself. He'd barely gotten a look at his daughter before the next started to move down but she was bigger than he worried she'd be. He was scared they were coming far too soon. He answered the only way he could, a sharp nod and a pitiful cry but he pushed. It felt like he was breaking but he pushed.

Ciarán stayed close, his head butted against his mother's thigh to give him strength. He could scent blood but over that was the smell he knew was his baby siblings, fresh bread. They smelled so yummy but he promised himself he wouldn't even nip them. His sissy hadn't tasted very good anyway. When the next was free he moved to clean them too, something in his instincts told him it was good for them and when Tom said it was a boy he howled. Well… he tried to. He tried so hard to sound like his daidí did but it came out small and sweet. He'd been asking for a brother and he tried to thank his mother with a quick yip and a lick over his foot. He tried to be a good calm boy as he watched uncle Mush Mush take the boy and clean him up but he was vibrating with excitement.

Dom couldn't do it. There were tears streaming down his cheeks, blood and slick on his thighs, milk on his chest from the baby's cries, and he was trembling so hard he could barely stay up. There was one more, at least that's what he thought, but his body was trying so hard to give up. It didn't matter though, whoever was coming next was fucking determined and so was his alpha. "Omega you will listen. You will push for me until all our children are free. After all you've been through, is this where you give up?"

Dom's eyes narrowed in a glare and he bared his fangs. Kol'son just arched a brow and stuck his tongue out but he smirked and hissed when his wife lunged for him and bit over the same spot he marked him the first time. He let his mate suckle to muffle his screams and he tightened his grip as Dom started pushing again. He didn't know how long they'd been pushing but he could feel the sun rising outside. He could sense his people waking up and his aunt and uncle pacing outside. "Almost- almost-" His voice felt like a growl and he tried to keep a good grip around his lover's dick. The boy was mostly soft but he knew the stimulation helped. His own was throbbing honestly and he wasn't quite sure what that said about him.

Dom pulled off his husband's chest and screamed as the babe popped free and didn't even wait for Ciarán's cleaning to start fucking wailing. The sound was like music to him though and he started to laugh. He felt on the brink of madness from all the pain and happy chemicals warring in his mind. He just wanted to feed his babes and pass the hell out but something felt… strange.

"One more." Kol'son growled, pressing his forehead hard against Dom's. They were drenched in sweat and getting higher than he thought the mushroom man had meant for them to but he met Dom's eyes and sent as much strength to him as he could.

The fae sighed when another wave of emotion hit him, his husband was trying so hard to help. He'd been denying it all month, he hadn't wanted to test fate with so much hope but as something tore through him he knew. "Let it out." Kol whispered, his alpha present enough Dom had to listen and Mod covered his ears as the siren did just that.

A scream filled the room that hit Kol'son in the soul. It was the most heart wrenchingly beautiful thing he'd ever heard. His wife had been humming for his pleasure for years but this? This was the full power he kept so carefully locked up and it bowled over him like the strongest wave. He felt as if he were floating in the middle of a warm ocean, nothing had ever been so peaceful. When he felt the water suck him under he didn't mind. He didn't need to breathe. He couldn't see anything but golden eyes. He couldn't feel anything but peace and heat and overwhelming pleasure. His knot pulsed but his hips didn't thrust. The water would take care of him. It was like the hottest mouth surrounding him, sucking him, working him to that peak and when he reached it everything was gentle.

The world slammed back into focus as Dom's voice broke in a whimper, Kol'son could feel cum dripping down his thigh as he choked as gasped for air but he shook it all off. He had to. The siren song was replaced by deafening silence as if the other siblings waited for their newest addition to cry. Dom collapsed against the Viking's chest, his whole body sliding down until his mate helped him lay out more comfortably in the nest. He couldn't rest though, not until he heard it. Heard them. "Tom?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

When he could focus well enough he looked to see his kin gently rubbing the babe's chest as Cia licked their face clean. His breath caught in his chest. Why weren't they crying? Gods he knew it was too good to be true, how could the universe bless them so without punishing them? He'd never been lucky before he met Kol. "Daidí?" He whined, reaching out a spasming hand that of course the god took. He could feel his lover quaking too. Tom moved, taking the small form in his hold and he crawled closer, placing the little one on Dom's chest.

The first thing he noticed was how small they were, the second was that it was certainly a 'he'. "Come on lil one. Please? For mumma?"

The chieftain refused to fear the worst, he hovered close and pressed a breathy kiss to the baby's belly. There was just a little force behind it as if he could push a breath into them. "Wake up for daidí." It was almost a prayer but he was the only god here and with that thought he closed his eyes and kissed the child's forehead, over his heart, demanding his pup to- "Wake up. Wake. Up."

The breath was sharp and loud in the quiet room but it was the sweetest sound Dom ever heard and with it he let himself cry. His puppy yipped and bounced next to them but it was the sound of relief escaping his mate that told him what had truly just happened. He knew his god would write it off to timing but he knew better. He wasn't the only one bringing life that night.

The man laughed, his violet eyes filled with tears as they shared a smile over their boy before he finally looked him over. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, but as those small legs wiggled he caught something else. "Oh fuck baby- he's… he's an omega. Momma's little mini." He chuckled, noting how the dark wispy hair matched and the eyes. Oh gods above his eyes. A brighter gold than he'd ever seen before.

Dom knew there was more to come. He had other things to birth and pain to suffer but he didn't care anymore. He spread his legs and let Tom work on the cords and anything else and instead he focused on the tiny prince on his chest. The pup was the runt of the litter but he fit perfectly on Dom's chest. In his hold. "The overs." He huffed, looking to the pile of babes and thankfully Mod moved to help. There was a stain on his pants that Dom vowed to ignore and never speak of but he felt badly. He'd never used his full voice before that night. He could tell his mate was still feeling it. "Did… daidí did I do good?" He couldn't help but ask and his Viking beamed down at him.

"You did perfect ástin min. Fucking perfect."

Author's Note/Tags: @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @manicpixiedreamb0y @cole-way-iero28 @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker 🖤

BABIES! Naming them will come next and all the cuddles. Seems like the little pack found their power 👀 poor Mod. I hope you enjoyed it! 🖤☠️

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northernmariette · 2 years

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Part 6: Typhus and the Russian Campaign

We have arrived at Typhus Terminus. This is my final post about how typhus contributed to the disaster of Napoleon’s Russian campaign.

[...] On 19 October [Napoleon’s] army began the retreat from Moscow.

Fifteen thousand reinforcements had joined the French army during their month’s stay in the city, but nearly ten thousand soldiers succumbed to disease or wounds. The army which left Moscow on 19 October amounted to just over ninety-five thousand dirty, half-starved, unhealthy men. They were encumbered with their sick and wounded, six hundred cannon and insufficient horses to draw them, an immense mass of loot [...].

Skipping ahead, only fifty thousand men made it across the Berezina.

The army now began to degenerate into an undisciplined rabble. On 29 November Napoleon wrote: “Food, food, food - without it there are no horrors that this undisciplined mass will not commit at Vilna. Perhaps the army will not rally before the Niemen. There must be no foreign agents at Vilna, The army is not a good sight today.” Fifteen thousand men died on the road between the Beresina and Vilna. But there was worse to come.

The starving vanguard reached Vilna on 8 December, having marched through thickly falling snow driven by a bitter north-east wind. Only twenty thousand sick and disheartened men comprised the effective force. The rest were stragglers, stumbling along as best they could. starving and frozen, harried by Cossack patrols. Just twenty men remained of Ney’s third corps, who had fought so valiantly in the rearguard. The town of Vilna offered no relief. Already starving, it as crowded with sick, and typhus fever has spread throughout the surrounding countryside. Men suffering from typhus, dysentery and pneumonia lay on rotten straw soaked with their own excrement, without medical attention or means of warmth, so hungry that they gnawed leather and even human flesh. By the end of December over twenty-five thousand sick and frost-bitten men had struggled into the town. Fewer than three thousand of these were alive in June 1813.

[...]

Napoleon left Russia for Paris in early December, leaving Murat in command on the remnants of the Grande Armee.

[Napoleon] could save himself but he could not save his army. Murat, left in command, proved a broken reed. He refused to make a stand at Vilna and on 10 December abandoned the last guns, the remaining baggage and the army’s treasury to the Russians. On 12 December Berthier sent a private report ahead to Napoleon that the army no longer existed, and that even the Imperial Guard, now reduced to five hundred men, had lost all semblance of a military formation. Ney, still stubbornly fighting a rearguard action, crossed the Niemen on 14 December. When the last stragglers had shuffled over to the German bank, there remained fewer than forty thousand of the brilliant Grand Army which Napoleon had reviewed on June 24. It is said that fewer than a thousand of those who returned were ever again fit for duty. So ended Napoleon’s dream fantasy, the conquest of Russia and India. There were, of course, other causes of defeat beside typhus fever. Cold, hunger, the Russians all helped to destroy the army - and so did Napoleon Bonaparte himself.

[...]

On 29 November 1812, during the crossing of the River Beresina, Marshal Ney wrote to his wife: “General Famine and General Winter, rather than the Russian bullets, have conquered the Grand Army.” This is the accepted opinion, but, to tell the whole truth, we must add the names of General Typhus and General Napoleon.

For those who would like to know more about the Russian campaign, I recommend Adam Zamoyski’s book on the topic. While he does not mention typhus very much, he mentions every additional way the soldiers of Napoleon’s army met with their death. The suffering of Napoleon’s men, especially during the retreat, was immense, and all for nothing.

Furthermore, Zamoyski’s book includes an extensive bibliography, over 400 works in six languages (French, English, Russian, Polish, German, and Italian), so there is plenty of material for those who want to read contemporary memoirs or the works of today’s historians.

Disease & History, second edition, by Frederick E. Cartwright and Michael Biddiss, Sutton Publishing, 2000; pp. 97-107

#napoleon #napoleon's army #typhus #russian campaign

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lifewithoutease-blog · 7 months

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Hey. It's me. I'm in my head again and having a hard time. So here goes.

You said, that at the "end" of it, you agreed that if it was meant to be, you'd find your way back to each other. Here, I found a new pain... something to justify what I had felt since the beginning. That there was a part of you, no matter how devoted you claimed to be, that yearned to make its way back.

The desire to aupair. The words of love to another. The memories you carry, within and without, there stored in our house. Thoughts, you'd mention, that washed over you every, single, day. For years. How heartbroken you were.

You said, that you loved him and always would.

You said, that it ended for no other reason that the difficultly of distance. And still, you grieved and yearned.

This, and more, came to my ears and mind, for the first time. Therapy. How therapeutic, isn't it? Finding new ways to push my doubt, fears, anger and feelings of inadequacy deeper into the thrashing waters of our relationship.

Swim.

Swim as a new wave of compulsive feelings mangle my wretched scrag form into the jagged jutting Isle of Reality.

There yet, do new and unrelenting juxtaposed thoughts berate me.

Breathe and swallow the bitter salt of that frigid medium we call love.

As frigid and hopeless as January winds on a moonless night, howling and piercing the flesh of the heart. Piercing your flesh. My flesh.

Live in it. Drown in it. Death.

Lazarus as my mentor, I find life in this void. When thereupon, I, fringed within death, on wind-scarred rocks, a ray of happiness finds its way from between the turmoil of the stormed sky.

But how little does this love let shine through and how much succumbs before reaching this Isle of Man.

I tire, Tayler.

Let me drown? Please?

Oh, to drown and be at peace.

To let go. To let you find your way back to your one true love. Go on. Leave. Hate me. Stop loving me, with whatever form of Love you do. Go and take his side and rid me of this mental torment. Prove my insanity sane.

Not I. It was never I.

For how would you explain the Choice of Love?

There does my mind lurk. Pressing, molding, cutting, moving... fashioning reason where I might find it.

How do you explain years of love for someone whose brief, bright flame kindled your heart for so long? There wherein I fought so valiantly for the embers love, still lit with the light of a former love.

No. I didn't stand a chance.

See, love has two sides. The love of Choice and the love of Nature. I find the love of Choice that which you would give a dog, a friend... anything or anyone who you could cutoff given a good enough reason. A fickle hand-out waiting to be withdrawn.

Nature? There. There does the heart give its all. Without reason. Without end. The love of truest love, bestowed to children, parents, siblings, and real lovers. Who without, you can't bear the thought of breathing. Who without you hang on for years and years. If I left, would you yearn for me so?

So I think, what do you have for me? The love of Choice of course. "I choose you", you say, but I know it's only because the other was too far. I choose you, but our love started and was compared to that of a boy you so easily cast aside and hid your new love from. And so as you did to him, you did to me. Except I knew too much. Except, I wagered a holy war for your heart where I became jaded, and hateful and scarred from the hurt of you.

So Choice you have for me, and of no other Choice, of Nature, do you have for him. How else could you explain loving someone, so deeply for so long? You can't. It was simply in your nature.

So forgive me if I hate you. Forgive me if I hate myself for all the things I have done, to justify my actions in the scales and balances of heartache. Forgive me for everything. From the bottom of my heart. For 11 years I have tried, and fought and tried to forgive you. But I don't know how.

Oh, but what, what ever is there to forgive? When I met you, and fell for you, you were to be the one. My one and only, forever and always. And so I tried and tried, to make it right, to make it perfect for you and I. But my deepest desire, to find love and do it right? Spoiled. By your heart, sure, but mostly by me. For not knowing how to accept you and letting myself hurt you and deepen my pain, year after year.

The worst of it is, that I know, without a doubt that you are the love of my life. My one true and only love. The person who I'd spend forever with. The person I promised forever to. So forgive me.

And how could you forgive me? I can't forgive you. I know not of forgiveness, and my wounds do fester, driving my soul into bitterness. For try as I might, I can't seem to get close to you without feeling betrayed and hurt.

That's the core of it. So long I've told myself not to become bitter, and still, I feel it. I feel it inside of heart. A blackened version of the tender heart I did hand to you. Spoiled by the realities and injustices life. Cast asunder by your words stating love is fleeting, no one is forever and love is a Choice.

For so long has my love for you been by Nature, fighting my darkest self. But now, I see it as the beautiful Siren named Choice. There she sings to my wicked soul, perched on the Isle of Reality.

She beckons me to the depths of despair, to drown once and for all...

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yinjiyang · 9 months

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Smoke on the Water

“I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able repay you.” -- @phoenix-flamed -- In Case You Didn’t Know Starters

Akashic dragons were very rarely if ever considered good company, nor expected in this particular region. When one happened upon a party of Cursebreakers and a handful of recently-freed Bearers escaping Sanbreque by sea, the group may have very well met a violent fate on the shores that day...and yet, as valiantly as strong soldiers fought, on the brink of succumbing to exhaustion and injuries, one brave warrior remained behind to ward off the beast so the others could flee to safety. One brave warrior with a scar upon his cheek. He fought so valiantly for the sake of the innocent, but alas, the situation turned quite dire as the dragon was very angry and very persistent. And yet, when it seemed this courageous fellow faced then end, something...happened. Something unexpected. As the dragon reared back, gearing to strike a final blow, a massive wave rose from the water behind it, leering and ominous...then suddenly reached out in a spiral around the creature, propelling it back into the sea with a shriek and a splash, pushing it down, down, down to thrash and writhe and ultimately drown within the depths. And there, standing at water's edge, was a tall and svelte young man dressed in ancient robes of blues and silver, dark hair reaching to his knees, drenched from head to toe...to palm still raised toward where the monster had once been, wisps of glowing teal and white drifting from tips of slender fingers. The was no mistaking that the figure had been the one to control the sea, to send the dragon to a watery grave, magic fading from his fingers as he lowered his arm. A beat of silence...several actually, as he very slowly turned to face the brave Cursebreaker, posture one of an ethereal elegance not often seen in Valisthea...if at all, I don't know how I'm every going to be able to repay you. What a...peculiar...dialect this man had. Yin's head tilted just slightly as curiosity reflected in dark ocean eyes. Finally, his hand lifted once more in a fluid motion, resting his long index finger gently upon pale lips in a shushing gesture, the shadow of a sincere smile fading over his features and within his gaze. They should keep Yin's intervention--and more specifically, his magical prowess--to themselves. All the compensation he required was to maintain secrecy.

#phoenix-flamed #leviathan the lost verse #smoke on the water #{ alsdkfjaslkdjf we're doing it. we're finally doing the thing! }#{ i hope this is all right }#{ please please please let me know if i need to change anything }#{ i figured a first official meeting would be fitting }

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danwhobrowses · 2 years

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One Piece Post-Wano Theory: Vegapunk, the Navy, and the Capture of Monkey D. Luffy

I bet that caught your attention huh?

Time for a One Piece theory I've been sitting on for a bit, formulating until the dots seemed to connect better. But since Viz seems to believe that Chapter 1032 will come out in 2 weeks rather than 1, we'll use this time to sneak in what could very possibly happen after Wano.

Spoilers for One Piece from and leading up to Chapter 1031, get updated or read at your own risk!

First and foremost let's cover what we currently know.

Luffy is fighting Kaido 1v1, driven by his alliance with Momo as well as fulfilling the requirements for his and Law's alliance and his promise to Tama to help open Wano's borders and end its time in poverty

Zoro is fighting King, but his bones are refined to fine powder to the point where he's only still going because of a special medicine by the Minks, which will double his pain at a later time

Sanji's Germa Programming seems to be taking effect, and in his fear of becoming like his brothers he's asked Zoro to kill him if he gets that far, unsure if he may change any further

Robin is being chased down by CP0, under strict orders to obtain her. Orders Kaido and Big Mom also have since she's necessary for reading Poneglyphs

Big Mom's crew, besides Perospero, are far away from their captain/mother, and unable to support her at the moment

Drake, a spy for SWORD, has reported CP0's presence and dealings in Wano. Who's Who, a former CP9 agent, is also aware of this

The World Government, fresh off their supposed W with the SSG during the Reverie, are en route to annex Wano into the World Government's umbrella and make it their territory

There may however not be much left of Wano should Onigashima fall on or near the Flower Capital, with the explosives in the Armoury capable of wiping out at a wide radius

These things are a key part of my theory, which will all partly play a role in what's to come.

Part 1: The End of the Raid Luffy will defeat Kaido. As impossible as it sounds to many in the OP universe the Strongest Creature will succumb to the 'Fifth Emperor' for the cathartic victory which will fulfill Luffy's expectations with his alliances with Law and the Samurai/Minks.

The problem, however, is that the victory will not last. The World Government will swoop in like vultures to take command of the new power vacuum in Wano, attacking the 'evil pirates' to pick them off. In a similar style to Sabaody, we will likely see the SSG and Admiral Ryokogyu lead the charge to overpower the weakened pirates. Because Luffy is kind and Zoro lives to protect Luffy, both men will try to hold them off despite running on evaporation, but they will at least buy time for the likes of Kid, Law, and even Big Mom to escape.

Unable to fight though, the rest will fall to Sanji. In a state of conflict himself, he will allow/force his fellow crewmates and leave him behind with his fellow Monster Trio members. CP0 will not get Robin, but they will have a sweet deal in acquiring a Vinsmoke and capturing 2 'Emperors'. Big news that will sweep the world as if the Marines had valiantly fought off all three Yonko parties to a resounding victory.

Part 2: Navy-Occupied Wano Wano will of course be 'taken in' by the World Government's 'protection'. With promises to end poverty and a seat at the next Reverie, it will be an enticing carrot for the people of Wano and something the Kozuki may struggle with given their gratitude to Luffy and awareness that since Oden was affiliated with Roger, they may also be edged out. In addition, the World Government will insist on claiming the weapons factories Kaido and Orochi made, while also forcefully making Samurai teach their craft and pressing on confiscating any hint towards how or why Wano made the Poneglyphs (Something Oda's not quite touched upon as much yet).

The World Government will have wrinkles in this too though. For one, they now have Monkey D. Luffy, but he's a hero to Wano, and they can't just send him to Impel Down - where he's already escaped. So quietly, they send him, Sanji, and Zoro away to 'recover'. There will still also be resistance from Wano, who did not ask or want the World Government to become their new oppressors, there will also be the matter of Wano hiding the remaining pirates - including the Straw Hats - from arrest. Bringing in more public-friendly Marines like Smoker, Tashigi, and Koby, there will become an air of uncertainty among many marines; they're not wanted here so why are they imposing? Why are the World Government making them out as heroes when the Navy's original orders were to not get involved?

Resolve will be tested. And come to a head.

Part 3: The WG-Marine Civil War One Piece has demonstrated many times to us that there are two types of marines: those who follow orders and those who follow justice. The World Government believes themselves able to dictate what justice is, but this is where a large fraction of the marines will break off, most notably: SWORD.

Koby and co will note the underhanded tactics done by the World Government is only for their own selfish benefit, and now they intend to hostilely invade Wano for their resources rather than for peacekeeping. Drake's intel about CP0 will only fuel this distrust, and a conflict will brew between marines loyal to the Government and marines loyal to the People. In this civil war, the Straw Hats remaining in Wano can be informed on what happened at the Reverie, specifically to Alabasta and Sabo. With the help of Smoker and Tashigi, the group will leave Wano in the hands of Koby, Yamato, the Minks and the Samurai to go and reclaim Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji from where they were taken, a place Smoker and Tashigi have been before.

Part 4: Vegapunk Sanji's surrender will have worked in many aspects. Not only do the Marines get 3 of the deadliest known Straw Hats, but they are now on the brink of uncovering the mad genius of the Germa Kingdom's military prowess, where else would they take him to but to where Vegapunk is? However, Sanji also profits from this, he has bought time for his nakama, precious recovery time for his captain, and that shitty marimo who collapsed before keeping his end of the bargain.

This will be the arc we meet Vegapunk, and possibly even some remaining Punk Hazard children. While Luffy and Zoro will still be in a slow recovery, Sanji will at least get some time to sort out any prior modifications Germa may have put into him, or at the least reassure him that he won't lose his emotions like his brothers. The crew will have also arrived thinking only about busting the trio out, only to find that they are in fact pretty safe in the closed-off facility that Vegapunk has been contained within. Through Vegapunk we can see many interactions and advancements from the less-powerful characters such as Usopp and Nami, while also some acknowledgment of Vegapunk's old designs in Franky. We may also get some Devil Fruit answers, given Vegapunk's vast intelligence which'd be invaluable in the Straw Hats' hands. Another interesting piece of information would regard more truths about Bartholomew Kuma, and the reality of what happened in the Reverie, but that won't be Vegapunk's story to tell, it'll fall unto another.

Part 5: The Mystery of Jewelry Bonney Bonney has been captured and yet escaped the Navy a few times now, Akainu noting familiarity with the member of the Worst Generation. Now, having last appeared in the Reverie looking to save Kuma, this would be an opportune moment for Oda to bring Bonney's past into the foray and explain her mysterious nature and value to the World Government. Her recounting of what happened in the Reverie will provide us the answers the audience and Luffy will need to formulate a plan of action, whatever it may be. Learning this will also give Luffy more seriousness towards the value of information before he had been carefree about not knowing certain bits of news, and that ignorance had cost him Ace and could possibly be costing him Sabo, the closed-off nature of Wano was in part to keep Luffy out of the loop, and now that he's in the loop he will need to act.

