#'shoot it again sam' shepard

[swaps55]

Sam 'I Was Done With Omega Before I Got Here' Shepard.

#mass effect #'shoot it again sam' shepard #just me living in photo mode #queue continuum

[driftwood-fireflies]

I bought a reprinted copy of the original TCM 2 script, here are my favorite / some of the most notable highlights!

Before I get into the actual script snippets I want to talk a little bit about the scripting process for TCM2 briefly, because it's interesting to me.

In the Making Of documentary for TCM2, writer L.M. Kit Carson describes the hectic and frantic conditions that he had to write this script in, a major factor to this being the strict time constraints they were working under. Due to this, the movie actually began filming before the script had even been finished, and it wasn't uncommon for a scene to be filmed as it was still being penned. Lines and directions would be changed by the minute, and entire scenes had to be either cut or reworked in almost no time at all. For these reasons, there isn't a "final draft" of the TCM2 script, only the original, which is massively different from the version of the film we see on screen.

I won't be posting every change made between the original script and the final (because at that point I might as well just post a PDF), but I'll be noting some of my favorites / the most notable or interesting ones I discovered while reading. If you have any questions about other changes I noticed, or want to know about a specific scene that I didn't cover here, feel free to shoot me an ask and I'll find it for you, if it exists!

Without any further preamble, here are the snippets:

Our introduction to stretch, describing her as a "rangy Sam Shepard sexpot cowgirl," implying that that last descriptor is more literal than metaphorical. Would have liked to see this in canon tbh, even if just as a passing reference.

From the hotel scene - I snagged this one because I liked that it revealed Stretch as a ZZ-Top fan :)

Again from the hotel scene, and another example of this movie's rampant sexuality that I enjoy, lol.

Drayton on the car phone scene - I just thought the "he's a happy guy" / "he's not a happy guy" switchup was funny.

Chop Top's introduction! He's actually got some interesting changes that I'll get into in a moment.

And here it is! Originally, Chop Top was supposed to be Nubbins from the original, given the name Platehead in this version of the script. Interestingly, no mention of Vietnam is made in this version, so his reason for having the skull plate is unexplained.

To end off the first part