Luffy's decision however will not come without conflict, because Vegapunk will want out too, as will Bonney, and if Kaido is still alive I don't think he'd enjoy being a test subject again. This will put Smoker the most into a moral quandary; does he let pirates escape? He supported the banning of the Warlords so they wouldn't have to rely on pirates anymore. At this point, we may finally see Smoker vs Luffy properly, whereby Luffy will be the clear winner but Smoker is less upset about it than he thought, but more opposition will await the escapees hoping to safely escort Vegapunk, namely that of CP0.

Part 6: An Unlikely Rescue Now I know what you're thinking "Now this is the time for Shanks, Law & Kid, or the Grand Fleet to come in" but I smile and tell you not yet. Someone does rescue the Straw Hats, but they were very much the Straw Hats' enemy not too long ago.

The Big Mom Pirates come to save them! Though they have little care for Kaido there still might be solidarity in that alliance to abide by, but since Luffy helped Big Mom escape, a fair few like Katakuri may feel more compelled to return the favour. There may also be fears of Big Mom going into a hunger pang for Oshiruko, a commodity Big Mom's children do not know how to make, setting her on course to Wano and into the thick of the Marine/WG warzone. Granting the pirates an exit without indicting Smoker and Tashigi, our heroes set sail back to Wano.

Part 7: The New Balance of Power Although the raid will have ended the Wano arc, Wano would remain the stage for the war Kaido had been gasping for all this time. Between the schism in the navy, the pirates will arrive first to drive off the forces, but distrust would still sow and the Straw Hats remain few, only backed by Minks and Samurai - and maybe the likes of Law and Kid - but the Grand Fleet aren't here yet oh no, it has to get worse before it gets better.

Blackbeard will arrive next, seeing ample opportunity not only to steal a bunch of Devil Fruits but to also dismantle the World Government's proud weapons and claim Wano for the same reasons everyone else does. But rather than arriving from the front, Blackbeard will flank from the back, a route well-known to a begrudging Gekko Moria as a former ally to Kaido in his past.

A crazed or vengeful Big Mom, a relishing Kaido, and a conniving Blackbeard become three of four thorns in the allies' side along with the World Government, most of whom set their sights on Robin. But this is where reinforcements gather; the Revolutionary Army will come to Robin's aid, Shanks may also arrive too - but will be unable to negotiate peace against stubborn minds like Akainu - but the caveat will finally be the Grand Fleet

Until here, no force was truly aware just how many Luffy had under his command, paired with the Big Mom force that rescued him, any remaining Sun Pirates or Germa members, Warlords, and the Wano forces of Samurai and tamed SMILE Abominations, Luffy will prove formidable enough to maintain a force of his own. Able at the least to hold his ground and stake claim to Wano as his territory, while the other forces would be pushed back with the help of the collective alliances Luffy has forged and his supporters. A hefty blow will see that the Pirates still have enough fight in them to deter the SSG, and while Kaido may indeed meet his demise in such a battle, Luffy will be fully recognized as a Yonko.

Aftermath Luffy being established as Yonko will be a double-edged sword. It's a leap towards his goal but it also makes him a target, something I'm sure Blackbeard or Shanks will remind Luffy of. Wano will be spared of World Government dominion but at the cost of the Marines fracturing, which will push Im and the Gorosei to perform more drastic actions; with no Robin, no Vegapunk, and with the Shichibukai on the loose too the pirate world is gonna get mighty volatile.

On top of this, we can have setup for either continuing with what happened with Sabo - via the Revolutionaries, where Luffy may also have to encounter his father - or Elbaf, where Hajrudin will act unfavourably to Big Mom, unaware of what Hajrudin witnessed with the House of Lambs. Either route having consequences and challenges to Luffy's newfound Yonko status, but still manage to keep the high level the story has pushed as we complete the Yonko Saga once and for all.

And a banquet we'll have a banquet too.

#one piece #one piece theory #op theory #wano arc #one piece wano #wano country arc #wano #straw hat pirates #beasts pirates #animal kingdom pirates #big mom pirates #yonko saga #world government one piece #one piece yonko #yonko #cp0 #dr vegapunk #vegapunk #worst generation

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neopuff · 3 years

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title: sleep ship: six/holiday word count: ~1600 summary: Six finds Holiday after the events of Plague. ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835984

As soon as the virus was contained, Six opened his eyes wide and sat up with a start. He looked around himself to see Bobo asleep and several other officers slowly waking up. Memories flooded back as he thought back to the events from when he was last conscious - he’d been suddenly tired, more tired than ever, and fell asleep against Holiday’s lab desk - but somehow he’d been moved to the medical ward and there didn’t seem to be any doctors on duty. Where was Holiday? And where was Rex?

He hopped off the bed and quickly rushed towards the command center, hoping to find someone awake and useful enough to explain what the situation was. He forced himself to stop thinking about the worst possible situation and chose to focus on the facts: he fell asleep and then woke up in a different place surrounded by a ton of confused people who were also waking up. Not much to gauge from that.

The command center doors opened and Six was greeted by the sight of Providence employees grumbling and looking aimless and lost - clearly having just woken up at their desks and not knowing what was going on.

Even stranger than that - the camera for White Knight’s office was on, and it showed that he...wasn’t home. Six didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it wasn’t good. He quickly reached towards his ear to reach someone, but his comm wasn’t in. He huffed and glanced around the room to see if there was someone else’s he could grab, but suddenly his eyes landed on an all too familiar face.

And she was still fast asleep while everyone else seemed to be waking up.

Six rushed over to Holiday and reached out two fingers to her neck to feel her pulse as he assessed her situation. Her pulse seemed completely normal, she was snoring slightly, she had heavy bags under her eyes and strange bruises forming at her temples. What the hell happened while he was out?

He reached towards her ear and grabbed her comm, popping it in his own and pressing down. “Rex? Knight? Is anyone there?”

A short buzz. “Oh, hey Six! How’s it going?”

“How’s it-?! What happened? Where are you? Where’s Knight?”

Rex grunted and Six swore he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. “Ahh, you know. Sleeping plague that didn’t affect EVOs so White the Nanite-less Wonder and I had to work together and save everyone. Go figure, huh?”

Six raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Holiday. She was twitching a bit and he felt an unshakable urge to lay his hand on her cheek and try to calm her down. He fought that urge valiantly. “So he’s with you?”

“Yeah. Hey Knight, wakey-wakey! Say good morning to Six!”

Six listened to a few grunting noises before the familiar baritone filled his ears. “Six. Is everyone waking up?”

“Everyone but Holiday,” he answered with an edge of worry. “Why isn’t she waking up? Is something wrong with her? Should I-?”

“Whoa, whoa, Six! Calm down!” Rex interrupted, and Six could practically see the kid waving his hands around to exaggerate. “She only fell asleep a few hours ago, just let her rest.”

“How did she-”

“Holiday kept herself awake so she could do her job, unlike some agents.”

Six grunted and held back a comment on how Knight sounded like he was barely awake himself.

“Why don’t you take her to her room, Six? She shocked her brain so many times she’ll probably be out for a week!”

The ninja didn’t respond - he just pressed the comm and kept it tucked in his ear in case they needed to contact him again. He looked down and finally noticed the two suction cups dangling on wires from the top of her lab coat. He followed the wire to her pocket and pulled out a small box.

He wasn’t an engineer by any means, but this device combined with what Rex said earlier painted an obvious picture. Six laid the device down on the desk Holiday had been sleeping against and realized he was finally losing the fight against himself - he reached out his hand and laid it against the side of her head, his thumb tingling against the circular bruise on her temple.

“Holiday…” he mumbled, wanting to scold her but knowing she did what she needed to do.

“Agent Six?” a voice behind him spoke, and Six quickly removed his hand from the doctor before turning around.

“What?”

“What’s...what’s going on?”

Six scanned the area and noticed that pretty much everyone in the room was staring at him. He wondered if they were watching the entire time, but shook it off - it didn’t matter. “All non-EVOs have been asleep for over 50 hours. They’ll be people everywhere that need our help to fix this, so start reaching out!”

The soldiers and scientists saluted and went to work, while Six glanced down at Holiday who was still looking absolutely miserable. He knew what he had to do and hated the publicity of it, but...this was Holiday and she needed him. If she slept like that any longer she’d wake up without being able to move her neck.

So without any further hesitation, Six reached his arms down and hoisted her up, bridal style, letting her head fall against his chest. Her snoring got a little louder as he adjusted her and he had to stop himself from thinking back to the last time he caught her asleep at a desk.

He shuffled out of the room without so much as a second glance at the other agents, taking his time walking towards the dorms so as to not accidentally wake Holiday up. He stole a glance at her face and felt temporarily captivated - her hair was sticking out every which way and her eyes kept twitching and he wondered how she was able to get those shockers on her head before succumbing to the sleeping plague like everyone else. She really was amazing.

Without realizing it, he’d reached her door, and Six lifted his hand up as best as he could to punch in her four-digit passcode that she’d trusted him with several years earlier. He used his elbow to turn on a low light to make his way towards Holiday’s bed and gently laid her down before getting ready to take his leave.

He paused, however, and got distracted by the bruises on her temple again. He admired her dedication and was grateful that it was probably thanks to her that everyone was safe, but there was this stupid tick at the back of his mind that said she shouldn’t have had to do that.

Six’s thumb brushed against her temple again and he sat on the edge of her bed, feeling oddly calmed by the sound of her snoring.

Holiday rotated in her sleep and suddenly his hand was cradling her cheek, his thumb hovering just under her eye. She looked so tired.

Tired, but beautiful, he heard in the back of his mind, and huffed out a loud breath of exasperation. He wasn’t trying to deny it, he just didn’t need to think about that at the moment.

Somehow, that exhale must’ve reached Holiday in ways that all the noises of Providence hadn’t, because she rapidly blinked up at him and Six tore his hand away like it was burning.

“Holiday, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Six!” she shouted suddenly, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank God you’re alright!”

Six stiffened on instinct, though a little part of him desperately wanted to wrap his arm around her waist and hold her tight against him. He was worried sick after seeing her asleep for ten minutes - he couldn’t imagine how she must’ve felt seeing everyone she cared about knocked out for two days straight.

Holiday backed away and moved her hands up to the sides of his face. “How do you feel?” She broke a few unspoken boundary rules of theirs and grabbed his sunglasses with one hand - pushing them up and revealing his eyes - then stretching the skin under his eyes with her other hand in her typical check-up routine. “Sick? Anxious? Well-rested? Anything?”

He shook his head and grabbed the sunglasses to pop them back into place. “I’m fine, Doctor. Rex, too. It seems like we’re all okay for the time being.”

She moved her hands down his face, holding them against his jaw with a surprising level of confidence. “Good,” she mumbled, staring up at him like he was the most important person in the world. “Good.”

Six, ignoring the warm feeling in his chest, reached up and wrapped his hands around her wrists, gently pulling them down to her lap. “You should go back to sleep, Holiday.”

“No, no,” she said against a quiet yawn. “I’ve had a few hours, that’ll be enough to keep me going while I-”

“Holiday,” he interrupted sternly, one of his hands cupped against her temple again. “Trust me when I say this: you’ve done enough. Too much, even.”

She lifted up one of her hands to brush his away from her head. “You don’t know what it was like, Six. It was terrifying enough when you suddenly fell asleep, but then...it was so quiet. I had to do something.”

He kept his hands to himself, but his eyes still focused on those little spots. “I know. But now it’s done and you need to go back to sleep.”

“But-”

Six leaned over and shoved against her arms, receiving almost no pushback as he laid her down on her bed.

“If you were anyone else…” she mumbled as her eyelids closed. “...I’d be mad about this…”

Six huffed and smiled the tiniest little smile. “Then it’s a good thing I’m me.”

“...yeah,” Holiday responded quietly, sounding like she was pretty much completely back to sleep. “...it is.”

#generator rex #holix #agent six #dr. holiday #rebecca holiday #carrofics #yeah i wrote genrex fic in 2021 thats how its gonna BE

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thechaoticfanartist · 3 years

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Okay everyone I’d like to introduce you to my Undertale Star Wars crossover AU

GALAXYTALE

Galaxytale follows the events of Star Wars: The Clone Wars with Undertale characters. While the main story is within the Clone Wars there are some stories that will be taking place before and after the Clone Wars. The ages of the characters I have listed are from the beginning of The Clone Wars until their deaths.

Now I don’t have all the characters done, but I do have some of them done and designed so here are the ones I have so far.

Frisk

They/Them

Age: 10 - 32

Frisk is ten years old when they becomes a padawan to Master Toriel during the beginning of The Clone Wars. As the war goes on they become very close to their troops and Toriel, seeing Toriel as their mother and their troops and their big brothers. When Order 66 takes place Toriel shouts at Frisk to run and get to safety, Frisk doesn’t wish to flee but feeling their master’s fear they turn and run away, never seeing Toriel again. They start to head to the Jedi Temple when they receive Obi-Wan’s message, after listening to it they shed their padawan braid and go into hiding. Six years later Frisk learns of the Rebellion and joins it. They’re determined to bring back the Republic and end the evil of the Empire. However one faithful day they have an encounter with Darth Vader himself and is easily disposed of by the sith.

On the far left you see Frisk’s design as a padawan. Their beads are white and green to show their areas of study, white being healing and green being meditation. In the middle you see what Frisk looks like while in hiding, they’re wearing their classic sweater from the game. On the far right you see what Frisk looks like once they join the Rebellion, they received that scar while battling an inquisitor.

Toriel

She/Her

45-47

Before the Clone Wars Toriel spent her time teaching younglings in the crèche, during her time teaching she met her fellow Jedi Knight Asgore Dreemurr and they would eventually fall in love despite it being forbidden for a Jedi. As the years went on they later had a child named Asriel, however Asriel died very young (but in reality he got kidnapped by Sidious and would later become a Sith Lord named Darth Thorn, but that’s for another post) After Asriel’s death Toriel split with Asgore not wanting her grief and attachment to consume her. Dedicating even more of her time to the younglings in the crèche. Before The Clone War she took up a padawan, this padawan was a human child named Chara, Chara too unfortunately was killed, and once again Toriel kept to taking care of younglings in the crèche. When the Clone Wars began she took on Frisk as a padawan. She adopted all of her troops as her children as well as her padawan. When Order 66 took place she was shaken by her sons betrayal, she shouted at Frisk to run and held the troops back, unfortunately she did not survive.

Firsk and Toriel would run mainly relief and supply missions in The Clone Wars and stay away from the front line fighting when they could. They would also help out with healing as both Jedi were very good at that ability.

Sans

He/Him

20-26

During the Clone Wars Sans led his troops through many battles, and worked closely with Undyne and Papyrus. However when Order 66 hit he was nowhere near Papyrus as Papyrus was on Coruscant with Undyne and Sans was off world fighting his own battle. Even though he had received Obi-Wan’s warning he still headed to the Jedi Temple, where he would find Papyrus’s dead body. After taking out several clone troopers he fled Coruscant and swore revenge despite it not being the Jedi way. Three years afterwards he would finish his plan and go to murder Vader. There he would have a long battle with the Sith Lord and deal several damaging blows to him, in the end however his attempt was futile and he would die.

Sans used a shoto blade, and though he seemed lazy Sans could move very fast almost as if he could teleport. (No Sans can not teleport in this AU as it is not a force ability.)

Papyrus

He/Him

17-20

Papyrus was the younger brother of Sans and aprintinced to Undyne, during the Clone Wars he and Undyne would fight many battles, and Papyrus would always check on the troops in the medbay. Papyrus was very good at healing and would always help out when he could. Though Undyne tried to protect him from the horrors of war Papyrus was not naive and he wasn’t innocent either, he faced many of the horrors of wars and held many of his close friends as they died. Despite all of this Papyrus still smiled and stayed optimistic. When Order 66 hit, Papyrus was with Undyne at the Jedi Temple when they heard screaming the two went to check out the source only to see a massacre. Undyne would order Papyrus to warn the others and get the younglings to safety which Papyrus would do, but before he could get the final youngling to a safe place he would be shot down by a clone trooper.

Papyrus was very popular with the younglings at the Jedi Temple and many times some would go up to him and ask him for stories to which he would excitedly tell them.

Undyne

She/Her

30-33

Before The Clone Wars and before Undyne took Papyrus on as a padawan, Undyne would take on lots of dangerous missions leaving her scarred, on one of these missions she would lose most of her right lekku. Undyne would take Papyrus as a padawan the moment she got the chance, always seeing him and his brother to be brothers of her own. Many times during the Clone Wars, Undyne would find herself in the Halls Of Healing and fall in love with one specific healer there, Alphys though she would never admit her feelings. She and Papyrus fought many big battles of the Clone Wars, and would sometimes even work alongside Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Undyne and Anakin would even grow to be good friends. Undyne could feel something terrible was about the happen minutes before Order 66 happened and when she heard screaming she knew that that was what her feeling was about. She and Papyrus would run to the source of the screams and find the clones killing Jedi along with Anakin leading them. Undyne would order Papyrus to warn the others and get the younglings to safety before rushing to hold off Anakin and the 501st. Though Undyne fought valiantly she would be struck down by Anakin, and even as she was dying Undyne continued to fight, until her wounds would become too much and she would succumb to them.

Undyne had a strong sense of justice and would often make choices that wouldn’t be considered very “Jedi like” in order to protect her padawan and troops.

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hellishhin · 3 years

Note

Hello! Day 21 is another of those questions I love haha: How would either Sadie or K'lai'a'la (I love them now okay) react if the other were turned to stone by a basilisk/gorgon etc? What if the fight took a turn for the worse and it'd mean they'd have to flee and possibly leave the other behind?

The can of words you have just unleashed.... is below the cut (and is fluff not canon at this point)

Content warning: monster, petrification, pain, injury, combat, death

"K'lai'a'la, can you see anything?" Sadie hissed through the darkness. The rough-hewn cloth of K'lai'a'la's tunic and the scent of dank rot were the only things invading her senses.

K'lai'a'la just shushed her and gave Sadie's hand a squeeze to ensure she was holding on tightly. Her eyes could pick up the miniscule amounts of light outlining the craggy path ahead. This network of tunnels was supposed to be safer than the mountain pass, or so they thought. Perhaps they could have bartered with Cryax to let them through. Surely there was something a dragon wanted but Sadie is convincing when she wants to be so they chose the tunnels.

It was clear to the elf very early on that light amongst the darkness would only draw unwanted attention. The tunnels were supposed to only be a few miles long in the westerly direction but K'lai'a'la was used to navigating amongst the trees. Without the sun or the stars to guide her, she had to hope that their path was obvious or perhaps they would stumble into more trouble than they bargained for.

Only K'lai'a'la's highly trained senses detected the slight scuff of moving across stone that did not match up with her or Sadie's footfalls. She threw Sadie behind her and pressed their backs up against the cold wall of the tunnel. As much as she had wanted them to stay quiet, it was almost impossible when Sadie could not see her feet. They had been found.

Smooshed up against the wall, Sadie pushed against K'lai'a'la's thigh so she could free her mouth enough to speak. "What is it? Let me cast some light," she hissed.

"No light," K'lai'a'la breathed, eyes scanning the dim rock formations for any movement but could not see any as of yet.

"Well what did you see then? You have to tell me something otherwise I can't help."

That just got a hand pressed over Sadie's entire face. The small one needed to be silent or she could not sense what approached. Despite the distraction, her eyes still caught a sliver of movement just between two stalagmites followed by quiet clicks and a near silent hiss. This creature had multiple legs, claws, and a tail. From the sound of its tail, K'lai'a'la would have to guess that it was either scaled or skin. Fur would not make that sound on stone.

They had passed a few smaller off-shoots a few dozen yards back. She did not know where they led but it was unlikely they could run a four-legged creature and fighting it, especially if they didn't know what it was, would be a risk K'lai'a'la wanted to avoid. As she opened her mouth to tell Sadie what they were going to do, a growl emanated from beyond them, near where the movement was just a moment ago.

She felt Sadie clutch her shirt tighter at the sound which was all the motivation she needed. One arm around the small halfling, she guided her quickly back the way they came.

"What is going on gods damn it K'lai'a'la let me cast light!" her voice rose just slightly and K'lai'a'la could feel her grip loosen to cast the spell.

"Do. Not." K'lai'a'la demanded in a hushed tone, fear adding more color than she would have liked.

But Sadie picked up on that fear. Her friend knew what was going on and she trusted her friend to keep her safe so she clung to K'lai'a'la even tighter and stumbled next to her.

As they approached the nearest off-shoot, it spanned just about the width her her arms if they were held out to either side. Before the opening was fully in view, K'lai'a'la knocked an arrow and prepared herself before stepping out and scanning the opening.

A mere yard in front of her stood a behemoth of a creature. A mouth full of dagger-like teeth seemed to grin at her just below a pair of hollow shining eyes set in pale rock-like skin. It only took the briefest of moments, one singular glance into those depthless, magic-filled eyes and she felt her body begin to stiffen. Several thoughts raced through her mind, lightning-quick. If she succumbed, Sadie would die. This creature is intelligent, it knew these tunnels connected and it sent them back here. It was waiting. There would be no escape, surely the creature knew the tunnel system and would find them again. But if she could make sure this was the last prey this creature had then perhaps her friend had a chance.

"Do not look," K'lai'a'la's voice was so calm that Sadie's heart leapt into her throat. Then the twang of her bow echoed off the stone. Sadie did not need another command. She wasn't going to be useless. She had spells and she would fight. A quiet word of encouragement to the weave and a few deft finger movements tied the strands into a small ball of light that shone brilliantly out of her wedding ring. Unfortunately the sudden light blinded her and she stumbled back from K'lai'a'la who did not seem to be moving to stop her spell.

Off course the stubborn small one did not listen but the creature whose life was lived in the darkness, also seemed to shrink from the sudden light. This was her chance, she could feel her legs becoming slow to respond, the stone beneath her feet feeling far too familiar for her liking. Her sight was compromised by the light as well but the creature was straight ahead. Exchanging her bow for a shortsword across her hip, K'lai'a'la charged, less than half the speed she could normally. Her sword tip reached out, she saw it sailing directly toward the basilisk's eye but then another wave of the creature's evil magic washed over her, and her sword stopped, mere inches from her target. Then everything went dark.

Sadie's eyes finally adjusted to the light and when she looked down the tunnel, she saw a strange stone formation blocking the way. This formation looked like it had arms and legs and a bow... and long hair... Sadie's gaze moved to the several pairs of scaled gray legs behind her. She would know the legs of a basilisk anywhere.

A shriek of anger burst from her tearing through the wave of pain that threatened to engulf her in that same moment. Her friend was hurt, perhaps even gone permanently and the creature that did it still had the guts to hang around.

The weave snapped and crackled around her "you fucker, I will kill you for hurting her!" Sadie began throwing spell after spell between her friend's statued legs. From her angle, the basilisk's eyes were hidden behind K'lai'a'la's midriff but it wouldn't be that way for long. With too much agility for a creature of that size, it scaled the wall up and over the barrier it created but Sadie was ready. She shut her eyes and thrust her rapier up toward the creature's gaping maw. It sunk into something soft and a shriek came out of it but it barreled down on her anyway.

More spells came from Sadie sinking into its flesh. She only let herself look at the legs all around her, she felt the weight of the creature snap one of her limbs but she was going to make it pay. It would pay in honor of her best friend who was absolutely not dead. There was magic in this world that would bring people back to life, Sadie had experienced it for herself. This was not the end for K'lai'a'la but it would be for this damned basilisk.

She fought valiantly for a halfling, the basilisk burned and scorched across its length but Sadie's resilience wore faster. She couldn't predict where the bit was coming next, only try to stay beneath its feet but it was not long before she slipped up. Jaws locked around her arm and she screamed, punching its face with her other. Her mind was simply full of rage and nothing but the creatures corpse could sate it, or her own.

#underwing challenge #bonus sadie footage #NOT canon #sadiestuff #drippingmoon #pain cw #death cw #petrification cw #ok I really don't know how this turned out but thank you for inspiring me to write this!#basically Sadie would die too lol #in this headcanon #kireen comes and saves the day #so everyone is ok in the end!

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badgersprite · 3 years

Text

Fic: Desiderata (8/?)

Chapter Title: Reunion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

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

Story Rating: R

Warnings: This chapter confirms (and otherwise strongly suspects) some squadmate character deaths. This chapter also makes references to Miranda’s abusive childhood so as per usual that could potentially be triggering to some people.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda withdraws into herself after confirming what she already feared - that several of her former companions did not survive the battle for Earth. Just as it seems she’s at her lowest point, someone unexpected shows up at her door. In 2185, the Normandy continues its adventures after defeating the Collectors.

Author’s Note: I initially started writing this story right after Mass Effect 3 came out. Originally, it was sort of a channel for my anger towards the ending, although the story has since evolved beyond that into something constructive, positive and healing. But, as was suggested in the warning I put on the very first chapter, yes, this means that some characters did indeed die in the final battle of ME3, and you’re going to get confirmation of that in this chapter, as well as unconfirmed beliefs about the majority of other characters, and Miranda trying to cope with that. So, be warned. This chapter is probably the darkest one.

* * *

“Shepard?”

Miranda was running. Searching for her. Looking for her.

Had to reach her. Had to get to her. Had to find her before it was too late.

Couldn’t see. Could hardly move. The air was thick with clouds of black smoke, burning her lungs.

She was racing, yet moving so slowly. Every step seemed to take ten times longer than it should. Like wading through tar.

“Shepard! Where are you?”

Her own voice echoed in her ears, feet catching on the rubble and debris that littered the streets of London. Entire buildings had been reduced to cinders that still smouldered beneath her.

A hail of gunfire rained down around her from all angles. Body after body fell and faded to dust in every direction. But, somehow, even though it felt like the whole universe was stuck in slow-motion, Miranda kept running forward, persevering through all the death and destruction, even as blood began to pool at her feet.

The shadow of a mass relay loomed overhead, taking up the entire sky, blocking out the Sun. But that wasn’t what she was focused on.

She could see it ahead of her. The Conduit. That crater right beneath the Citadel.

Marauders marched right past her, as if they couldn’t even see her, firing indiscriminately into the crowds of soldiers Miranda left in her wake. A senseless massacre. A slaughter.

All species fought together. All creeds died together. Names Miranda would never even know.

A bellowing voice resonated in the emptiness. “I am krogan! Nothing can hurt me!”

In the black mist, she saw Grunt’s silhouette single-handedly fighting off what had to be a dozen husks with nothing but the strength of his fists. But every time he knocked one back, two more took its place. He fought valiantly, standing atop a pile of no fewer than a hundred enemy corpses, but with no ammunition left, he was quickly overwhelmed. He joined the growing army of shadows following in Miranda’s tracks.

The tide of blood rose to her ankles.

“Had to be me,” Mordin’s disembodied voice echoed in her ear as his ghost turned to ash in the peripheries of her vision, and scattered in the wind. “Someone else would have gotten it wrong.”

There was nothing Miranda could do. Couldn’t stop to save anyone. Couldn’t slow down. The crimson tide was rising, reaching her knees. Every movement became harder. Slower. Fighting the current. With every step she took, the Conduit seemed to be getting further away.

Had to get there.

Had to reach Shepard.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Zaeed emerged from the shadows, firing at the oncoming horde as his position was swiftly surrounded. He pulled the pin on a grenade. “Open wide, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said, charging at the nearest abomination, shoving the grenade in its face. The blast shattered the walls of the building Zaeed had been hiding in. It crumbled on top of him, and buried his enemies with him.

The blood was up to her waist. Miranda could no longer run. Each step she took was heavier than the last, physically dragging her feet through mud and blood. Ghostly fingers nipped at her heels beneath the surface, gradually getting closer, but not quite able to grab hold of her. She was just barely ahead.

“Do we deserve death?” A vision of Legion flashed before her eyes, vanishing into nothing as quickly as it had appeared. “Does this unit have a soul?”

As the thick blood came up to her chest, she had to swim, else risk succumbing to the shadows that threatened to swallow her. She dove forward into the sanguine sea, kicking her feet and powering through with her arms as hard and as fast as she could. But she was moving so slowly. At a glacial pace.

The harder she battled, the less ground she gained.

The shrieks of banshees pierced her ears as they waded past her, like she didn’t even exist.

A voice came over her comms. “What’s happening?” Miranda heard Kasumi say in her earpiece. “There’s something wrong with the mass relays. They’re--”

Her words were rendered silent when the mass relay exploded with devastating force in a blinding flash of light that ignited the atmosphere in a ring of fire. Miranda stopped long enough to shield her eyes.

When the bright light subsided, she glanced up just in time to see a field of debris spreading out from the epicentre, a blackness so thick that every patch of sky was covered in the wreckage.

Within seconds, the whole world was submerged in darkness.

Miranda shook herself from her daze. No. She couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. Had to reach Shepard. She kept swimming, drawn like a moth to that sole source of light that pierced the endless night.

Finally, at long last, the Conduit seemed to be getting closer. Two faint forms stood their ground against the piercing bright white, protecting the path.

“Go, Shepard!” Ashley Williams called out to her Commander, firing back at the army of the dead, whose fingers began to claw and grasp at Miranda’s body as she fought with all her might to elude their clutches. “We’ll cover you!”

Infrasound shook the ground beneath them. Darkness turned to crimson.

“Look out!” Javik tried to push Ashley out of the way, but it was too late.

The cruel eye of the Destroyer guarding the Conduit had seen them. Blinding red surrounded them both. And then they were gone. Vaporised in a flash.

Miranda didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Nearly there.

She kicked harder, doing all she could to outpace the ghastly skeletal hands that threatened to drown her in their sacrifice.

She got closer.

She could see solid ground again.

As she neared her destination at long last, two figures came into view, battling in the black cloud before her, atop a small island in the red sea. Somehow, their actions were not slowed by the mist, but fast and graceful. A violent ballet.

Kai Leng, and Thane.

Even though Thane was already dying, he was able to get the best of Kai Leng for a time, even throwing him off-balance with his biotics, but it wasn’t enough. Kai Leng cut him down, the blade in his hand slicing through Thane like butter.

Kai Leng turned to face Miranda. And, unlike all the others she’d passed to get here, his eyes locked directly with hers. He didn’t look through her. He saw her.

Before she could even react, those eyes were mere inches from her face. Her breath hitched as pain seared through her abdomen. She looked down, and saw that blade penetrating her stomach, her own blood now melding with the lake of ichor and viscera that surrounded her.

She gritted her teeth and raised her head once more. His cold face stared back, unmoving.

Miranda’s rage boiled over. With both hands, she reached out. Her thumbs covered his cybernetic eyes. And they sank in.

She pushed deeper and deeper. And as she slowly cracked his mask and crushed her fingers into his skull, the skin around her hands began to wither and burn, like her very anger was incinerating Kai Leng beneath her touch.

She squeezed her fists shut, and he evaporated into the aether beneath her.

Miranda clutched at her wounds and battled forward, scarcely able to keep her head above the rising tide.

Miranda didn’t know how she’d made it, but she was so close. There was just one figure left ahead of her. One shadow in the light. Staring into the Conduit.

“Shepard!” she called out again, resisting the whispers of the dead as they grew ever nearer.

The familiar figure raised her head.

“Don’t go in there!” Miranda warned her, a sense of overwhelming dread encompassing every fibre of her being. She knew what would happen. Had to stop it. “You can’t.”

As Miranda reached out, her wounds overcame her. The sanguine sea suddenly vanished without a trace, and she dropped like a stone, no longer suspended. She fell to the ground in pain, her fingers digging into the dirt.

Miranda hesitated as the army of shadows at her heels infringed on her vision, casting an impenetrable darkness upon her. She didn’t dare turn and look behind her. She knew what was there. Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.

“Shepard!” she called again, begging to be heard in the deafening silence.

Shepard slowly turned. Miranda froze in terror as she was met with red eyes.

That wasn’t Shepard. Not anymore.

She heard the sound. That same, bone-rattling sound she had heard in that shuttle. Saw that same red flash as the Reaper’s gaze fixed upon her.

Only, this time, Miranda screamed as the beams incinerated her.

Miranda jolted upright, throwing her sheets off herself in panic, stopping only once she realised that there were no flames to put out. That she wasn’t back in that shuttle again.

Her heavy breathing slowly subsided. It was dark. Her head was throbbing.

She sighed and leaned forward, rubbing her palm against her forehead. Drops of sweat left strands of hair clinging to her scalp. Her sheets were soaked.

‘Just a dream’, right? That was what people would say, if she ever told anyone.

Unfortunately, like with all Miranda’s nightmares since the war ended, she couldn’t say that about them. Couldn’t brush them off as ‘just dreams’. Because they weren’t lies made up by her mind. She wished that they were, but they were the furthest thing from it.

If they weren’t so cuttingly true, they wouldn’t have haunted her so.

Groggily, she checked her clock. 3am. Roughly twelve hours since…

By sheer reflex, Miranda leaned over in time to grab the wastebin near her bed, just before she threw up. Nothing but liquid spilled out. Nothing but claret red.

The contents of her stomach were no mystery. The only reason Miranda had been able to fall asleep that night was because she’d downed an entire bottle of wine to get the images out of her mind. The thoughts. The knowledge. The stark fucking reality of her friends’ last moments. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Hadn’t been able to eat after...

Miranda gagged as she put the bin down, wiping her mouth. Obviously, it hadn’t helped her forget. What could?

God, her head hurt so fucking much. It felt like death itself had left its mark on her when it visited her in the night.

She didn’t even remember getting up and walking to the bathroom, only realising where she was when she flicked on the light, and saw herself in the mirror. The next thing she knew, the tap was on, and she was rinsing out her mouth, splashing some cool water on her face, to grant some relief from the heat in her cheeks.

She braced herself against the sink, and looked up. She’d almost stopped noticing the scarring on her own face by that point. Burn treatment and synthetic skin grafts had come a hell of a long way, even within the last fifty years. But, that said, Miranda’s treatment had been a wartime one. Not one designed for aesthetics. One applied by necessity, as a matter of urgency, after days without care.

But, in that moment, her visible scars didn’t make her think about herself. They made her think of someone else she knew, who had suffered a similar injury long before she met him. One whose facial scars had healed a lot better than Miranda’s ever would.

Zaeed.

Fuck, Zaeed.

And then the thoughts she’d been avoiding came flooding back. She was there in that room again. And he was lying there motionless in a plastic bag on a table.

She nearly retched again, saved only by the fact she had nothing left to throw up.

Dr. Michel had not understated her call. There were bodies. And pictures. Pictures from when they were found.

Both Grunt and Zaeed, Miranda had identified by sight. She would never repeat to anyone how they looked when she saw them. Couldn’t say it. Wasn’t for anyone else to know. Wasn’t fair that anyone should remember them like that.

At least they left enough behind to bury. None of the others were so lucky.

Well, it was possible Javik had. Miranda never saw Javik personally. Dr. Michel confirmed that he had been identified by a genetic sample. There was only one possible match for Prothean DNA. No visual ID necessary.

Ashley could only be identified by her dog tags. They hadn’t found anything else. Not yet, anyway. That close to the Conduit, chances were they never would.

Miranda had taken those tags with her, sealed in airtight plastic. Given her position, it was her responsibility to deliver them to her family. To be the bearer of the worst news they would ever hear.

Right now, the tags were sitting in a drawer in her desk. Miranda didn’t know how long it would be before she could bring herself to look at them again. To confront the thought of Ashley’s final moments. She knew she would have to. Very soon, much as she dreaded having to write that letter to her family.

The Williams family had already lost people to this war, hadn’t they? And now this.

As for Kasumi, that information had come from Bailey, by way of The Alliance. It turned out that The Alliance had known, or strongly suspected, her fate for a long time. But they had only just broken their silence, over two months later. Bailey had told her and Jacob the news as soon as he found out.

Some of the ships that worked on the Crucible had remained in close proximity to the mass relay, right up until the time it exploded. None of those ships were in one piece anymore. That included the ship Kasumi had been working on.

As far as anyone knew, she was still on that ship when it was lost. While they had spent some time accounting for people who had alighted onto different vessels in the intervening period between completing the Crucible and the destruction of the mass relays, there was no record of her leaving, and certainly no one had made contact with her since. Now that more than two months had passed, her status had officially been moved from MIA to KIA.

Even though Miranda hadn’t been confronted with physical evidence of Kasumi’s death the way she had for all the others, in a way, her fate might have been the worst to discover. Of all the people they hadn’t found, she was the one person that both she and Jacob had been confident would be fine, because she was nowhere near Earth. Nowhere near the Reapers. Literal lightyears away from any of the fighting. And yet…

Yeah. And fucking yet.

The tap kept running while Miranda stared hollowly ahead. Eventually, the noise spurred her from her trance, and she turned it off.

At what point was the grief supposed to set in, she wondered as she gazed blankly at her own reflection. Should she have been more upset than she was? She hadn’t cried for any of her fallen friends. Tears didn’t come naturally to Miranda. Not unless her sister was involved.

One thing that hadn’t left her mind was how...selfish some of her thoughts had been when she learned their fates. When Bailey had told her about Kasumi, Miranda had thought that the day had been bad enough before that, but to add that too, it was like the universe was actively conspiring to make this the worst day of her life.

Hers. The worst day of her life. The one who was alive. As if her friends hadn’t experienced far worse in their last moments than being fucking inconvenienced.

This wasn’t the normal way to react, was it? Wasn’t right. Why couldn’t Miranda just...mourn like other people did. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. She did care. Didn’t she? She would have been lying if she said she felt nothing - no impact whatsoever. If that were the case, those inescapable thoughts and images wouldn’t be permanently seared into her like open, festering wounds.

From the moment she’d seen the first body on that table, and recognised it as Zaeed, it was like the last light of hope inside her - a flame she hadn’t even known she had been holding onto - had been swiftly snuffed out.

Losing Shepard had been one thing, but now? They might as well give up any prospect that anyone actively serving aboard the SR-3 had survived the war.

Not only did they have confirmation that Ashley and Javik were gone, but they also had definitive proof that any ships that were anywhere near a mass relay when the Crucible fired had been obliterated in the subsequent blast, even in other systems far away.

The last time the Normandy had been picked up on any sensors was...approaching the Charon relay.

So, that was it.

They didn’t know that was what happened. But they knew, didn’t they? They had always known. They had just refused to believe it. They had hoped.

But hope was a frail thing, and reality didn’t suffer hope to live long.

The thing was, Miranda hadn’t experienced much that could be considered loss in her life. A person needed to get close to other people in order to lose them. And, until about a year ago, she’d never done that. Until The Normandy. But then she had. And, now, of all the people who had ever served on The Normandy, only five had survived. Miranda. Jacob. Jack. Samara. Wrex.

There was nobody else left to find. They were gone. They were dead.

And, this time, nobody would be coming back.

All told, it was the first time Miranda had been confronted with death in anything more than a purely detached or clinical way. Certainly the first time on this scale. She hadn’t known how she would feel about it - finding out that so many of her friends hadn’t made it. But she would have expected it to be different than this.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t affecting her. It clearly was. But...she didn’t feel hurt. She didn’t feel pain. She didn’t feel upset. She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t really feel anything in particular.

Mostly, she just felt...less. Like everything had been diminished somehow. Like all noise sounded a little quieter. Like all colours had dimmed a few shades duller. Like every sensation had been numbed. Like the tips of her fingers were further away from her body, and like nothing she reached out to grasp could ever really touch her. Like if someone pricked her skin right now, she wasn’t entirely sure she would even bleed.

It was almost like she was nothing more than a machine, and every person she cared about was a little switch inside her. In discovering their fates, Miranda didn’t grieve or mourn or wallow in sorrow. But rather it was like someone had simply gone inside that part of her brain and flipped all those switches from ‘alive’ to ‘dead’, and parts of her had just...powered down as a result.

What did it say about her that this was as strongly as she could feel about them at this moment?

Maybe she really was just as cold and borderline sociopathic as ever.

Maybe friendship hadn’t changed her at all from the person she was a year ago.

With those thoughts swirling through her mind, Miranda didn’t even notice the bathroom door had opened behind her until she heard a voice.

“Hey, Miss. Are you okay in here?” Jason asked. It took Miranda a few seconds to process his sounds as words, and his words as an actual question. “I saw the light on and heard the tap running for a whi--”

“I’m fine,” Miranda answered starkly, albeit on a delay.

“Are you sure?” asked Jason. He knew what had she had gone through earlier. Not in precise details, no. But all the kids knew.

In all honesty, the thing that had prompted Miranda to go out and drink hadn’t been the deaths themselves, nor the sight of Zaeed and Grunt. Not initially. The thing that had driven her over that edge had been after she and Jacob, in loose terms, explained to the kids what had happened. That Jacob, Jack and Miranda had found out that several people close to them had died in the war.

They were shocked and saddened to hear it. They expressed their sympathies. A few of them, in fact every single one of the girls, wept when they found out.

It was at that moment that a sudden realisation had struck her. Jack’s students had been more upset when they heard the news that people Miranda knew had died - people they had never even met themselves - than Miranda had been to see them dead in front of her.

She hadn’t been able to be near them and their tears when that sank in. Couldn’t stand holding that mirror up to herself and confronting her reflection. Seeing how a normal human person should react when something like this happened to people they cared about, and comparing that to the blank void where her own emotional response should have been, but wasn’t.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine,” Miranda repeated herself.

She was always fine. Even when she wasn’t. That was the problem.

“I’m sorry to worry you.” Miranda straightened up (as best she could) and turned back to face him, her hand still on the sink. “None of you should be losing any sleep wondering if I’m okay. That’s not your responsibility. Nor should it be.”

He seemed confused by her response. “But I--”

“Don’t take that as a criticism. I know you mean well. And I appreciate that you care. That’s not me being sarcastic, I actually do. More than I let on. But you never need to waste any time worrying if I’m alright. I always am. And I’m always going to be,” Miranda said quietly.

Jason looked at her for a good, long moment. “...Miss, I’m not stupid. I know how much you drank tonight. I can see, and hear, how drunk you still are. And I know you probably woke up vomiting, and that’s why you’re here right now. And, from the short time I’ve known you, you don’t strike me as someone who makes a habit of this. So, respectfully, I don’t think you’re as ‘okay’ with everything as you seem to think you are,” he pointed out.

Miranda held his gaze for a moment. “...Go to sleep, Jason,” she told him.

“Sure. You probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning,” Jason remarked, evidencing that he may have had a little too much experience dealing with drunk adults for a man so young.

“I remember most conversations,” Miranda muttered under her breath, looking at her reflection one final time, turning off the light as she left.

* * *

Miranda groaned heavily, the pulsing music of Afterlife doing her head in. The air stank of sex and sweat, like everyone in the club had gone three days without showering.

“I thought shore leave was supposed to be relaxing,” she muttered unhappily, leaning back against the bar.

“Would you prefer to go back to the ship?” Samara asked, needing to project her usually soft voice to be heard above the music.

“Yes!” Miranda answered bluntly, feeling utterly miserable in this place. “But, alas, that choice has been taken out of my hands.”

“It would appear so,” Samara commiserated. While she seemed to have a greater tolerance for the venue than Miranda, the expression on Samara’s face betrayed the fact that Afterlife was not exactly to her taste either. Or at least, it hadn’t been for several centuries.

After defeating the Collectors, the Normandy had limped back to Omega station held together with the engineering equivalent of double-sided tape and popsicle sticks and somehow hadn’t fallen apart in the FTL jump. They had no choice but to dock at Omega for urgent repairs. Since they couldn’t exactly fix the ship with everyone on board getting in the way, and given what they had all just survived, Shepard had seen fit to grant shore leave to anyone who wasn’t currently actively preventing the Normandy from collapsing in on itself.

Miranda had volunteered to stay back on the ship to help out, but Shepard had overruled her, ordering her to “please, for once in your life, take a fucking break”, in those exact words. She was officially banned from re-entering the ship until the repairs were complete. In fact, the only person who had been allowed to stay back on the ship despite a clear absence of engineering and technical skills was Kelly Chambers, for reasons Miranda neither fully grasped nor honestly cared to know.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere on Omega that was to Miranda’s liking. Afterlife was the least awful place by process of elimination given that, if nothing else, anybody who caused problems here would quickly find out what D.F.W.A. stood for, and why it was the one and only rule on Omega that anyone lived by.

Notwithstanding the above, Miranda had still known damn well that she wouldn’t enjoy her forced time off in this place. Accordingly, she had all but begged Samara to come and keep her sane in her misery, and she obliged. So far, even Samara had done little to improve Miranda’s state of mind, though.

The Normandy crew were already getting too relaxed for Miranda’s liking, and this was evidence of it. Surely Shepard should have realised that, even if Miranda wasn’t holding a soldering iron, there were still a million other things she could have been doing that would have been a productive use of her time. For one thing, she could have been preparing for what to do if Cerberus came knocking, or comparing notes on the organisation with EDI...

“Well, in any event, I appreciate you keeping me company,” Miranda elected to break the silence, preferring not to think about Cerberus in a moment where she was powerless to do anything about them and whatever they had in store for her if and when they caught up to her. “I can't imagine it's easy for you to be here, after...” Miranda trailed off, wondering if perhaps she was erring by bringing Morinth up so directly.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating her concern. “In truth, it has given me an opportunity to contemplate my own future, and where I am needed. I had not thought of it before, but I would consider returning to this place when Shepard no longer requires my service.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope. You can’t leave me with these people,” Miranda remarked in jest, earning a small smile. “Is there any particular reason why?” she inquired, curious.

“A simple one; I can think of few other places in the galaxy that could benefit more from the presence of a Justicar,” Samara pointed out.

“That's very noble of you,” Miranda commented, though she was sceptical as to the wisdom of that virtuous path. “But don't forget how that turned out for Garrus. Omega's gangs aren't going to let you waltz in and disrupt the way of things. And that includes our friend up there,” she said, nodding her head up towards Aria’s makeshift throne room on the upper floor. Being an asari, Aria wouldn’t be ignorant to precisely how zealous and unyielding Justicars were when it came to the enforcement of their Code.

“I do not fear death,” Samara contentedly replied, undeterred by the prospect of failing in her quest. Miranda frowned, but voiced no further objection.

“Alright, that's it. One of you had better order a drink. You've been standing there long enough,” the turian bartender gruffly grumbled, looking at them both over the bar while polishing a glass. “Since the old lady over here doesn’t strike me as a drinker, I'm guessing it's gotta be you, human.”

“I'd rather not,” Miranda declined.

“It wasn't a request,” said the bartender.

Miranda glanced at Samara and saw a small smirk creeping onto her lips. Miranda sighed, reluctantly conceding. “...Fine,” she acquiesced. “Just one.”

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, pouring her a fresh glass.

At that moment, another song came on. This one was particularly loud and intrusive. The pulsing bass shook the glasses other patrons had on the counter. Several of the other club goers nearby began dragging each out onto the floor to dance. Miranda did not share the sentiment, or the enthusiasm.

“Why does all club music sound exactly the bloody same?” Miranda complained, finding the repetitive droning rhythms and predictable chord progressions beyond irritating by that point. “These people wouldn’t know an interesting interval or a complex time signature if it slapped them in the face.”

“Perhaps we should endeavour to find somewhere more...quiet,” Samara suggested, pointing up towards the speaker that was right above them.

“Quiet? Here?” Miranda remarked, with a sceptical glance at their surroundings. Afterlife was hardly subdued. That being said, though, she would have been lying if she said she didn’t see the appeal of finding a more secluded corner of the nightclub. She sighed as she took her drink. “If we can find a free booth that doesn't have a stripper dancing on the table, that would be a start.”

That was easier said than done.

“I am certain that, if we ask for privacy, we will be granted it. Come, this way.” Despite her doubts, Miranda followed Samara’s lead, trailing her through the club, in search of somewhere to sit.

As they were walking, Miranda recognised a few familiar faces from The Normandy. Garrus, Thane and Zaeed had commandeered a booth, and Thane appeared to be the only one of them who wasn’t already three drinks in. She didn't particularly feel like joining them, though. Everyone else who wasn’t currently working on the ship must have been on a different floor of the club, or somewhere outside.

Much as Miranda had predicted, the only empty table they managed to find had a dancer on it, no doubt hoping to attract customers.

“I beg your pardon,” said Samara, approaching the young asari. “Would it trouble you if my friend and I had this table to ourselves?”

“Get lost, grandma!” the dancer rudely shot back, turning her head to see who had spoken to her. Instantly, she froze in fear, and turned about three shades paler. “Y-Y...J-Justicar...?” she stammered, recognising her armour immediately. “I...I am so sorry. Of course you can...Please. Please forgive me,” she implored her as she hastily climbed down to the floor, bowing her head in respectful deference before running off to get as far away from Samara as possible.

Samara sat down without an issue, gesturing for Miranda to do the same. Miranda arched an eyebrow, impressed. “She thought you were going to kill her.”

“From what I have gathered about Omega, it is not unlikely that she has done something that would warrant my intervention pursuant to The Code. If I confirmed this and took such action, and she did not voluntarily surrender herself to my custody, then yes, my presence here would result in her death,” Samara acknowledged, serene as always. “Fortunately for her, my oath to Commander Shepard compels me to refrain from acting as I normally would.”

“Where does The Code draw the line on what kinds of people it considers criminals?” Miranda asked, sliding into her seat across from Samara. “Drug users? Sex workers?”

Samara shook her head. “The Code does not criminalise addiction – although this does not mean addicts cannot be held accountable for crimes they commit in support of their addiction. As for 'sex workers' as you referred to them, asari cultures are not human cultures. Consorts hold a high status in our society, and it is normal for many if not most young asari to do as these women are doing in their maiden stage,” she reminded her, gesturing broadly at the asari dancers working throughout the club. “Many among my kind still find it perplexing that such things have ever been considered shameful by other species.”

“Do you share those views?” Miranda inquired. Her question earned a slightly confused look from Samara. “I don't mean to sound presumptuous but my own cultural biases mean that, when I think of ancient religious orders, I tend to associate such things with conservatism and chastity. I guess I kind of assumed you might not look too fondly on young asari wasting their youth dancing in bars.”

“Only in the sense that age has granted me the wisdom to look back on my younger years and consider what I could have done differently, and how much more I could have accomplished if my priorities were not so self-centred,” Samara answered sagely. “Were I asked for my advice, I would counsel them from the benefit of my experience to focus on what they find truly fulfilling in their lives. However, this is not a moral judgement, nor do I object to their choice to dance or take lovers freely. To do so would be very hypocritical of me. And it would be folly of me to assume that this is not their calling. If this is their path to inner fulfilment, then I would never seek to turn them from that.”

Miranda's lips quirked against the rim of her glass. “Are you saying this was you once? Giving people lap dances in bars?”

“No. I preferred adventure and violence,” said Samara, being frank about her past indiscretions. “Any time I spent in places such as this, or in the company of women like this, was merely as a customer. But I was not so radically different from those who work here now. My maiden stage was spent such that I cannot righteously criticise how another asari spends hers. The only reason I did not follow this path, aside from the fact that I am not a particularly gifted dancer, is that becoming a mercenary offered far more excitement and more opportunities to travel far and wide. I also found myself...drawn to certain types of people at that age. The same sort of people I found myself fighting beside.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that once before,” Miranda recalled, though it was no less incongruous to picture it now. It was pretty crazy to think that the types of people Samara used to sleep with as a young woman were now the very same people she hunted down without mercy as a matriarch. That raised a thought, and Miranda was never one to not speak her mind, even where it might have been advisable not to. “Don't answer this question if you don't want to, but did you take many lovers when you were younger?”

“That would depend upon what you define as 'many',” Samara replied.

“By your definition?” Miranda asked.

“Yes,” Samara answered plainly. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Miranda responded in kind. Though whether they had the same definition of ‘many’ was anybody’s guess. Probably not, given that Samara’s maiden stage alone could have lasted close to ten times as long as Miranda had been alive. “But I don't think I enjoyed mine as much as you enjoyed yours. Most of them were nothing to write home about. I don't even remember their names, nor do I care to.”

Samara tilted her head thoughtfully. “I remember some vividly, though not all. And of those I have fond memories of, I have not thought of most in a very long time.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Miranda wondered aloud, curious whether Samara would ever even consider one day laying down her armour and living as...well, anything other than a Justicar.

“I miss my innocence,” Samara confessed. “I miss how it felt to live free from any cares or concerns. I miss being able to dance with strangers, never knowing how it felt to bear the burden of responsibility. But if you are asking me if I would choose to walk that path again, the answer is no. I cannot. And I would not.”

“You can still dance with strangers if you want to, though,” Miranda wryly encouraged, taking a sip of her drink. “And, no, I don’t mean that euphemistically. Just dancing. Surely that’s not forbidden by The Code. Is it?”

“No, it is not. But those days are behind me, as are so many others, and I am content with that,” Samara smiled, a mysterious, ethereal smile. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“Never?” Samara queried, her eyes sparkling under the lights.

“I may have tried it once or twice.” Miranda shifted in her seat, averting her gaze. “...After I ran away from my father, I got a taste of freedom for the first time. So I did things he had never allowed me to do. Or tried to. Admittedly, I wasn’t very successful at it, and any desire to experiment and rebel was quickly outweighed by how much I like being in control of my faculties and how much I didn’t enjoy places like this, but...well, it was a phase nonetheless, I suppose.”

“You were with Cerberus at the time, were you not?” Samara asked, clarifying the time period.

“Yes but, as you may have noticed, they don't particularly care what you do in your personal life, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work,” Miranda explained. Cerberus had never imposed those kinds of rules upon her. They respected her and treated her like an adult. It was why it had been so hard for her to believe the worst about them, and sever her loyalties. “I was sixteen years old, with only a vague, malformed idea of what the world was like, what other girls my age were supposed to be like, and the experiences I was supposed to have had, together with a staunch determination to make up for lost time. And you should know when I set my mind to something, I don’t do it by halves.”

“And yet, in that time, you never danced with strangers?” said Samara.

“Mostly only in the euphemistic way,” Miranda replied. That was one thing that had never really changed, so much as she was simply more experienced, and had gotten more efficient about getting that itch scratched whenever she felt the need. “Let's just say I made some poor decisions in a short space of time, and it's not an aspect of my life I'm particularly proud of.”

“Many years have passed since then. You are older and wiser, but you are still young – too young to deprive yourself of such things. Perhaps this is not the place for you, but I know you enjoy music. You have told me as much. Surely there would be a place where even you would feel comfortable letting go and dancing freely. To do so would not mean you are repeating your past mistakes,” Samara advised.

“I know it wouldn’t,” Miranda acknowledged. She still didn't feel like it though. Plus, the concept of ‘letting go’ was about as antithetical to her entire existence as any concept could possibly be. “Tell you what, I'll dance when you dance. That's a promise.”

“Your promise sounds a great deal like an excuse,” Samara quipped.

Miranda smirked. “Nothing gets past you.”

* * *

Bailey had been surprised when Miranda showed up to work on Monday, less than a day after confirming the deaths of so many of her former comrades.

Before he had even opened his mouth to speak, Miranda had cut him off. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Please, just...I need to be here. Please just let me work right now.”

To his credit, he had honoured her wishes, and that had been the end of any discussion about it.

Focusing on something else, anything else, had always been Miranda’s best and only coping mechanism. Her unyielding need to be productive, and to feel like she was in control of at least one aspect of her life even if everything else was falling apart around her, was a lifelong companion that never failed her.

There was no shortage of work to keep her busy. Some of the Alliance ships that had made the jump only a few lightyears away before the relays exploded had finally made their way back into the Sol system to study the wreckage of the Charon relay, and to begin working on reassembling and repairing it. They were in communication with other teams of varying sizes all over the galaxy.

The dextro races still stranded in the Sol system were starting to reach the point where food was becoming a concern. Several turians and quarians had already gone into cryostasis, and the number joining them was increasing day by day.

Of the levo races, more and more were settling into Earth in the expectation that their stay would be a long one. Many asari and salarians had joined with humans in moving out of cities into smaller towns and villages, working to restore infrastructure and agriculture, getting sorely needed supply lines up and running.

But London remained in tatters, still rebuilding. When any hospital had a shortage of beds or medicine or staff, Miranda knew about it. If there was a building that was possibly safe enough to move people into, Miranda knew about it. If a block didn’t have power or water, Miranda knew about it. If the black market jacked up the prices too much on luxury items, Miranda knew about it.

Bailey may have been the face of the operation, but she was his eyes and ears (well, technically only one of each), and she was the puppet master pulling the strings, making sure all resources and personnel were allocated precisely where they were needed. And if they didn’t have enough of either, she found them.

For as good of a distraction as all that work was, at the end of the day, she still needed to go home. And she still needed to deal with this.

She’d approached Wrex directly on Monday afternoon. They were in the same city, after all. There would have been no way to avoid speaking to him about it that wouldn’t have meant admitting to herself that she was deliberately putting it off. So she didn’t.

Miranda delivered the news to him personally, about everyone who had passed. As the leader of Grunt’s clan, he was the closest thing Grunt had to next of kin. It only seemed appropriate that Clan Urdnot should hear it from her first, and be given the right to decide how to honour their dead.

Miranda didn’t know Wrex well enough to be able to gauge his feelings on Grunt’s passing, or anyone else’s. And, whatever they were, Wrex certainly didn’t know Miranda well enough to show them around her. But he had expressed his brief thanks to her for informing him, respecting that she had taken her duties seriously and had the courtesy of bringing this to him face-to-face.

It was true that, as the highest ranking member of the Normandy left alive, she had big shoes to fill. And her job was far from done.

Unfortunately, Kasumi, Zaeed and Javik didn’t have any next-of-kin to inform. Not that Miranda had been able to track down, anyway.

Javik’s isolation went without saying. He was the sole survivor of a fifty thousand year old genocide. He was the one person who was never exaggerating when he said he was truly alone in the universe. Even if he had survived the war, who knew if Javik ever really intended to go on living? But, then, Miranda knew too little about him to speculate.

Kasumi, for as socially aware as she had been of everyone else aboard the Normandy, was a chronic self-isolator. She never truly got close to anybody, save for the love of her life who lived on only in the form of an implant inside her head. Miranda personally hadn’t even realised just how much of a distance she kept everybody else on the SR-2 at right up until that day when she’d looked around and suddenly realised that they were one head short because Kasumi had disappeared without a trace at the last place they docked.

If Zaeed had any friends or family who were still alive, he certainly hadn’t volunteered that information to anyone else aboard the Normandy. There were probably no shortage of people who he had met over his years, but, similarly to Kasumi, from all appearances it sounded like Zaeed would move on the moment it felt like he might be getting too attached. The terrible things he had seen wouldn’t allow him to settle down and live a normal life. He had probably always known deep down that he would die fighting in a war.

However, there was one among the confirmed dead who definitely did have a family. A family Miranda had already written to once before, to let them know she was searching. A family who it was now her responsibility to ensure those dog tags made it back home to.

Every single day, Miranda had sat down at her laptop with the intention of writing the letter nobody ever wanted to have to write. But the words just wouldn’t come. It was the one task that Miranda simply couldn’t seem to bring herself to start, let alone finish. And the screen would just stay blank until she inevitably convinced herself that tomorrow would be the day.

During the week, Miranda told herself it wasn’t her fault she wasn’t getting it done. She was busy with work. Clearly she wasn’t making progress because she didn’t have enough time to concentrate on doing this properly.

On Saturday, her reason for not getting it done was because she had helped Jack leave the field hospital and move in with Jacob in his apartment. Jack’s students had thrown an impromptu lunch to celebrate their teacher getting out of hospital, and as a courtesy Miranda had stayed for the whole thing.

Perhaps it should have said something about the state they were both in after learning what had become of so many mutual friends, and the extent to which Jack actually felt sorry for Miranda to have to be the one to identify what bodies there were, that, in those entire few hours they spent in each other’s proximity on that day, Jack didn’t insult Miranda even once.

Then Sunday came, a whole week since Ashley’s fate had been discovered, and Miranda didn’t have any excuses to put it off any longer.

Today had to be the day. There was no alternative.

And yet, despite not leaving her room even once that day, despite forcing herself to sit there until she finished this, she still hadn’t typed a single word.

Miranda had done a lot of things in her life that other people would probably class as difficult. Living with an abusive tyrant of a father. Pulling off countless life-threatening missions for Cerberus. Being captured and tortured by batarian slavers. Raising the fucking dead.

All of those things had been a cakewalk compared to writing to Ashley’s sisters.

She’d lost count of how long she’d been staring at that blank screen, or those dog tags, in the hopes that the words would just...come to her if she focused long enough. So far, it hadn’t worked. Any time Miranda thought of something to say, it just felt...wrong. Inadequate. Even if she couldn’t explain why.

At first, she didn’t know why she was finding this so bloody hard. After all, Miranda didn’t know Ashley particularly well. She’d only met her a handful of times, if that. She had no right to pretend otherwise.

But, then, it clicked.

In a way, the fact that she didn’t know Ashley at all was precisely what was making this so much worse. For one thing, if she had known her on a personal level, then no doubt she would have had no shortage of things she could say about her that would resonate with her family, to express understanding and sympathy for their loss. For another, and more significantly, because Miranda knew so little about Ashley, it meant that the only thing that she could focus on when thinking about her was the one thing she did know - that Ashley was a sister to three other sisters. And that they all loved each other dearly.

If there was one actual, honest to god human feeling Miranda knew all too well, it was the love she felt for her own sister. So, suffice it to say, she could relate.

And, although she’d never even seen a picture of Ashley’s sisters, every time the mere thought of them crossed her mind, all she pictured was Oriana.

This was one circumstance where Miranda didn’t have to fake empathy. For this, she had it in spades. It would have been easier to do this if she didn’t.

She knew what it would mean for them all to receive this letter. Because she understood better than anyone exactly how much it would have absolutely fucking destroyed her if she got the same letter. And it felt horribly, gut-wrenchingly cruel to be the one to write that letter, in full awareness of what it would do to those three sisters to receive it.

If that was what it was like for normal people to lose someone, then in a way Miranda felt lucky to be so numb to her own feelings compared to others. Maybe Kelly Chambers had been right when she speculated that becoming emotionally closed-off was as much a form of protection Miranda had developed to survive as it was something imposed upon her by her father whether she wanted it or not. It was certainly easier, and safer, to be cold on the inside, than to expose herself to a pain like Ashley’s sisters would feel when they learned the news.

Miranda wasn’t sure she would even have the emotional capacity to process losing Oriana, if the worst ever came to pass. It either would have broken her completely and caused her to jump off this mortal coil after her, or she would have withdrawn so much further into herself that she ceased to be recognisable as human. Maybe all of the above at once.

But Miranda wasn’t in that position. It seemed so strange to think about it. So many people had lost so much to this war. But not Miranda.

She was perhaps one of the people who least deserved to live, given her past allegiances to Cerberus, and given that she had never at any stage aspired or claimed to be, quote unquote, a ‘good person’. And yet, she was still there. Mostly in one piece. With three out of the grand total of five people she had ever truly cared about confirmed alive.

If anything, the fact that she had survived and others hadn’t was proof that the universe was not a fair place. There was no justice. No balance.

She knew it didn’t make any sense, and that it was impossible to trade her life for someone else’s, but she couldn’t help but think how much collectively happier more people would have been if Miranda had died and Ashley had lived. Or Shepard. Or most other members of the Normandy, really.

Oriana would have been the only person truly hurt by it, but even then she had lived nineteen years of her life perfectly fine, not even knowing Miranda existed. She’d only known about her for a year. She would have recovered eventually.

Speak of the devil, it was at that moment that a message popped up on Miranda’s screen. A message from Oriana.

“Hey, sis. What’s up? We haven’t talked in a few days. This a good time?”

It was true. This wasn’t the first text she had received from Oriana over the last few days, but Miranda hadn’t responded to any since she found out what happened to her comrades. Couldn’t bring herself to. Couldn’t bring herself to think about...precisely the sort of things she was thinking about right now.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t tell Oriana what had happened. What she was feeling. Of course she could have. She could have gone to Oriana about absolutely anything. On some level, that was all Miranda wanted to do. To talk to her. To feel a little less alone in that moment.

The problem was that Oriana would have listened to it all in a heartbeat. Every word. Without judgement. Without hesitation.

That wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t what Miranda wanted their relationship to be.

Oriana may have been the most well-adjusted person she knew, but she was still barely more than a kid. Only twenty years old. Still figuring things out. How was it fair for Miranda to burden her with all her problems, as if she could possibly know the answers, or the right things to say?

It was supposed to be the other way around. Miranda was supposed to be Oriana’s shoulder to cry on. Her protector. Her guide. Her big sister. Even if she wasn’t cut out to be any of those things. And she had foisted enough of her problems on Oriana already.

So she texted back.

With that, Miranda closed the messenger window, and switched back to the blank document. She’d been staring at it for so long without typing so much as a single word that she hadn’t even noticed the battery had almost drained down to zero. She reached down and plugged in the charger.

Just as she did that, another alert popped up on her screen. Message from Oriana.

“What do you get when a journalist cooks without reading a recipe?” Oriana asked. “Unconfirmed sauces.”

A small smile tugged at Miranda’s lips. Even if she was pushing Oriana away right now, it was comforting to know that Oriana would never take anything personally, and that she would be there waiting for her when she was ready to talk again.

With one last look at Ashley’s dog tags, Miranda began to type.

* * *

After finishing repairs to the Normandy, Commander Shepard seemed to have taken Miranda’s suggestion to heart. Or perhaps it was what she had always intended to do. They still had numerous leads on file that they never had the opportunity to investigate before the Collectors took them by surprise and attacked the crew. Why leave any of those assignments incomplete?

Miranda kept enough of an eye on things to know that, despite what had happened, The Illusive Man was still sending messages to Shepard (to which Shepard never responded) in an effort to cast himself in a good light. Evidently, Andrea was important enough to his plans that he considered it worth his while to continue trying to persuade her that they were on the same side. And maybe it was true that they were, at least where the Reapers were concerned.

By contrast, he had said nothing to Miranda whatsoever.

She knew what that meant.

Even if she came crawling back to Cerberus with a grovelling apology, which was never going to happen, she wouldn’t have been welcomed back anyway.

Despite now acting on their own, in a lot of ways, it was almost as if nothing had changed after defeating the Collectors. They knew the Reapers were out there, and the mutual intention of all concerned appeared to be that the best thing to do was carry on as usual in the hopes of finding out more about the impending threat, and hopefully to stop it from ever coming to fruition.

In fact, the only person who it seemed wasn’t exactly the same as before the Collector Base was Kelly Chambers. She had stopped making individual appointments with members of the crew (which Miranda knew from no longer getting any reports from her) and had been cut back to only light duties by Shepard. The last time Miranda had seen her, Kelly had jumped at the sound of the elevator doors opening behind her. Maybe that had something to do with it.

In any event, Miranda had concerned herself more with uncovering as much as she could about Cerberus’s true motives. Since Cerberus hadn’t made any effort to stop them from investigating any old leads so far, this certainly seemed like her best opportunity to take advantage of a position of relative safety and protection to arm herself with knowledge.

“Shepard, do you have a moment?” Miranda had begun, approaching Andrea after a meeting in the Briefing Room. Andrea had turned to face her, signalling for her to speak. “Do you remember that message you got from The Illusive Man last week, about the Overlord cell going off the grid without explanation on Aite?”

Shepard had sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re just not even hiding the fact that you read my emails anymore, are you?”

“No,” Miranda answered bluntly, but that wasn’t important right now. “I think we should investigate. The Illusive Man mentioned experimenting with highly volatile technology. It must be operationally sensitive, if he wouldn’t tell you anything more than that. Whatever the purpose of Project Overlord is, this is likely our only opportunity to learn about it. Cerberus will clean this up themselves if we don’t, and by then there’ll be nothing left.”

“You don’t think we could be walking into a trap?” Shepard asked.

“Possible, but unlikely. The Illusive Man asked for our assistance on this before we found the Reaper IFF device. Setting a trap for us before we had the intention or the ability to assault the Collector Base would take a level of prescience that nobody is capable of,” Miranda said confidently, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s many things, Shepard, but even he can’t see the future.”

“Fair enough. You’ve convinced me,” Shepard replied. “I’ll bring Tali with us. She’ll make sense of any tech we come across, no matter how ‘experimental’ it is.”

Miranda nodded her head. That was a sound choice.

What they actually found at the heart of Atlas Station, Miranda could not possibly have predicted.

Please make it stop.

Miranda hadn’t even been able to speak when she saw him there. David Archer. A completely innocent, vulnerable man hooked up to machines by his own brother as part of some sick experiment to see if his gifted mind could, what? Control geth? That was the reasoning that justified that level of cruelty and abuse?

This was it, wasn’t it? The true face of Cerberus. What they did to people. So many had said that this was the reality, and yet Miranda hadn’t listened before.

Reading between the lines, there was no doubt The Illusive Man knew exactly what was being done on Aite. While he made sure to say he didn’t condone Dr. Archer’s actions, he seemed to know perfectly well that David’s “unique talents” had “provided a breakthrough”, and he made sure to mention that Shepard’s actions had set back their understanding of the geth several years.

The only good thing that had come out of this was knowing that David Archer would be well looked after at Grissom Academy. Well, that and it was reassuring to know that, whatever Cerberus might have planned to do with an army of geth under their control, those ideas would never come to fruition now.

Evidently, Shepard really had done the right thing by not sending Legion to be studied by Cerberus, if it would have helped them. In retrospect, Miranda had never been more relieved that someone hadn’t listened to her advice.

It just made her wonder what else she didn’t know.

The door to Miranda’s quarters slid open, and she glanced up. “Forgive my intrusion. Am I interrupting anything?” Samara asked, always a sound question to open with when it came to Miranda, especially when she was in her office.

“No,” Miranda answered honestly. Not a damn thing.

Samara was too tactful to say it, but of course she knew that the number of people Miranda reported to had decreased drastically in recent days, and her requirements to Shepard had already been discharged several hours ago.

Since Miranda hadn’t objected to her presence, Samara took that as a cue to step inside. “I have not seen you since you returned from Aite. Is all well?”

Miranda sighed, interlacing her fingers in front of her. “I honestly don’t know.”

The truth was, ever since she’d seen David Archer in that state, there had been this lingering sense of unease that Miranda hadn’t been able to shake. She had never been an expert at being able to put labels to her feelings. But if she had to choose a word to describe this one, it would be ‘unsettled’.

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. It was as if her own skin was no longer sitting properly on her body. Like there was an inherent...discomfort, that was impossible to rectify. Like these unwelcome sensations and thoughts wouldn’t stop wriggling around beneath the surface, disturbing whatever they touched.

Had this been any regular day, Miranda would have just worked and avoided thinking about it until it went away. But that option wasn’t available to her anymore. Besides, something told her this malaise wouldn’t vanish so easily.

Then again, if there was anybody who she felt safe sharing her thoughts with, and who could help her make sense of them, it was the woman in front of her.

Not about to just leave her standing there by the door, Miranda got up from her desk and gestured for Samara to follow her further inside her quarters. “Sorry there’s not a lot of room, here,” Miranda remarked.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Miranda invited her, electing to sit cross-legged near the head of her bed, tacitly giving Samara permission to join her.

Samara followed her lead, perching on the far end of her bed, as if to signal that she was in no hurry to be anywhere else.

“Do you know what happened down there?” Miranda began.

“Yes.” Samara nodded her head. Even though Miranda rarely if ever observed her speaking to anyone else, word always somehow seemed to reach her about what transpired on any mission she wasn’t a part of.

It certainly made things easier not to have to explain it.

Maybe that was why Samara had come here in the first place.

“...I don’t think a single person I’ve met would ever accuse me of being in any way compassionate. Not even you, and you give me the benefit of the doubt far more than anyone else. But…” Miranda trailed off as she reflected on the days’ events, her voice steady despite the grisly subject matter. “Even in the name of science, how could anyone do that to their own brother?”

David Archer had been begging his brother to make it stop. Begging him. And all Gavin cared about was continuing the experiment.

Why? What was the fucking point of taking it that far?

“I do not know,” Samara answered honestly. “I cannot fathom it either.”

“I suppose that’s the thing. I can fathom it,” Miranda pointed out. She knew all too well that people like that did exist.

She’d been raised by one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Miranda shook her head, unable to even find the language to describe the uncomfortable twisting in her chest that came from thinking about David Archer, picturing him in that core with all those tubes sticking out of him. “Nothing normally ever...gets to me. Even things that probably should. I’ve always been like that. My whole life,

“Did you know, I don’t even remember crying as a child? At all?” Miranda asked. “Any time I ever came close to shedding a tear, my father made sure to ‘give me something to really cry about’. So perhaps I did do it more than I can recall, and I simply blocked those memories out. But I don’t think that’s the answer. I’ve always assumed that the reason I never cried was because I must have been...so isolated and neglected as a baby that one day I just stopped making any noise, because even then I must have known there was simply no point to it,

“So, if you ever pictured me being an emotional child, that’s not true. I’ve never known myself to be any different than the way I am now,” Miranda somewhat shamefully admitted. She’d never had the chance to be another way, from the moment she was brought into this world. “The one exception, the one thing that I can’t seem to stop from hitting me in whatever small, emotional part of me survived my childhood, is Oriana. Or anything that reminds me of her.”

“I see.” Samara needed no further explanation. Miranda may not have fully understood it herself, but to Samara, it made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t what Miranda saw down there on Aite remind her of her father, and make her think of her sister? “...May I ask, have you seen something like David Archer before?”

“Close enough,” Miranda said, the truth of those words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Do you know, I’ve never told anyone about how I escaped from my father? I suppose you could’ve guessed. I’ve never had anyone to tell.”

Samara shifted, matching Miranda’s cross-legged position as she turned to face her, sitting opposite her. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her body language alone said that she was receptive to whatever Miranda felt comfortable sharing.

Miranda never allowed herself to look weak in front of anyone. To show vulnerability. Whenever she came close, she would brush it off with a deadpan quip or dry understatement, demonstrating that she was in total control.

Samara was the one exception to that. The one person she’d met who she trusted enough to reveal that flawed, softer side of herself around, and who had never judged her even slightly for her imperfections. Why Samara tolerated her at her worst, Miranda still didn’t know. But she always had, from day one.

Plus, Miranda knew better than anyone the grief Samara had somehow survived and how she had come to terms with the most intense sorrow imaginable. It was no wonder she was so understanding, given what she’d endured in her past.

So, for the first time in her life, Miranda began to tell her story.

“I always knew that I was an experiment, but I never really knew what that meant,” Miranda elected to start at the beginning. “My father said things, sure, but if you imagine anybody ever sat me down and explained to me my purpose, or the purpose of anything they put me through, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“What were you told?” Samara prompted.

“The part about being genetically perfect. That I wasn’t the first he’d made, only the first he’d kept. And that my father wanted to create a dynasty - a great legacy that would ensure his name lived forever,” Miranda explained. “I always assumed that my father saw me as his heir. That he wanted me to be the perfect daughter. Someone he could trust to carry on his work long after he passed. It wasn’t until Niket put the thought in my head that I began to consider that I might be wrong - that maybe my father’s experiment wouldn’t end with me. If he ever did make another daughter, then I didn’t know what that meant for me, except that I knew it wouldn’t be good, and I may not be safe,

“So Niket and I began working on an escape plan. It took us the better part of two years to prepare. We had to get every detail exactly right, and we thought about every possible contingency. Niket already knew my father’s security systems intimately, so we knew what the weaknesses were there. Before he left, Niket gave me software I could use to hack into the camera system and make the monitors replay the feed from twenty-four hours ago. It would look like I was asleep in my bed, and any rooms I was actually in would look empty,

“We knew that most possible routes I could use to escape were patrolled by security at all hours. We actually had to scour the plans for the whole compound to find any potential ways out. The only option that presented any possibility was...well, perhaps I should go back a few steps.”

Not used to speaking this much without interruption, Miranda stopped briefly to make sure Samara wasn’t overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information being dumped on her all at once. But Samara’s position hadn’t changed at all. Her blue eyes had never left Miranda’s face, listening intently to her every word.

Miranda took that as implicit support to keep going.

“My father had a large research facility underground, beneath the estate, but I never saw most of it. Even when I started working in the lab, I was only ever allowed to enter certain rooms, and only under supervision. I assisted on some of my father’s research into gene editing, which is where most of the family money comes from. I was aware that there were some restricted projects that required special lab clearance, but that was the extent of my knowledge,

“Niket and I discovered from reviewing the plans that there were more levels to the lab than I would have expected. And, when you’re that far underground and working with potentially toxic chemicals, you need a very good ventilation system. We could see on the blueprints that there were air ducts that connected to the surface, which I could most likely fit through. Both ends of the air duct wouldn’t be patrolled by security, since they were only watched by cameras, which we already had a means to deal with. It seemed like my best option,

“Once everything was in motion, all I needed to do was steal an ID card from one of my father’s senior lab technicians, and memorise what passcode was used to enter the restricted part of the lab on the day I chose to escape. I don’t think I’m surprising you by saying that neither of those two things were a challenge for me. I even stole a gun to defend myself, just in case,

“It was exactly thirteen minutes past two in the morning when I got up and left my room. I knew that was the perfect time to leave, because there were the fewest people around, and I’d noticed that security tended to get tired and bored around that time and would start slacking off at their posts. I’d seen them sitting back in their chairs with their feet up watching TV to amuse themselves,

“Everything went precisely as I had planned it. I walked right across the entire house without anybody noticing I was there - which, however big you imagine the house I grew up in was, triple it and you’ll be closer. I got to the lab without incident, swiped the stolen card, entered the code for that day, and headed down to the restricted level where my designated escape point was.”

Miranda paused then. It was the first time she’d really, consciously thought about that day in a long time. And, certainly, it was the first time she’d ever spoken about it, beyond referencing it with flippant passing comments.

In the peripheries of her vision, she saw Samara shift closer. “May I?”

Miranda glanced up at Samara’s voice, and found her making a subtle motion towards Miranda’s left hand, where it rested in her lap. Miranda hadn’t even really been conscious of it until that moment, but in hindsight she had been gesturing more with her right while she spoke.

Admittedly, Miranda was far from fluent when it came to reading unspoken body language. Even though she didn’t fully grasp what Samara meant, she trusted her enough to follow along with whatever she intended. Accordingly, Miranda turned her left hand over, such that her palm faced upwards.

Interpreting that as tacit consent, Samara reached across the small gap between them and clasped Miranda’s hand between both of her own. For as strong as their friendship had become, neither of them were exactly the touchy-feely type. Quite the opposite. So, to feel Samara gently holding her hand with such kindness, well...Miranda imagined this must have been how it felt for other people who weren’t generally so averse to physical contact to be hugged.

“You do not have to give voice to any of the thoughts on your mind if you do not wish to,” Samara reminded her, one of her thumbs softly tracing circles at the centre of Miranda’s palm. “But I am here to listen if you do.”

“I know you are. Thank you,” Miranda said sincerely.

With that, she continued, difficult as it was to revisit this part of her memory.

“I remember the doors to that level sliding open and...I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t just a lab. It was a cloning facility. My cloning facility. The place where I had come from. And I just...froze,

“I completely forgot why I was even there. All I saw were...tanks with embryos in various stages of development. Photographs of dissected failures detailing the mutations and cancerous growths caused by element zero exposure. Pages of speculation as to the errors in their altered genetic sequences which made them...unviable. And then there were images of me. Reports on my behaviour. My progress. With a list of ‘imperfections’ that needed improvement in further cycles.”

Samara was nothing if not masterful at maintaining a neutral expression, but even she could not hide the visibly pained look that crossed her face when she heard that. Words could not describe how much that moment must have not only hurt Miranda, but shattered her entire perception of reality.

“All that time, I truly thought the project had ended with me. But it hadn’t. My whole life, I had been living in that house, while beneath my very feet my father was actively working to ‘improve’ upon my genetic code for god knows how many years. And the only reason he hadn’t replaced me sooner was, ironically, because any time he had a viable embryo, his insistence on exposing them to element zero to replicate my biotic abilities resulted in death and deformity.”

Even though she was silent, hanging on Miranda’s every word, it was evident that Samara was shocked by what she was hearing. Stunned. She’d always believed Miranda when she said her father was a monster, but she’d obviously never suspected it went to this extent. That it was this systematic. This calculated. This callous. What sane person would even comprehend a mind capable of something like this, let alone be complicit in it?

“I don’t know when exactly my father started perceiving me as a failure. In retrospect, I’ve learned things that make me suspect it was probably day one. But that was the first inkling I ever had that I was only ever intended to be a prototype, and nothing more. A test. A proof of concept. A first fucking draft.”

Samara squeezed Miranda’s hand a little tighter, as if to express her sympathy, and her apologies, both for the fact that Miranda had ever had to go through something like this, and that Samara hadn’t understood her history sooner.

Miranda’s eyes drifted out of focus, before she even knew they had. She wasn’t in her quarters anymore. She was there. She was sixteen. She was in that lab. Standing in that door. Discovering the truth. She saw it so clearly, down to even the smallest detail. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the whirring of the fan. She could even smell the exact cleaning agent the staff had used earlier that day to sterilise their hands before they entered the room.

“When that realisation hit me, I just...I just saw red. I thought fuck him. Fuck him. That everything he had put me through, everything I had done for him to meet his arbitrary and changeable standards of perfection, it had all been for nothing. Nothing I ever did could be good enough. He never cared. There was nothing I could possibly have done to live up to the unreachable bar he set for me, because he never truly intended for me to be ‘the one’ no matter how well I did. I had been set up to fail my whole life. And this was the proof. So I paid him back,

“I destroyed it,” Miranda said with cold fury, a mere fraction of the rage she had felt nearly twenty years ago. “Everything he had worked so hard on, everything that mattered to him more than me, I destroyed it. I overloaded every computer. I threw every freezer to the ground. I shot out every one of those tubes. I broke the sprinkler system, grabbed every flammable substance I could find, poured them all over everything, and ejected my thermal clip,

“The alarms went off when the fire started. I didn’t regret anything that I had done, but I had been so angry that I had completely blown any chance I had of a quiet escape. I knew I had to move quickly. So I headed for my exit. But, then, just as I reached the air vent, I heard this sound. And I stopped.”

Miranda swallowed. Perfect memory was a curse as much as a blessing. She hadn’t relived this exact moment in years, yet she could still vividly remember every single detail as clearly as if this had happened ten minutes ago.

“I looked over and I saw this...incubator. I had thought it was empty, but...no. There was a child inside it. A seemingly newborn baby. Left alone in the dark, in this cold, sterile lab. Screaming and crying for attention that would never come.”

Miranda felt a sting in her eyes as she replayed those images in her mind.

“The first thing I felt was betrayal. This was my replacement. They hadn’t been able to improve upon my DNA yet, despite their best efforts, so they just made another one. And this was her. A genetic identical. A ‘do-over’. Well, actually, they made several. Like me, Ori was just the only one lucky enough to survive the element zero exposure - although, unlike me, she didn’t get biotics out of it,

“What did it say about my father that this was how I found her? She and I, we were the culmination of his life’s work. We should have been his most prized possessions. But then look at how he treated me my whole life. And he was already doing the same to her. The only reason she wasn’t dead was because there were machines there to perform the absolute bare minimum functions to keep her alive, so that she could be the next phase of the experiment,

“Neither of us had ever been, or would ever be daughters to him. My father wasn’t, and still isn’t capable of that. There is not a single shred of anything resembling love or kindness in Henry Lawson’s heart. He is devoid of anything right, or good, or redeeming--”

Miranda had to stop herself then, pulling both her hands away to wipe beneath her eyes. This was more raw than she had ever been with another person.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Please do not apologise,” Samara implored her, beyond moved by everything she had heard so far. She reached out, but stopped just short of touching Miranda’s cheek, as if uncertain whether she would want her to.

“I feel so stupid,” Miranda cursed herself. It didn’t happen very often, but she hated the way it felt when her eyes burned with tears. It was a horrible fucking feeling. An alien sensation. Like she was stricken with some disease. Or like something inside her was broken. How the fuck did anyone find this cathartic?

“You are not,” Samara assured her, holding Miranda’s gaze, letting both hands fall atop her knees, compelling Miranda to look at her, and be with her in that moment. “Need I remind you, I came to you. I have chosen to be here.”

“Why?” Miranda asked, still not understanding why Samara of all people deigned to put up with her when she was at her most useless and pathetic.

At that question, Samara’s stoic expression faltered. “...Do you have to ask this of me? Do you not know?” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. It was almost as if it hurt her to think that, after all this time, Miranda still didn’t honestly believe deep down in her heart that Samara cared about her.

Upon hearing that in her voice, Miranda knew that question had been unfair. Samara deserved better than that. And, after all, didn’t Miranda already know the answer to that question? Samara was here for Miranda when she needed her for the exact same reason Miranda had been there for Samara in the past.

Because she wanted to be.

Miranda took a moment, her thumb and forefinger running across her eyelids, and meeting at the bridge of her nose. “This is hard for me to talk about,” she confessed, her voice breaking, knowing she hadn’t even reached the most difficult part. She didn’t know if she would even be able to get through this.

“I understand,” said Samara, giving her as much time and space as she needed.

Miranda drew a deep breath, and willed herself to keep going, keeping her eyes closed beneath her fingers, unable to even look at Samara as she went on.

“So, as I was standing there, hearing glass explode around me in the flames, having only just discovered this baby even existed...I knew I didn’t have long, but I had to spare her from whatever came next. If I left her, she would die in the fire, or she would be deemed a ‘failure’ and be killed, or she would go through exactly the same thing that I had gone through with my father. None of those outcomes were acceptable. But I hadn’t planned for her. I couldn’t take her with me.”

Miranda hesitated, a single tear escaping and falling down her cheek.

“For a split-second, I thought...well, I have this thing in my hand, and the most merciful thing I could do for her is…quickly and painlessly…” Miranda couldn’t even say the words, “...And I really did think about it. I was going to...”

The fact that it had even crossed her mind, however briefly, was the one thing in Miranda’s life that she had never truly been able to forgive herself for, no matter how many years passed. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Oriana didn’t even know. But Miranda would never be able to make that up to her.

Never.

“But I couldn’t.” Miranda shook her head, her breaths coming shallower. “I just couldn’t. Something inside of me just...physically wouldn’t let me. And I felt...I felt something I’d never felt before. A compulsion so powerful I’ve never felt it since. It was like my heart exploded in my chest. And I didn’t even have control over myself. The next thing I knew, I just put the gun away. And I took her,

“All I could think was, if I could just get her out of there, then she would have a chance at everything I never had. And the moment I had that thought, it was as if I didn’t have a choice. I had to do everything in my power to make that happen. It became the only thing that mattered to me, even more than my own life,

“So I opened the incubator, and wrapped her in my jacket. And the second I touched her, she just...looked at me, and she stopped crying.”

Miranda went silent for several, long seconds, fixed on the memory of the first time she’d seen her sister’s face. The first moment she felt that connection between them. A moment that changed her forever.

She exhaled, willing her voice to stop shaking.

“I didn’t read anything into it. I assumed the reason she stopped was because she’d never felt a human touch before, and was just surprised, but...I said to her, ‘I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe with me. I promise,’

“Just as soon as I took her, I heard voices behind me. I didn’t look back. I bashed open the grate and got inside the vent as quick as I could. None of my father’s men could follow me through a space that small. I don’t know how long I was in there. But it felt like an eternity. I don’t know how I didn’t fall,

“When I got to the surface, I remember seeing searchlights in the dark. Either they hadn’t figured out where I was, or they just hadn’t made it out of the lab in time to beat me there. I had a whole route memorised in my brain. You can’t even comprehend how big my father’s compound was. The gardens had an actual, literal maze as one of the features. I tried to hide from them in there,

“Amid all the people searching for me, I carelessly wandered into a trip beam for the outdoor alarm system at one point. Spotlights fixed on me immediately. That’s when I heard my father over the loudspeaker ordering his men to shoot me. And they were live rounds. I could tell. But, if nothing else, all that training made me a lot faster and more agile than any of his men. I shot a few rounds blindly behind me to force them to take cover. That must have worked. And I lost them again,

“The only way I could get outside the walls was through a drain. Believe me, a lot of water went into those gardens. I jumped into the drainage ditch, and the water went up to about here.” Miranda put one hand at the point where her hip became indistinguishable from her abdomen. “Niket had already loosened the grate for me ahead of time. All I had to do was move it. And...I was out,

“I have never in my life run as fast as I ran then. I knew they wouldn’t be far behind me. I could hear them. Including my father. Niket had left a skycar for me in a hidden location nearby, where nobody would ever find it by accident. I got in, and I put my sister down beside me, and I said to her, ‘If we get shot down, I just want you to know, I don’t regret trying to save you. These last few minutes have been more freedom than I’ve ever known in my whole life’,

“I can still hear the bullets bouncing off the hull as we flew away. But that was it. That was my last memory of home, and the last time I saw my father.”

Samara visibly held back her own emotions as Miranda recounted the most pivotal day of her life. Miranda had long intellectually understood that feeling what others felt was something that came naturally to empathetic people, and Samara (as composed as she was) was definitely that. If anything, that response meant more from her precisely because she was usually so stoic.

It seemed clear that her restraint, in this case, was not born out of any desire to hide what she was feeling, or any shame at being seen in such a state, but rather came purely because Miranda was her priority in that moment, and she did not wish to detract, however unintentionally, from her and her feelings.

“I know it cannot have been long before you were separated from your sister,” said Samara, her voice calm, level and soothing. Her unwavering demeanour was oddly comforting. “I am sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was,” Miranda confirmed. “She had never been part of the plan. I didn’t even know she existed until I found her. I was supposed to be off world with my fake ID immediately. But, with her, I couldn’t do that. I had a little money, but not much, and everything can be traced with enough effort so I was scared to use what I had. Once that money ran out, I had no plan for how to feed her, or clothe her, or care for her. And I was afraid that asking for help would attract attention.”

For a short while, though, she had really tried. They may have been genetically twins, but Miranda was old enough to be her mother. Teen mothers may have been a rarity in the twenty-second century, but they were certainly not unheard of.

The only problem with that idea was that Miranda barely knew how to take care of herself in light of how she had been raised, let alone a baby.

She shivered as she thought on those days. “I remember, this one night, I had bought us a room in a hotel with these...ludicrous purple walls. We never stayed in the same place twice, but this room, I remember. Because, for whatever reason, that night she just...would not stop crying. And not just crying, she was bloody screaming her head off. And I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. Whatever I tried to calm her down...nothing worked. I didn’t know if she was sick and going to die, and I was terrified that people would come and take her away from me if they heard her screaming like that. And I just...for the first time I can remember, I broke down and bawled my fucking eyes out until the sun rose. Because that was the point where I realised I couldn’t do this,

“I knew that, even if I managed to get her off-world with me, my father wouldn’t stop looking for us on Earth. He would follow us. We would always be in danger. And I had no means to care for her. Even if I did, how could I work? Who would I leave her with? I didn’t know anyone I could trust,

“...Until I remembered this man my father had spoken to two years earlier, who was an affiliate of Cerberus. English expat named Alan. He had said The Illusive Man was looking for ‘exceptional individuals’ like me. They knew who I was, and what I was. And, even though my father donated to Cerberus, I knew they had never returned the favour - they never funded his cloning research, probably because he was always so cagey about sharing any data with them,

“I knew it was a risk, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I remembered enough about Alan to know his name and what company he ran. And, because he remembered me too, I was able to get in contact with him. I told him that I wanted to offer my services to Cerberus, in exchange for them helping me get my sister off world. I said I wanted them to make her disappear, and put her safely into the hands of a normal, loving family. So long as they kept their end of that bargain, they would have my undivided loyalty. And that was all it took.”

And that promise was kept, along with everything Cerberus promised. Oriana grew up with some fine, spacer parents, who were coincidentally of Australian origin themselves. Miranda watched over her, and her brilliantly, boringly normal life, seeing her grow from a happy child into a smart, popular teenager, and a well-adjusted adult. It was why Miranda trusted Cerberus so much.

“The woman who took her from me was very nice about it. In truth, other than Niket, she was the first person I ever met who had been kind to me. But that...that was the first time in my life that I remember crying. Really crying. The day that it hit me that I wasn’t fit to take care of her, when I knew that I had to give her up.”

And, nineteen years later, Miranda had tears in her eyes when she finally met her sister again, speaking to her for the first time at Shepard’s urging on Illium. She wasn’t kidding when she said Oriana was the only thing that ever brought that out of her. Such raw, intense emotion. Such...humanity.

Miranda had gone to Oriana that day to let her know she was loved, and she had done exactly that, but she had received something so much greater in return.

For nineteen years, Miranda had known what it meant to love someone. But it wasn't until then, at the age of thirty-five, that she finally knew what it felt like to have someone out there in the galaxy who truly and unconditionally loved her back.

Holding Oriana as a child had given Miranda purpose. But holding her again all those years later as an adult had given Miranda something far greater.

Family.

“You may not have been ready to take care of a child then,” Samara began. “But you were certainly an excellent sister to her, as you have been ever since.”

Miranda’s lips couldn’t find the strength to quirk, not even into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Thank you,” she said. If doing right by Oriana was the one thing that she ever managed to do with her life, then it justified her entire existence.

Giving Oriana up was, unequivocally, the hardest thing Miranda had ever done, before or since. Experiencing unconditional love for the first time, only to be forced by circumstance to give it up a few short days later. And yet, at the same time, it had been the only thing she could do. Because the real, selfless love she felt for Oriana didn’t allow Miranda to do the selfish thing. Not when it came to her.

She sighed and rubbed one eye with the corresponding palm. “Ah, god, how long have I been rambling at you about this?”

“As long as you needed to,” Samara answered with unfeigned warmth and compassion. “I cannot stress how much I appreciate you speaking of this to me. I know it was not easy for you, and that you do not share your burdens with others lightly. Everything you have told me, I treat with the greatest respect.”

“I know you do,” said Miranda. Even on the pane of death, Samara would never divulge anything told to her in confidence. Nobody ever needed to doubt that.

“Do you feel better for having spoken of it?” Samara asked.

Miranda stopped for a moment. “...Strangely, yes,” she acknowledged.

In retrospect, it now made sense why the incident with the Archer brothers had been so...for lack of a better word, ‘triggering’ for those past traumatic events. And, for as much of an emotional rollercoaster as it had been to relive the most mentally scarring day of her life, at least she had gotten to the point in her story where she and Oriana got their happy ending, reunited at long last.

“Then I am glad,” said Samara. That was all she wanted to achieve by coming here as she had, if it had been at all possible to do so.

“You’re not going now, are you?” Miranda asked, audibly disappointed. After all, when Miranda entered a conversation with a specific purpose in mind, she would generally leave immediately after accomplishing that goal.

“No.” Samara shook her head, hoping she had not unintentionally conveyed that impression. “I will stay for as long as you would like me here.”

“Would you stay forever?” Miranda wearily remarked. Samara hesitated, as if caught off guard by that. “I’m joking,” Miranda told her, assuaging Samara’s fears that she had to answer that question seriously.

Samara uttered something that sounded faintly like a chuckle. “My offer remains,” she replied. It was funny how something as simple as that kind twinkle in Samara’s eye was enough to make Miranda feel so much less vulnerable, despite the fact that this was the most she’d ever let her guard down. Ever.

Miranda exhaled heavily, running both hands through her hair as she leaned back, her head hitting the pillow behind her. She had no idea that the simple act of talking could be so exhausting. But, then again, it did feel like she’d just run an obstacle course through every single emotion she’d ever felt in her entire life, so maybe that explained it. No wonder she needed a moment to recover.

She heard movement, and felt Samara shift off of the bed, moving to stand by the window, almost like she was keeping a vigil at her side.

“Miranda?” Samara broke the silence after a minute or two. Miranda moved one hand just enough to allow an eye to open. “I am proud of you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in questioning.

“Of the decisions you made then. Of the woman you are now. And that you were courageous enough to be so open with me,” Samara elaborated.

“...You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me,” Miranda commented. And, if anyone else had, then it hit differently coming from someone, firstly, whose opinion she held in such high esteem and, secondly, who she knew wouldn’t have said that unless she damn well meant it.

“Then those people were unworthy of you,” Samara responded with stark honesty, and a terseness to her tone that Miranda had never heard before.

With her half-open eye, Miranda silently studied Samara’s expression. It took a few seconds for her to recognise that unyielding flame she bore. Now that Miranda had finished speaking, Samara no longer simply felt sorry for what she had gone through. No. She was angry about it - angry that people had treated Miranda that way, livid that they had made her even for a second feel as though she were worthless, and furious that they had seen so little value in her that they were prepared to dispose of her like she wasn’t even a living being.

That, she could evidently not abide.

Had she not known the reason for it and so agreed with the sentiment, it would have been a little intimidating to see Samara so righteously pissed off, even if the average person might have only perceived her as her usual, guarded self.

“That I ever dared compare you to the people in your father’s employ...” Samara trailed off, staring out into the void, her body tense. She hadn’t known Miranda’s full story at the time, but now that she did, she looked like she wanted to tear herself apart for letting those words leave her lips. “I apologise unreservedly.”

“You weren’t wrong, though,” Miranda acknowledged. When it came to Cerberus, she had been on the same path. She could have easily been complicit in the same, if not worse atrocities than were done to her as a child.

“No.” Samara turned to face her, stalwart conviction shining in her eyes. “I have never been more wrong. You are nothing like them. You are so far above them, and they are so far beneath you...the people who hurt you do not even deserve to breathe the same air as you,” Samara stated firmly, staring Miranda dead in her eyes, as if daring her to find a single shred of falsity or exaggeration in her gaze, because she knew that Miranda would find none. “I hope you know that.”

Miranda blinked, taken aback by the severity and seriousness of her response. Not having the strength to fight Samara on the validity of her past criticisms, which Miranda still thought were fair, all she said was, “Apology accepted.”

Satisfied with that answer, Samara folded her arms, and faced the void.

Miranda wouldn’t say it out loud, but it was weirdly kind of validating to see someone else react that way to her story. Whether it was intentional or not, it was almost like a reassuring acknowledgement in the back of her mind, saying, ‘See? You aren’t crazy, and you aren’t overreacting by not being able to let go of what your father did to you so many years ago. You actually are justified.’

Plus, on an entirely selfish level, part of her definitely enjoyed knowing that, in the very unlikely event Samara and Henry Lawson ever happened to cross paths after this day, Samara wouldn’t hesitate to fucking kill him.

* * *

It had been two weeks and a day since she identified the bodies. Writing to Ashley’s family and sending them the dog tags hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. She’d personally given the letter to some contacts Jacob had within the Alliance from his days as a Corsair, so she knew it would get there.

She didn’t know when a response would come, but she wasn’t looking forward to it when it did.

Monday to Friday had been spent working, as usual. If nothing else, it was a reassuring constant.

Saturday, she had paid a visit to Jack. “What are we, fuckin’ wacky sitcom neighbours now?” Jack had complained when she showed up, signalling that things were back to whatever this new normal was between them.

Despite her initial reaction, Jack hadn’t otherwise objected to her presence. She actually felt up to going outside that day, to the extent that she was able to, so Miranda had walked with her and given her the lay of the land, including where her own apartment was. “If you ever want to stop by while I’m at work, feel free. I know your students usually visit you during that time, anyway, but--”

“Yeah. I get it. Thanks,” Jack brusquely cut her off. Even though they were so far sticking to their word to try and turn over a new leaf with each other, evidently she could still only take so much of Miranda being genuine towards her before it weirded her out.

Miranda didn’t feel the need to point it out but, for her own part, she had yet to be anything other than civil with Jack. It had not been fully reciprocated yet, but that was not unexpected.

Jack’s medical condition was an unusual one. Mainly because no human had ever suffered from it before. They actually had to go to the asari for aid to get insight on similar situations. Apparently it had been recorded within their species before that massive exertions of phenomenal biotic power in life-or-death situations could cause physical damage similar to what Jack had suffered, and it had been noted that such events could also cause a temporary ‘burnout’ of biotic abilities. Certainly, at the moment, Jack couldn’t so much as move a glass with her mind, nor was she to try to as the effort would only lead to migraine.

It was hard to put a timeline on it, but she was expected to be back to normal within a few months. Until then, she would have to take her headaches and fatigue day by day. Some days, she would barely have the strength to walk from one side of the apartment to the other. Other days, she would feel mostly fine.

On Sunday, Miranda had gone off to spend some time on her own. It turned out that her quiet spots where she hid at night when the tinnitus was too much to bear were just as isolated in the day as well. She tried to clear her mind, and not think about anything for a while, with limited success.

On Monday, it was back to work.

Oriana kept sending bad jokes as she thought of them over the course of the week. The latest one was, “How many colony developers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One to hold a committee meeting to decide whether screwing in a lightbulb is an efficient allocation of resources, one to raise rates on the colonists to fund the lightbulb replacement, and one to hire a private contractor to finally screw in the lightbulb five years after you needed it.”

Obviously things were going well at her job.

Miranda appreciated every message she got from her, but she still hadn’t had the heart to respond. Not just yet. Oriana would be able to tell something was wrong if she talked to her in her current state, even via text. She would just know. She would sense it, no matter how many lightyears away she was. And it was better not to talk to her than risk burdening her with her current troubles.

Throughout it all, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that the students were, suffice it to say, aware that Miranda hadn’t been acting the same these past two weeks. She couldn’t really tell the difference from her own perspective. She always buried herself in work. And she was always always rather detached, serious and quiet. But, for whatever reason, the students somehow just seemed to know that dark cloud was there, hanging over her head.

Maybe she was acting just different enough that they could tell. Or maybe it was the fact that the deaths of her friends hadn’t changed her behaviour at all that caused them to be concerned about her.

They didn’t openly express any worry. But they weren’t treating her as they normally did. Weren’t teasing her, or prodding at her, or trying to get a rise out of her. They were being...polite and respectful.

Miranda would never have predicted it, nor would she admit it, but she had actually started to miss the former. Just a little bit.

It was pretty late by the time Miranda got home from work that day. It was now November, so it was getting dark early, and it was colder than Miranda preferred. She took off her scarf and put her keys down when she came inside.

“Pardon me, Miss?” Prangley began.

“Yes, Jason?” Miranda inquired, too preoccupied to notice the somewhat awkward manner in which Jack’s students were gathered together in the living area. Why was it so cold in there?

“We're, uh...we're not entirely sure,” he admitted with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder towards the balcony outside. “She wouldn't tell us anything. Just that she wanted to see you. I get the feeling we couldn't have kept her out if we tried.”

At that, Miranda blinked and glanced up, suddenly paying more attention. “She?” Miranda echoed. “Who are you talking about?”

Miranda didn’t know it, but to the kids, that reaction was the first glimpse of the Miranda they knew they'd been able to get out of her in two weeks.

“I don’t know, but it’s not often an asari matriarch drops in unannounced,” Reiley remarked, scratching the side of his head. Miranda’s heart stopped. She couldn’t believe her ears. It couldn’t be. “I hope this isn’t some kind of mix up. It’ll be pretty embarrassing if she's got the wrong address.”

Miranda didn’t even hear the rest of his comment, much less respond to it. She didn’t say so much as another word to her wards, taking hold of her cane and marching straight towards the balcony, needing to see if it was her.

As soon as she got close enough to see outside, there was no mistaking it. Samara stood there beyond the open doorway, hands clasped behind her back, her posture upright and rigid, staring out over the ruined city that lay before her.

The second she saw her, Miranda halted in her tracks, unable to take another step. It was as if time stood still. And yet her pulse was pounding so fast.

Sensing that she was being watched, Samara turned to look over her shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Miranda wasn’t sure whose breath caught first, hers or Samara’s. For a long moment, they both just stared, Miranda frozen by the doorway, Samara motionless on the balcony, both of them scarcely able to believe that this was no illusion.

Micro expressions flitted across pale blue features. The night concealed much, but Miranda could have sworn she saw Samara’s eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“The last time I saw you...” Samara glanced down, unable to finish the thought. But, before long, a small smile unfolded across her lips. Miranda was there. Her fears had not come to pass. “...Truly, you never cease to amaze me.”

A faint laugh of astonishment and disbelief escaped Miranda as she stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind her. “You don't call, you don't write,” she remarked, mostly in jest, moving to stand beside her in the cold night air, resting her arm on the railing. Honestly, Samara had been absent so long that Miranda had begun to suspect she would never return. “I suppose I did get your message, but you could at least have sent flowers.”

“My apologies,” said Samara, politely tilting her head in acknowledgement that the manner of her parting had been...less than ideal. “From what I have gathered, by the time you regained consciousness, I was already far from here. I could not linger when suffering was so widespread. The Code demanded that I go where I could assist. But I would not blame you if you do not forgive me for leaving,” she answered. She never made excuses, but those were her reasons.

“In light of the fact you saved my life, I think we can call it even,” Miranda commented, though her expression soon faltered, her features becoming a little more sombre and sincere. It had hurt for Samara to vanish as suddenly as she had, but it seemed so stupid to say that now that she was finally here.

She’d wanted this so badly for so long. It had almost driven her crazy at times, fixating on Samara’s absence as much as she had. And, now that she was here, she found it impossible to be angry with her, even if she ought to have been.

She was here. She was finally here. Not just in London, but here. With her. Where she should have been. And, even though there was about three feet of space between them, she was close enough that Miranda could have sworn she felt the warmth of Samara’s presence even through her jacket.

“You look well,” said Samara, genuinely glad to see the extent of her progress. Were it anyone other than Miranda she was speaking to, the rate at which she'd bounced back would have been astonishing, if not outright impossible.

Miranda snorted. “I look like I was nearly killed in a shuttle explosion. But I don't mind the scars, or the arm. Could have been a lot worse.” Miranda hesitated then, her fingers tensing around her cane as her tone turned serious. “I know I stopped breathing three times after you rescued me. If you hadn't...” She trailed off, not sure she wanted to reflect on just how close she'd come to death. There had been too much of that lately.

“Yes. I know. Far too well.” Miranda briefly glanced at her, and saw Samara staring ahead into the night, scant city lights reflecting against unfocused eyes. She seemed...preoccupied. Troubled, even. “The first time the medics told me you were not breathing was right as they took you out of my arms after I carried you to them. They revived you in the transport on the way to the hospital.”

“Mmm. Jacob told me about that after I woke up,” Miranda uttered in response.

Come to think of it, until just now, it had never really occurred to her how Samara must have felt in that moment. For a while, at least, Samara might well have believed she had felt the last of Miranda’s life force slip away in her hands.

A secondary thought tiptoed into Miranda’s mind. Something else Jacob had told her in the same conversation that had never sat right with her.

“Did you really threaten doctors that you would consider it attempted murder if they took me off life support?” Miranda asked, audibly sceptical. She’d long since assumed it must have been some sort of misunderstanding or exaggeration on Jacob’s part. It didn’t strike her as something Samara would do.

Samara didn’t answer, nor did her expression change.

Miranda interpreted her silence. “You know what? Forget I asked,” she said, regretting even bringing it up. Of course Samara wouldn’t threaten doctors. The entire purpose of The Code was to protect innocent people, not harm them.

“They did discuss it with Jacob and myself. Your condition had barely changed for several days. And you were very ill. They had lost faith that there was any prospect that you...” Samara couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “It was after that conversation that I...recorded that message you saw. When I left, I did not think...I was not certain you would recover,” Samara confessed, with a heavy heart. There was no mistaking how much that dark thought must have plagued her in the intervening weeks. “Every day I spent elsewhere, I thought...”

“Thought what?” Miranda prompted when Samara trailed off.

Samara blinked out of her daze and shook her head, quickly banishing whatever imaginings had distracted her. “That is not important now. What matters is that you are alright. You survived where most would have perished, and for that I truly cannot express how thankful I am. Though it saddens me to learn the same cannot be said of some of our former comrades.”

“Mmm.” Miranda's gaze dropped to the ground, swallowing as she leaned on the bannister. “I can't say I didn't expect it. Surviving with all of us intact was never going to be an option. I'm not a believer in miracles, by any means, but we're lucky that even the four of us made it,” Miranda explained, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anything, unable to help but feel a pang in her chest at the knowledge that she wouldn't even get to bury most of them. They were all just...particles, somewhere in space. “I assume you know about Jack.”

“Jacob told me where I can find her. I intend to visit her later,” Samara confirmed. Miranda secretly hoped Samara didn't know everything - that she'd very nearly gotten Jack killed by not trusting her own judgement. She could never have forgiven herself if she had left her behind, trapped beneath that building. Especially knowing they would never find anyone else. “There are no others?”

“There's Wrex from the original Normandy. He made it out in one piece. You probably already knew that. But from our lot? No. Just you, Jacob, Jack and I,” Miranda answered, silently counting the missing among the fallen. “I, um...I found Zaeed and Grunt. Javik and Ashley Williams from the SR-3 as well,” she broke the news, unable to raise her head, their fates an uncomfortable burden to bear. “...I can take you to where they're buried, if you would like to pay your respects.”

Samara's face fell. It wasn't clear whether that was because she didn't know before Miranda told her, or because she felt a sense of shame and regret for leaving Miranda to shoulder that alone. “I will do that before I go.”

Miranda swallowed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye. “One more thing. The ship where Kasumi was stationed to work on the Crucible...it didn't make it. It was too close to a relay, and...” She didn't finish that sentence, letting the implication speak for itself.

“...I am sorry to hear that,” Samara said honestly. Another life, another friend, confirmed lost. She paused, and glanced back at Miranda. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Miranda assured her, straightening up a little more.

Samara just stared at her, with silent compassion and understanding. Miranda didn't have to say anything. And Samara would never press her on it, respecting her space, but...she knew damn well that Miranda wasn't coping with this as well as she wanted everyone to think. Or even as well as she had no doubt tried to convince herself she was.

At that unspoken realisation, Miranda slumped forwards and uttered a humourless laugh, barely louder than a whisper, leaning more of her weight against the railing. “What can I say? Everyone's gone, Samara,” Miranda admitted, finally acknowledging it out loud. As much as she wanted to pretend the Normandy SR-3 was still out there somewhere, they would have heard from them by now if it was. Besides, finding Javik and Ashley had all but sealed it. She wasn't an idiot. She couldn't deny it forever. “Everyone's gone.”

“Not everyone,” Samara quietly replied, holding her gaze. “Not you.”

“I came pretty close,” Miranda murmured. The fact that she had lived where others died had been circling through her mind a lot lately, whether she wanted it to or not. Her survival in the war had come down to mere millimetres. If the bullet that hit her in the eye penetrated just a little deeper. If the red glare of the Reaper had moved just one degree counter-clockwise. If she’d landed on her neck when the shuttle crashed. If the infection had spread just a little further. If Samara had found her just a little later.

The truth was, Miranda hadn’t earned the right to be there in that moment anymore than the people who had perished. She didn’t deserve to live anymore than those who died. It had all come down to chance. Well, chance and genetic engineering, neither of which were her own doing. It was hard to feel like anything other than a thief, in a way - like, by avoiding what should have been certain death, she’d stolen time from others that didn’t truly belong to her.

“I keep thinking…” Miranda began, almost unconsciously seeking to give voice to thoughts she had never spoken aloud. She caught herself, hesitating, wondering whether it was too much to worry Samara with her morbid musings.

But, then, this was Samara. The one person she’d always been able to talk to honestly about anything. The person she’d opened up to about things she’d never told anyone else. The person who knew sides of her that nobody else knew, and probably never would. Not even Oriana.

She swallowed, and decided to continue.

“I keep thinking that I should be able to take the way I feel about losing everyone and channel it into...I don’t know, something fucking productive,” Miranda said, audibly frustrated with herself. “But there’s just...nothing. Nothing good is coming from this. There’s nothing I can do. And I can’t even see what it was all for. Did any of their deaths really matter? Did any of them truly die in a way that was ‘worth it’? Or is that just a comforting lie we tell ourselves?”

Samara considered her words for a long moment before breaking the silence.

“May I be honest with you?” Samara asked.

“Have you ever not been?” Miranda remarked in response. Samara didn’t reply to that. Assuming she was still waiting for her permission, Miranda eventually signalled for her to go ahead. After a few more seconds, Samara began to speak.

“In my own experience, the notion that grief can be transformed into something else - something that motivates you and drives you...that is a flagrant lie. It never happens,” Samara stated starkly. “Anger at losing someone, perhaps. A sense of injustice. Your love for that person. Even regret. But not grief. Even if channelled through some outlet, grief is never transformed into anything else. It remains as it is. An emptiness. A heavy hollowness. A missing piece that can never be replaced. A hole that never goes away, and never fully heals,” Samara spoke solemnly, her words carrying the weight of a long and painful life.

When Miranda looked at her then, she lost any semblance of the words she intended to say. In that achingly raw, real and honest moment, it was as if she was seeing Samara for the very first time. The warmth she felt from Samara’s proximity grew so hot that it began to burn. Everywhere that heat touched set Miranda's nerves on fire. Suddenly, it took great effort even to breathe.

Standing there in Samara's striking aura, it was as if that numbing sensation Miranda had carried with her recently - that diminishment - was not only stripped away, but flipped to its inverse. It was as if the world around her had never been so intensely tangible and corporeal as it was in that instant. Like she had never seen the colours and textures around her in such vivid detail. Like she was hearing sound at frequencies beyond the audible human range. Like she could feel the contours of every single atom and molecule beneath her fingertips.

And all because, for seemingly no reason at all, she had looked at Samara in a whole new light. Let her eye fall upon her in a way it had never gazed upon her before. And, now that she had, she was totally and utterly mesmerised by her.

“Forgive me,” Samara broke the silence.

Miranda shook her head, rattled by her thoughts and...whatever the hell it was about Samara in that moment that had left her temporarily spellbound. “What?”

“I know my words were not comforting,” Samara admitted. “For that, I apologise.”

“Oh.” A small smile crossed Miranda’s lips as she tried to hastily forget what had just happened and jump back onto the original train of the conversation, ignoring the flush of heat coursing through her veins. “No, actually. I’m glad you said it,” she quietly confessed. “In a weird way, it’s the first thing anybody’s said that’s made what I’ve been going through lately seem...normal.”

“It is. Whatever you are feeling, it is. There is no correct way to grieve,” Samara assured her. And she would know. “It may be futile to ask this of you, but please be gentler to yourself. Knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that you are doing the best you can given the circumstances. That is all anyone can ask of you.”

“Thank you,” said Miranda, not sure why she felt so on edge all of a sudden. She was never nervous around Samara. Or around anyone, for that matter. “Sorry for rambling at you about this. Ugh. I’m thirty-six years old and I sound like a child experiencing loss for the first time.”

“I did not lose anyone I truly cared about until I was over four hundred years old. When my mother died. So you are far ahead of me, if that is the measure,” Samara responded, putting matters into perspective. “Would that you were not. Inevitable though it may be, I would not wish loss upon anyone.”

Miranda swallowed heavily, keeping her gaze fixed on her fingers for a moment. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to speak like a normal human person at all. What the hell was wrong with her all of a sudden? Why was she acting like this?

This was Samara. Samara. The one person she felt truly comfortable around, even at her very worst. So why did it feel like her skin could just jump clean off her body at any moment? Why did she already feel so naked and exposed?

“Jacob must have pointed you in my direction. He isn't joining us?” asked Miranda, electing to move to a lighter topic of conversation. Whatever was going on, she could at least have the decency to not let it affect her, or how she acted.

“I extended the offer, but he declined. He said he wished to respect our space and give us some time to speak privately, but I believe he finds the prospect of the two of us in each other's company rather disconcerting,” Samara answered. Her expression was always calm, collected and difficult to read, but Miranda interpreted that look as vague amusement.

“Sounds like him,” Miranda replied. Jacob may have been about the closest thing she’d ever had to a conventional best friend, but they were very different people. It made them a good team, but they also frustrated each other to no end at times.

“Whatever his reasons may have been, I am grateful for it,” Samara admitted, a fondness in her tone. So was Miranda. It gave them the chance to be alone, like they used to be. She'd missed that. Evidently, she wasn't the only one. “He also informed me that you contacted Falere on my behalf,” Samara continued, catching Miranda's eye. “I thank you.”

“I wouldn't have had to if you had just contacted her yourself,” Miranda pointed out. Sure, Samara had her Code to explain her actions, but in all seriousness at times it seemed more like a convenient justification for Samara's evasiveness than the definitive cause of it. Unless the Code had some rules against calls, texts and emails that Miranda didn’t know about.

Come to think of it, Samara’s disappearing act reminded Miranda of herself when she'd been on the run from Cerberus more than anything else.

“She’s probably still waiting to hear from you,” said Miranda, quietly searching for cues in Samara's unyielding exterior that would signal her intentions. “If you wanted to write to her, or even call her, I could easily arrange it,” she pointed out, subtly urging her to follow her heart and make contact with Falere, much as Shepard had done for Miranda when she'd rescued Oriana on Illium.

Samara bowed her head slightly, a momentary flash of sorrow creeping into her expression. “In time,” was all she said.

Miranda understood that sentiment. Or at least she thought she did. Their circumstances weren't entirely dissimilar. Both of them had only just reclaimed those relationships once thought lost forever; a chance at a new start with the one person they loved most. And self-deceit was the only thing keeping it from sinking in that it was entirely plausible that they might never be reunited. In spite of everything they'd fought for, in spite of outlasting all the odds, in spite of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat and saving the galaxy from annihilation, the one thing that they had nearly given their lives to protect might still be denied to them.

Their family.

If it weren't for the fact that Miranda refused to accept that possibility, it would have broken her heart. Never holding Oriana again. Never having that life together she'd worked so hard to make possible. Losing her would have drained her of everything she lived for.

So, yes, unless she was missing some important piece of the puzzle, Miranda knew all too well what Samara was feeling, and why talking to Falere was touching on too many raw, tumultuous emotions at that moment in time.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Samara rather abruptly broke the silence, calling Miranda out of her thoughts. Samara extended her hand, holding out a small keychain shaped like Blasto the Hanar Spectre. “I promised to return this to you when next we met.”

Recognising it, Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. She’d completely forgotten about that before now. It was a cheap trinket she’d won at the arcade the last time she and Samara were on the Citadel together, when Shepard threw that party. That felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been three months.

“You do know that was a gift, right?” Miranda said through a chuckle.

Samara blinked, hesitant. “Justicars--”

“Eschew personal possessions. I know,” Miranda finished before Samara could. It was exactly what she’d told Miranda when she had first offered it to her. She thought they had resolved this dilemma the first time they had this conversation. “If your tenets require me to say that it’s still technically mine, then fine. It’s mine. But I insist that you hang onto it for me indefinitely. Does that work?”

“It…” Samara paused, evidently more than a little torn on the matter. Miranda would never understand how something so insignificant could be a breach of her Code. But, on the other hand, Miranda couldn’t fault Samara’s tireless dedication to her discipline. She didn’t cut corners. She didn’t cheat. She was who she was - what she had sworn to be. And that was nothing if not deeply admirable. “...I suppose that would be acceptable,” Samara eventually answered, with some slight hesitation, running her thumb over the keychain.

“I mean, unless you hate carrying that stupid thing around,” Miranda added offhandedly. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

“No,” Samara hastily assured her, not wishing to create that impression. “Of course I do not.”

Miranda couldn’t help but muster a smile at that response. Honestly, it was kind of incredible how a woman who was nearly a thousand years old, and who had experienced so much, could still have the capacity to demonstrate such pure, unfeigned innocence and earnestness. It wasn’t often that it showed, but Miranda had always liked that about Samara whenever it did.

“Then, please, keep it. Do this, in memory of when I still had both halves of my face,” Miranda remarked, mock-crossing herself, as if giving Samara her blessing. Samara stared at her blankly, caught in momentary shock. Miranda didn’t take long to realise why. “...Sorry. I forget you’re not used to seeing me like this. It’s fine. I’m in the ‘joking about it’ stage. Have been for a while, actually. You don’t need to…feel awkward about it.”

“No!” Samara interjected again, a little more urgently than the last time, loath to think that she had inadvertently hurt Miranda’s feelings, or made her self-conscious about her injuries. “That is not what…” Samara trailed off, pressing her hand to her forehead in annoyance at herself. “Forgive me. It appears that in this moment I can neither speak nor stay silent without making a fool of myself.”

“You could never appear foolish to me, Samara,” Miranda reassured her, speaking from the heart, so there could be no doubt she meant it.

Samara softened at that, glancing down at the trinket in her palm once more. “...I should not say it, but...in truth, this came to mean a great deal to me,” Samara quietly admitted, earning a raised eyebrow from Miranda. “Because you gave it to me,” Samara explained at her inquiring look. Miranda felt her pulse quicken at those words, the heat suddenly rushing to her cheeks. “It was all I had to remind me of you, when I did not know whether or not you would…”

Miranda couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone dry. And her throat felt so tight all of a sudden. She had to turn away and cough to clear it.

Fortunately, Samara spoke again before she had to. “You are right. I will keep it. Even if it belongs to you, there is no reason I cannot carry this, if you wish it,” said Samara, mustering a smile as she closed her fingers around the keychain.

“Great. It’ll be our secret,” Miranda replied in a concerted effort to act normal despite feeling anything but, holding a finger to her lips.

Wait a second. Did her voice have a tremor in it, all of a sudden? God, she hoped not. What if Samara heard that? What on Earth was this? Was she sick or something and didn’t know it? Was that why she felt so off-kilter?

“Before either of us get carried away, I must let you know that my stay here will be short,” Samara rather sombrely confessed, aware it was not something Miranda would want to hear. “I do not wish to mislead you into believing otherwise.”

“You didn't; I suspected as much,” said Miranda. She would have been lying if she said it wasn’t disappointing. But at least she’d gotten to talk to her this time before Samara set off again, resuming her ceaseless quest to bring justice to the galaxy. That brought some amount of closure, if nothing else. “Where will you go? Come to think of it, where have you been?”

“Many places. Forgive me, I am not familiar with Earth's regions,” said Samara, powering up the omni-tool on her hand. “I have, however, found it helpful over my years to maintain a record of all my travels. You may be surprised how often it is necessary to know these things, and how easily one forgets,” she remarked with a small quirk of her lips that almost resembled a smirk, activating a holographic map that documented her travels.

“You're kidding.” Miranda stumbled backwards when the incalculably dense web of destinations formed over the hologram of Earth in front of her, her bad leg nearly giving out under her weight before she remembered to grab the railing to keep herself steady. “I'll be damned. You really did get the grand tour,” she commented, genuinely awed by how she'd managed to go literally all the way around the world in under three months. “How did you get to Dunedin?”

“On a ship, from the North Island of New Zealand,” Samara answered, her literalism containing no traces of irony. Miranda suspected Samara knew what she had meant, but was using that sneaky deadpan delivery of hers to play coy.

“Keep saving those frequent flier miles and you could get back to Thessia at this rate,” Miranda offhandedly remarked. Samara gave her a slightly odd look.

If the Earth could have opened up and swallowed Miranda whole in that moment, she would have let it.

Miranda shook her head in embarrassment, regretting that stupid comment as soon as she had said it. Why did she try to be funny when she wasn’t? “Please remind me never to attempt to make jokes again. That was horrendous.”

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating the intention, if nothing else. “It is good that you have maintained a sense of humour in these troubled times.”

“I...don't have one. Never have, never will,” Miranda awkwardly replied, letting go of her cane long enough to rub her neck. “But thank you for your tolerance.”

She couldn’t isolate what it was that was making her so anxious around Samara. This was the exact opposite of what it was ordinarily like - usually it put her so at ease just to be in her vicinity. Now, the mere act of existing in Samara’s proximity made her feel like she was tapdancing on hot coals, and they weren’t even standing that close. Inexplicable waves of heightened energy surged through her nervous system every time it felt like Samara shifted a little nearer. It made her heart race just to hear her voice, and to let each word she spoke wash over her.

Why was she feeling this way? What was she feeling?

Why hadn’t it gone away yet?

“For the most part, I have not found it difficult to acquire travel,” Samara explained. “I have found most people quite accommodating in light of these dark and troubled times. They do say adversity breeds camaraderie. And it would seem that quality is uniquely commonplace among your kind,” she said plainly, having developed a great affinity for the human species as a whole.

“Would it dim your view of humanity if I pointed out the locations where I think the Reapers' invasion actually caused several billion credits of improvement?” Miranda asked, hopeful that her dark quip would land that time. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she was pretty sure Samara cracked a smile at her dry remark, recognising the gallows' humour for what it was. Most of Samara’s facial expressions were extremely subtle at the best of times, though.

“The work you have done here is good,” Samara told her, looking out over the slowly recovering city once more. “Your ability and intellect have always been remarkable. Now that you have applied them to a more worthy cause than Cerberus, what you have accomplished is truly admirable,” she said, approving of Miranda's new direction in life. It pleased her to see she had found a path that seemed unlikely to ever put her in conflict with the Code.

“Yes. That's all true,” Miranda matter-of-factly replied, resting her hand on her cane once again. What could she say? Feigned humility had never suited her. “But I could always use help,” she said sincerely. “I could also use a friend. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stick around longer?”

They both knew the answer to that question already. But every part of Miranda really wanted to deny it.

“You cannot, though it is not for anything you lack. Quite the opposite,” Samara replied, earning a wrinkled brow. “Other cities on Earth do not have the benefit of your leadership and oversight. Any contributions I can provide will be limited here. My Code compels me to look for where aid is most needed.”

“...I see,” said Miranda. That explanation was fair enough, she supposed. So why did the thought of Samara's absence leave her feeling so hollow? Why did the thought of Samara going away again make her heart feel like it was contorting into a knot inside her chest? Why did it hurt so badly?

“We will have many chances to speak again before I depart. That would...” Samara paused, internally dismissing whatever she had been about to say. “For now, I fear I have lingered too long unannounced, and taken enough of your time. I can see you are responsible for many others. I would not keep you from it.”

For a split second, something surged inside Miranda – an intense emotional need she couldn't describe. But that ache in her heart couldn't go unspoken. She reached out to touch Samara's hand, covering it where it rested on the balcony, letting her cane fall from her grasp and clatter to the floor at her feet.

“Stay?” The word was softly spoken, a question that carried with it uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please?” Miranda implored her.

“For how long?” Samara sought clarification, evidently unsure how to decipher Miranda's odd request. “Are you certain I would not be imposing?”

Miranda uttered something that amounted to a short, heavy-hearted laugh. “You know what I mean,” she said. She wasn’t talking about today. She wasn't asking for a few more hours, or even a few more days.

She didn’t want an end date at all.

Samara gazed at her for a long moment, her reserved expression as always difficult to decipher. Whatever her thoughts were, her features did not readily betray them. Miranda didn't know whether she gave the matter any consideration, or if her answer was already as clear as every rational part of her assumed it was. However, maybe it was just an illusion or a trick of the mind but...for a split-second, Miranda was sure that Samara looked conflicted. Even torn.

Samara withdrew her hand. With scarcely more than a thought, she drew Miranda's cane towards herself using her biotics, and extended it to Miranda.

“We each have a role to play in the aftermath of this war. These duties cannot be forsaken,” Samara spoke calmly, placing the walking stick in Miranda's grasp once more, and enclosing her palm around it. With her other hand, she reached out to cup Miranda's cheek, fingers softly brushing the scarred skin beneath her eye-patch. Miranda's breath caught at the contact. It was all she could do not to tremble beneath her touch as a tingling sensation flooded from Samara’s fingertips out to seemingly every single cell inside her body. “It grieves me that our paths do not align. Perhaps that will change in time.”

“...It's okay.” Miranda averted her gaze, willing her voice not to shake under Samara's gentle caress, unable to meet her stare, scarcely able to breathe. She knew little of what Samara's Code entailed, but still she regretted asking her to do something that would require deviating from it. That had been unworthy of her. Even if the non-Justicar part of Samara may have wanted to stay, what place of it was Miranda’s to put her in that difficult position? To ask her to turn away from her vows? “You don't need to explain. I understand responsibility better than most. However, I would like it if I saw you again sooner this time. Or if we stayed in touch while you were away,” she admitted, allowing herself that much.

Samara let her touch linger, grazing Miranda's damaged skin with such gentleness, never once breaking eye contact with her, even if it wasn’t returned. “As would I.”

Much as Miranda might have wanted to, she didn’t dare lift her head. Wasn’t sure she could handle it if she did. It felt like her entire being was disassembling under Samara’s fingertips. And, if Samara couldn’t feel her quivering, then it was a fucking miracle. Her heart was pounding like a drum, and her palm began to perspire against her cane, where it was covered beneath Samara’s left hand.

It wasn’t lost on Miranda that neither of them were the type of people who were entirely comfortable or natural around others. Even small gestures of physical affection were largely alien. They had never so much as hugged each other. A touch of hands here or there was the most they had ever...but that didn’t explain it either. Miranda hadn’t felt anything close to this the last time Samara gently clasped her hand. She’d never reacted this way around her before, or anyone.

Miranda had never felt anything remotely like this before. Ever.

What did it mean?

Miranda had to recoil from her touch just so she could breathe again. Samara didn't resist, nor seem offended, letting her hand fall from Miranda's cheek. “You take care of yourself out there, okay?” said Miranda, keeping her eye fixed anywhere but Samara, because she knew damn well by that point that she wouldn’t be able to control whatever it elicited in her to look at her in that moment. “And don't leave without saying goodbye this time.”

“I will try, on both accounts,” Samara replied, promising that much. “Farewell, Miranda.” Miranda didn't try to stop her, though she wasn't oblivious to the tension in her body as Samara passed her. The air had never felt so dense.

Miranda could feel from the sudden chill that filled the atmosphere in her absence that Samara had left, and only then did she dare to confirm it with a glance upwards, her gaze met by empty space where once she had stood.

Alone, Miranda finally released a deep exhale, that bizarre energy that had built up inside her at long last finding the space to wane, and subside, and work its way out of her, at least in part. She didn’t know how long she would need to linger out there to compose herself, but she felt no urge to hurry inside, despite the autumn air feeling bitterly cold having lost Samara’s warmth.

She didn’t even know where to start to untangle that messy jumble of unlabelled sensations and ambiguous emotions whose echoes still lingered inside her chest. She held her hand up to eye level and, sure enough, it was shaking. She clenched her fingers into a fist, which made that stop, at least.

She leaned against the railing and let her head fall into her hand. Miranda may have been comparatively unskilled when it came to deciphering even her own emotions, but she also wasn’t completely dimwitted, nor was she naïve. And the longer she stood out there, the more one possible answer for these nameless feelings began to emerge from recesses of her mind as the most obvious fit.

The thing was, she didn’t want that to be the answer. She wasn’t sure it made sense, or if it was even possible for her. And, if it was, then she had even bigger problems than she could have imagined. Because it could ruin everything.

Miranda’s hearing wasn’t quite good enough since the shuttle crash to notice the door sliding open behind her.

“So, Miss,” Seanne was the first of the students to ask, peering around the door to the balcony at the subtle urging of her brother. “Who was that?”

“A friend,” Miranda replied, staring out at the city, unmoving.

“A girlfriend?” Rodriguez said with a smirk.

“A friend,” Miranda repeated without inflection, as if reminding herself to remember that. Convincing herself not to dare begin to think otherwise.

“It's alright if she’s more than that,” Reiley teased. “Or if you've got a thing with Mr. Taylor. You can tell us, you know,” he prompted, grinning.

Miranda turned and arched her brow at them. “Have you got nothing better to do than gossip about my personal life?” she wondered aloud, beginning to understand the meaning of the old adage 'idle hands do the devil's work'.

“No. We really don't, no,” the group cheekily replied, happily falling back into the habit of having fun at the expense of their guardian now that it (hopefully) seemed like things were improving for her. With that, they closed the door and went back to report on her response to the others.

Miranda didn’t join them. Jack’s students were right, in a way, if they thought they’d perceived a sudden change in her mental state. For the first time in two weeks, Miranda wasn't being haunted by the dark spectre of death.

The problem was that now the only thing she could think about was Samara. And, the more she tried to reason herself into denying it, the louder that one increasingly isolated answer grew as it kept circling in her mind.

Somehow, someway, somewhere between all that time they’d spent together on the Normandy, and seeing Samara standing on that balcony again, and she didn’t know exactly when, where, why, or how it could possibly be true, but...

She’d fallen for Samara, hadn’t she?

She’d fallen for a woman she knew damn well could never love her back.

* * *

#fic #mass effect #femslash #miranda lawson #samara

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potato-ladyy · 3 years

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yes, i am still working on sworn loyalty! i’m trying very hard to finish more of it before i start posting again so i’m so sorry that it’s taking so long. i’m also so unbelievably busy rn...

this is just a plot bunny that would not leave me so i wrote it out a little. it’s set in the same world of sworn loyalty, but directly before the events of the fic, right after voldemort gained power. i’ve redacted the name of the character to prevent spoilers but it might still be quite obvious who it is hehe

May 1985

“Your Lordship,” she greeted, stiffly, a defiant tilt to her head. The Dark Lord could hardly find it within himself to be irritated.

“I was rather certain you would not have shown,” he said, deceptively innocent, if ever such a word could be used to describe Lord Voldemort. An expression of sheer indignance flitted across her face, blatant enough that the Dark Lord nearly found himself losing the wrestle with the deep glee within him straining to manifest in a sharp grin.

“Your-” she stopped herself, choosing her next words carefully, “That thug Crabbe did not give me much of a choice,” she said shortly, her voice modulated against the accusation she, no doubt, yearned to hurl at him.

“Walk with me.” It was a flippant demand framed as a request. She studied him closely for a moment, but nodded jerkily in the end. For the briefest instance, their eyes made contact and, though her Occlumency shields were commendable, he picked up on the traces of dread that stained her mind.

She was silent as they circled the newly constructed gardens of the Palace, not that he expected her to speak, caught somewhere between defiant and afraid as it were.

At last, he broke their silence, “Thorfinn Rowle has been detained under charges of seditious conspiracy.” She froze when she heard that, but recovered almost instantly. The continuous sound of breathing-- slightly sharper than usual -- was her only response. She straightened.

“That was not done for me,” she said in a measured tone, “That was done in spite of me. In spite of what he has done to my family.”

He smiled blandly for he could not begin to fathom her attachment to family. “I never claimed otherwise,” he said nonetheless, “But I thought you might have liked to know before the news broke.”

“You’re not doing me any favours.”

“No,” he agreed easily, “But I am for your brother.” She closed her eyes, her hands curled into pulsating fists and he watched her curiously -- would she dare draw her wand on him? Or perhaps assault him physically?

He waited; patience was a virtue. Or so he heard.

She did neither in the end, but when her eyes fluttered open again, there was a new loathing in them. “He championed rather staunchly for sentient-being rights, did he not?” The Dark Lord pressed on, undeterred by the depth of her grief. She was silent for a few beats too long.

“He did,” her tone was still impressively neutral, though the slightest sliver of fondness slipped in.

“A Bill will be proposed to the Wizengamot after the November elections. It will push for the criminalisation of discrimination against sentient-being. The Minister for Magic will have considerable sway in its successful passing.” What was left unsaid was that he alone controlled so much of the Wizengamot that only with his approval would the Bill be passed, Minister of Magic be damned. And he would not hesitate to use it to punish her. To torment her. She took a deep breath, her hands dusting over the neatly-trimmed hedges of his grounds as she followed a few steps behind the Dark Lord.

“What are you proposing?” She asked, fearing she already knew exactly what he wanted.

“Be my Minister for Magic.”

A beat.

His Minister for Magic.

“That… that is for the people to decide,” she deflected, her voice soft and conflicted.

“Indeed,” he agreed wryly. They stopped next to a bed of white roses and she couldn’t help but feel that some greater being was mocking her.

Staring into the swirls of the pure petals, she asked slowly, “And... should I refuse…?”

His smile harboured the promise of seeing to the destruction of her life in every aspect that mattered-- a hint to the cruel Dark Lord nestled in the depth of this charming, alluring man. They both knew what would happen. “My dear, have I not already been infinitely patient with you?”

And the awful thing was, he had been extremely patient. That was the thing about the Dark Lord, he somehow managed to meet all her expectations of who he was while blowing every assumption she had of him out of the water.

Where was the monster her brother had so valiantly opposed in spite of the warnings of the rest of their family? Where were his death threats and terrible anger? Where was the nightmare of a man that justified his death?

She closed her eyes again. How could her dear brother’s death be in vain?

It doesn’t have to be, her mind supplied traitorously, You can fulfill his final wish, do for him what he couldn’t finish in life—

Succumbing to the Dark Lord he fought is an insult to his memory!

As if sensing her conflict, she noticed that he had moved away. How considerate, she thought bitterly.

Why me?

Better me than someone else.

She found him again a few days later and prayed for her family’s forgiveness even as she accepted his offer. “One term,” she laid out half-heartedly.

“That is for the people to decide,” he echoed, before he dipped his head in a mockery of a respectful bow, “I believe congratulations are in order, Minister.” She could barely bring herself to react with the finality of her acceptance weighing heavy on her every limb.

#fanfiction #voldemort #harry potter #backstory #sworn loyalty

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idanwyn-et-al · 3 years

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“May the Ground not Receive Thee.”

A Meracydian legend passed down through Nepenthe’s Isidoros line of Allagan summoners regarding one of the myths of the vrykólakas ; some might call them vampires. Nepenthe Isidoros gifts Ketsueki Karasu, the Mhachi magus, a fairly slim volume, containing a hundred and twenty fresh-cut pages, bound in new, deep-black leather that still smells of dye and tannin. The cover has been tastefully inlaid with a teardrop-cut star ruby at each corner on both the front and back covers, as well as two diamond-cut star rubies at the top and bottom of the tome’s spine. The title plate is engraved across the center in flowing script; the center reads “May the Ground not Receive Thee” in Common, and there is a curious script just above it in a smaller font, with an empty place below. “This is so you may add your own engraving in the Mhachi language, should you so choose. The Allagan ==translation software== is rather weak when it comes to languages that grew after the fall of the Empire.” Opening the book’s crisp pages gently, almost reverently, she shows how each page, front and back, is written so the first page is in common, then in Allagan, then a third, blank page; the pattern repeats throughout the entirety of the tome. “You may do the same for the rest of the book. I apologize if there are any sizing issues; you may notice that the Allagan is often shorter than the Common, due to the discrepancies in...oh, why am I telling you this? You are familiar with at *least* as many languages as I am.” She smiles. “If you do not mind, I would like to read the story to you? In Common, of course. Perhaps in Allagan, another time. I wished to add the language of Meracydia, but...there is not much left. Only their stories, kept close by my line and those in our network.”

Nepenthe spins a story of a Meracydian man called Anakreon and how his life was intertwined with a woman from his same riverside village named Katerina. They grew up together in this town, which is called the River’s Confluence; she studied the ways of the spear and battle poetry, and he the ways of charting the stars. They had been friends since they were in their youth, attending village festivals together, learning to swim and taunting each other to get better at it, attending a coming of age ceremony, growing distant for a time while they each honed their crafts.

Many years later, they were assigned to the same riverboat to launch an attack on a village theirs had long been at war with. Katerina led the ship in songs to hearten them, punctuating the beats with the butt of her spear rapped against the planks; Anakreon used his magicks to make the deck glow bright with captured stars. It was on this journey that they bonded once more, sitting under the stars and sharing rations, stories, eventually a kiss or many.

Once they reached the upstream village, however, everything changed. The village had been taken over by a vrykólakas; the text makes clear how horrifying this is. The riverboat arrives to find their dirty work done for them; the militia slain, their livers all removed and consumed by the new lord of the manor, their bodies reanimated with eyes of blue and weapons of blood.

Anakreon, Katerina, and their kin fought valiantly, but only barely managed to escape with ten of them left; Anakreon had been fatally wounded, his liver consumed, and he died in Katerina’s arms as she wept and sang him songs to offer him nepenthe, the sweet drink of painless sleep.

Three nights after the battered boat’s return to its home slip, folk began to go missing in the night. Their bodies were found at the river’s confluence; an unholy offering at the dual-toned waters so often used for sacred rites to ancient gods. Katerina knew deep in her heart that there could be only one perpetrator of this crime, and, by his actions, he wanted to be found. With heaviness weighing at her soul like leaden anchors, she informed the village; it was Anakreon, and he must have a grave dug for him, a funeral rite held, and the earth blessed by the local priests and priestesses. He would succumb to the lure of the grave, and she would take care of the rest.

On the night of the new moon, the rite was complete. She saw him, slipping from building to building like a candle’s shadow, and followed along, her silver spear held resolute at her side. Once Anakreon arrived at the grave’s edge, his foot landed upon sacred soil, and he cried out, seeking to summon a great horde of night creatures; Katerina’s spear pierced the small of his back, where his liver once was, and she cried out, “This ground will never receive thee, walker of the night! Your body will feed the rivers until this silver washes away, cleansing your soul.”

Katerina herself consigned the man to his watery grave, and all was as she said. It is said that every day for the rest of her life, she went to visit, swimming deep below the waves where she and Anakreon had learned to dive together, watching the erosion of the spear. As the spear finally faded into silver flakes, she forced water into her now-elderly lungs, and washed her spirit through nepenthe with his.

#Nepenthe Isidoros #Ketsueki Karasu #my writing #o glorious Allag lost #and Meracydia still dreams #ffxiv writing

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stolethekey · 4 years

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so, what’s the past for? i’ll need it if love don’t last long

notes: this is for @romanogersweek.

it feels a little weird to be posting fanfic right now, but i hope y’all take this as an opportunity to take a break from reading/donating/educating rather than one to leave.

donate to the bail project here.

read on ao3

Steve Rogers, long ago, was the man who never ran. He was the man who faced down his problems and enemies indiscriminately, who spat in the face of both Nazi generals and the very idea that anything could keep him from fighting for a better world. He used to be the paragon of bravery, the man who worked to uphold his reputation as the symbol of courage his country held in the highest regard.

Until that one fateful day, when he’d decided to run—away from the death and destruction, away from the friends he’d seen suffer too much pain to be truly happy ever again, away from time itself. He ran, straight until another timeline, hardly conscious of what he was doing until he ended up standing on the doorstep of a woman he’d last seen lying peacefully in a casket.

By the grace of God, or maybe the devil, Peggy had been home that day. After she’d recovered from her shock, she’d welcomed him in, he’d asked almost clumsily for a dance, and when the music stopped she’d pulled back and said, “I want to introduce you to Daniel.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he likes Daniel. Daniel is sarcastic and witty but warm and solid—a safe place for Peggy’s often slightly-chaotic personality to land. So he’d shaken Daniel’s hand and accepted his invitation to stay for dinner and then stayed the night because, honestly, where else was he supposed to go?

And then one night turned into two, which turned into a week, and then Steve ended up staying in their house permanently. They established a general rule that he was not allowed to tell them about the future, but could contribute to strategy discussions about missions he had never heard about. He helped them during the day and tried to stay up helping them at night, except Peggy started chasing him to bed with a broom a few weeks in.

He’s never liked sleeping much, but after—well, after everything, he likes it even less.

Some of the dreams he’s familiar with: the nightmares and memories full of too much blood and smoke and explosions that rack his imaginary body with tremors come initially, as he expects. Those he can deal with; those he has dealt with for years. The ones that he is markedly not equipped to deal with are the ones that come later: the ones that aren’t vague flashbacks or terrifying possible futures but vivid, specific memories, memories that leave him with an aching heart and stinging eyes when he wakes.

Steve thinks this distinctly unfair, given that these memories haunt his waking moments too; but his life has never been fair, and so each night he succumbs to more and more detailed recollections of moments running infinitely around in his head.

The worst ones are always about her. Those run his mind in what feels like slow motion, forcing him to relive even the most minute details of the days they were carefree and alive and happy, at least as much as they could be. He starts seeing flashes of vivid red hair and brilliant green eyes everywhere, and in his dreams, they’re inescapable. In his dreams, she’s inescapable.

In his dreams, Natasha is always there. Sometimes, she’s perched in the passenger seat with her feet on the dashboard where he’d always hated them, laughing at him as he steers the car down an open country road, the two of them alone in the car in the middle of the night. He turns the music up to drown out her laughter and she smirks, promptly deciding to sing along to the sounds of Out of the Woods coming through the stereo instead.

“Come on,” she coaxes, her voice still viscerally real in the layers of his unconsciousness. “I know you know this song.”

“I will not,” he says, but a smile is still floating unwittingly to his lips, and by the time he pulls into the open clearing he’s belting are we in the clear yet, in the clear yet, good with a fervor that would impress any concert crowd.

Sometimes, it starts in that clearing, with him shutting off the car and the two of them lingering in the darkness for a moment. He pulls open her car door, the moonlight filtering into the seat and casting a soft, silver glow over her features. She comes willingly, laying a blanket on the ground with a flourish as she steps out of the vehicle.

“When did Tony say it was starting, again?”

Steve checks his watch, and he’s seen this dream enough times to know exactly where the second hand is going to be when he does. “Five minutes.”

They settle onto the blanket, side by side, and he glances over at her. “What was the first shooting star you ever saw?”

She meets his gaze, her smile soft and nothing like the cold, calculating grin she’d given a certain arms dealer mere hours before. There is a brief moment of hesitation, and then she smirks. “You.”

His mouth falls open before he digs an elbow into her side, and she laughs. “Get it? Because you had a gun, and that stupid star on your uniform—”

“Yeah, yeah, a shooting star,” he groans, letting his head fall back onto the ground. “Shut up.”

She does, but only because the atmosphere around them tangibly changes—Steve feels it too. A second later, a jet of silver streaks across the sky, and Natasha sucks an audible breath through her teeth.

He looks over at her, and watches the second meteor through the reflection in her eyes—the silver makes them glean, and she grins at him.

“Enjoying the view?”

He shoves her, she laughs, and he thinks he could live in this moment forever.

Sometimes, they’re standing on top of a massive hill, gazing at the city of Rome, beautiful and regal below them. And even though it’s a dream, he can feel the heavy exhaustion of a battle just fought seeping into his bones, can sense the relief of another disaster narrowly averted cloaking his shoulders.

Natasha reaches for him, the streak of blood on her face looking real enough to touch, and gazes out at the sprawling city beneath the hill. “I almost wish we could stay,” she murmurs.

She doesn’t voice the rest of the sentiment—that they could stay here, in this world away from the world, and live normal lives. Become normal people, people who window shop and sit in cafes and don’t have to save the world every other day.

She doesn’t say it, because she knows he understands, and also because they both know it’s impossible.

“Me too.”

There are other dreams, too—dreams where they’re both tired and sad and frustrated; dreams where their friends have been snapped into thin air and the ones that haven’t been are gone too.

There are dreams where they’re the only two people left in the gigantic, designed-for-at-least-fifty-residents Avengers facility, where he walks into a room with zero lights on and her crying.

“You know, I used to think it was hard to tell when you were scared,” he says, trying valiantly to lighten the mood. “But not so much anymore.”

She looks at him ruefully through her tears. “You don’t have to do this every time.”

He shrugs and gives her the best smile he can muster. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just passing by, and I don’t want to leave you if you’re crying.”

She glares at him, but gives a half-laugh, and he moves to sit next to her. He doesn’t say that he knows she tries to hide from him when she’s crying, that he actively tries to find her when he hasn’t seen her in a few hours. He doesn’t tell her that he needs her there, by her side, that he’s terrified he’s going to lose her, finally, irrevocably, for real, every time it happens.

Her tears subside, every time, and every time he leaves once they do. She lets him go, turning back toward the screens with a sigh, and he watches her back straighten as she goes back to business.

Never, in any of the dreams or memories or whatever they are at this point, does he stay. He would if she asked him to.

And then there’s the worst one, from the night before that day, where she shows up at his door before curfew with a bottle of wine in one hand and a key in the other.

“It’s for my apartment,” she says, placing it gently in his hand. “Just in case.”

She cuts off all of his protests with a sad, firm smile, then uncorks the bottle of wine and pours it into two of his water glasses.

They talk, about everything and nothing, and at one point she perches on his bed and tucks her knees into her chest.

“I don’t know if anything is ever gonna go back to normal,” Natasha says quietly. “It all feels broken, somehow. Unfixable.”

“What does?”

“Everything,” she says, gesturing at the walls around them. “Life itself.”

He doesn’t know why that hurts a little to hear, but he shrugs and stands anyway. “We still have to try. For everyone.”

“I know,” she murmurs, draining the last of her wine and standing too. “Trust me, I know.”

It’s the last real conversation they have, and it’s always the last one that plays before Steve wakes.

For weeks, Steve gets out of bed in the morning with tears staining his cheeks and a rush to the bathroom to collect himself, but Peggy intercepts his mad sprint one day and forces him to sit at the kitchen table and talk. He says he doesn’t want to and she gives him a withering glare that would probably topple a wall of solid rock.

He tells her about Natasha, about the aliens, the assassins out to kill them, the Accords. He doesn’t tell her about HYDRA, or about the midnight drives, the shooting stars, about Rome.

Peggy seems to understand anyway, and for some reason the sympathy in her eyes melts away some of the ache in Steve’s chest.

When he runs out of stories to tell, he starts talking about her past, about the way she was taken from her parents as a child and then trained in the Red Room.

“Those ladies are tough,” Peggy says with an impressed nod. “One of them escaped my locked trunk after I’d tied her wrists and ankles, then shot a policeman with his own gun on her way out. And that was when I was trying to work with her.”

“Nat almost never obeyed orders after she had turned,” Steve says with a laugh. “I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like to try and work with her while she was still at the Red Room.”

“Well, she was the only one who could do the job. We needed her.”

Daniel snorts from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter. “For the record, I thought it was a bad idea,” he mutters, earning him that exasperated but loving Peggy Carter glare that had once been reserved for Steve.

Steve is slightly surprised to find that he doesn’t mind at all.

As the years go by, the memories become gradually less painful. The ache becomes a little duller, the wounds a little less fresh. The Carter-Sousa household adds a third long before children come into the picture, and they slip with only minor hiccups into a routine that works for everyone. Steve’s only allowed in public with a disguise, so while Peggy and Daniel are at work he spends his time drawing, cooking, cleaning, and generally being a good housekeeper. When they get home, he helps them with plans if he can and plays old card games if he can’t.

When the kids do arrive, Steve teaches and nurtures them as his own, and he gets through it with only vague stabs of pain as he remembers the Barton family. They know only that he is hiding from the world and that no one can know about him. They grow into strong, incredible adults, and when they move out Steve wipes away a tear that matches the ones coating Peggy’s and Daniel’s cheeks.

Peggy and Daniel are older, obviously, when the house goes back to holding only the three of them, and Steve starts picking up more of the dirty work. They both retire far later than most people would, finally admitting defeat to bodies that just can’t keep up with their younger colleagues and targets anymore. It’s hard, watching them become unable to do anything but gesture in frustration at the news, but it’s not as hard as it was to arrive at Peggy’s hospital bed, so many decades before.

He’s had enough time, this time, with her. They’ve spent fifty years in the same household, they’ve had a life together. So he cherishes the wrinkles that now adorn her hands and the lines of her face, and he ventures outside to run errands with only the slightest twinge in his heart.

The only time he ever dislikes this whole arrangement is on a single grocery store trip.

He collects everything on his list with little issue, keeping his hood up and his head low as he peruses one particularly crowded aisle for the hot sauce Peggy likes. Nobody pays him any attention, and as Steve wheels his cart into the checkout lane he congratulates himself on a faultless grocery run—God knows he’s had some close calls.

One would think he’d have learned some lessons about celebrating too soon.

He’s aimlessly selecting a pack of gum and skimming magazine covers (Brad Pitt is the sexiest man alive this year, according to People) when he hears a laugh.

An unmistakable, once life-affirming, thought-he’d-never-hear-it-again laugh.

His blood freezes over in his veins as his hands go slack, the Trident mint in his hand falling onto the conveyer belt and tumbling underneath a couple bags of Doritos. He stares at the fallen gum for a moment, not seeing it at all, before forcing himself to raise his head.

She’s there, in the flesh, helping the customer in front of him—her nametag says Natalie, and her hair is darker than it was when he met her, but it’s definitely her, and Steve thinks he might faint then and there. His hand tightens around the cart as he fumbles his phone out of his pocket and stares at the date—November 15, 2000. Of course.

Steve is desperately trying to find a way to get out of this when the woman in front of him takes her last bag and leaves with a grateful wave. Steve swallows thickly as Natasha beckons him forward, smiling brightly at him as she does.

There is no recognition in her eyes—of course there isn’t—and something about being a stranger to her makes him want to grip the counter in front of him so tightly that it breaks.

She says something, but he doesn’t hear her; his ears are full of a roaring, sharp wind, and suddenly he’s back on a dark, foreign planet, a jagged cliff behind him and a limp body lying broken in front of him. He can feel the cold, tough dirt between his fingers again, can see the ice crystals forming on the strands of red hair he had run his fingers through so many times.

Her eyebrows knit together in mild concern as her mouth moves inaudibly once more, and Steve wrenches his mind back to reality.

“Sorry,” he manages. “What was that, again?”

Natasha gives him a perfectly practiced customer-service smile and says, “How are you today?”

“Great,” Steve says, trying and failing to keep an edge of panic out of his voice. “Just dandy. You?”

“Well, you know, a little nervous,” Natasha says easily, swiping a can of chickpeas past the scanner. “It’s my first day on the job.”

He remembers. He also remembers her seated at the foot of his bed, playing with her hair while she told him about one of the first missions for SHIELD she’d ever failed.

“I was undercover as a cashier at a Safeway—”

“O-oh,” Steve sputters. “I’m sure you’re doing great.”

“Well, so far, so good—"

“I had him, for a moment, and then I didn’t—”

“—But, you know, things can always change, right?”

Steve feels curiously as if his head is swimming, and he doesn’t think he can hear anymore. He wonders dimly if Peggy would find him, were he to faint in a grocery store.

“He’d somehow stolen my nametag while we were scuffling and I didn’t even notice—”

“Um, sir?”

“He picked the lock with the pin—”

“Sir!”

Steve jumps. His hand smacks against his cart on the way up, the rattling of the metal doing nothing to calm his nerves.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head to clear it. “Did you say something?”

Natasha frowns, and the familiarity of the sight almost sends him back into the recesses of his brain. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, trying to sound unconcerned. “Yeah. Long day, sorry.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile and hits the keyboard. “That’ll be two hundred and one dollars and thirty-five cents. Paper or plastic?”

“Uh, paper,” Steve mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Thanks.”

He takes the bags off the counter as soon as she fills them, trying his best not to look like he’s impatient but still trying to move as quickly as possible. When the bags are all in the cart, he grabs the handle and speed-walks away, throwing a feeble “thank you” over his shoulder.

He looks behind him the entire way out of the store, relaxing slightly only when he turns the corner to a different area of the parking lot. Then, as he spots his car, he almost has his second heart attack of the day.

Natasha is standing next to the trunk with her arms crossed and a half-guarded, half-inquisitive look on her face.

“Do I know you?” She asks as he shuts his eyes, desperately praying that this is a dream.

Once it becomes clear that this is not, Steve takes a deep breath and resigns himself to whatever nightmare scenario happens next.

“No,” he says hoarsely, unlocking his trunk and gesturing at her to move aside.

“But you know me,” she says matter-of-factly, taking a step to the left and watching him place the bags she’d just packed into his trunk. “At least, you seem to.”

Steve stays silent as he finishes loading his groceries and shuts the trunk door, then turns to face her. “I’d rather not do this here,” he says quietly. “Where I’m exposed.”

“Okay.” Natasha shrugs. “Follow me.”

She leads him into a small, dark alleyway behind the store. Steve thinks the overwhelming scent of garbage is going to rot his brains forever, but he does appreciate that they probably won’t be overheard.

“So,” Natasha prompts. “Who are you?”

Steve hesitates. He’s made it decades without telling anyone anything—besides Peggy and Daniel, of course—and a prickle of anxiety is creeping up his spine at the mere thought of saying the words out loud.

On the other hand, that anxiety is nothing compared to the way he’s pretty sure his nerves are currently fraying at the edges, and he’s sure that Natasha would see right through him if he decided to try and lie his way out of this.

Besides, if there’s one person who can keep a secret, it’s her.

He settles on a half-truth, one that gets him out of most of the hard conversations but is still hopefully enough to satisfy her.

“I’m, uh, from the future,” he says carefully. “I promise.”

Her eyes narrow, her natural skepticism overtaking her features. He can see her brain working, can see her scrutinizing his facial expression, his body language, anything that might betray a hint of a lie.

“I believe you,” she says finally. “Some of the tech I’ve seen being developed…well. Do you work for SHIELD?”

“I did.”

“So we worked together?”

He gives what sounds like a half-laugh, half-sob. If meteor showers and midnight drives and painful conversations overlooking the city of Rome are “working together”—

“You could say that.”

She bites her lip, assuming the thoughtful expression he knows to mean she’s trying to decide whether she wants to know the answer to whatever question she’s going to ask, then tilts her head slightly. “Can you tell me one more thing?”

Steve nods.

“When I die, have I contributed something good to this world?”

He almost chokes on his breath, staring at her with equal parts wonder and horror. “How—Why—"

“You were a little too surprised to see me,” Natasha says wryly.

Half a century, apparently, is enough time to forget how well Natasha can read people. How well she can read him.

“You give more to the world than you could imagine,” Steve says softly. “You save it. More than once.”

Her smile is more relieved than anything, and Steve wants to bask in its remnants forever. This is a younger Natasha, a less-worn Natasha—he’d almost forgotten how she’d looked before the snap, before she’d chosen to take on a burden that was far too heavy for anyone to carry.

This is the Natasha that he’d catch dancing in the early light of dawn, carefree and lost in her solitary art, even if it was just for a moment. The one that’d been lost five years before the rest of her was, too.

“Well,” she says as her watch beeps, breaking Steve out of his reverie, “I should get going. I assume you know I’m not actually here to bag groceries.”

“Of course.” Steve moves to leave, then turns back towards the disgusting, garbage-lined alleyway, suddenly aware that his next words are the last words he’s ever going to say to her. That he has a chance, now, to do what he hadn’t been able to do so long ago.

He wants to tell her that the key to her apartment is still on his keychain, sandwiched between the keys to his car and his current house. He wants to tell her that his fingers brush against it as he unlocks the door or starts his engine; he wants to tell her that it’s the only thing he has left of her. That everything she has—everything they have—is going to be destroyed in about twenty years, that a big purple titan is going to ruin any hope he has of living a life that he is unequivocally happy with.

Instead, he says, “Take your nametag off before you go after him. Trust me.”

Maybe, in this timeline, she’ll remember. As she makes her decision on that icy, god-forsaken mountain, maybe she’ll think about today. Maybe she’ll think about this mission, the one that went smoothly, and wonder if he’d used his last words to make things a little bit easier. And maybe she’ll think about all the other ones, too, the ones where they fought side-by-side, and realize that this was him trying to do it one last time.

Her soul is hers, he knows—but he’ll help it move if he can.

The corner of her mouth ticks up in a half-smile. “Aye-aye, captain.”

He almost laughs.

#romanogersweek #my mcu fics #steve rogers x natasha romanoff #romanogers #prompt: timeless love

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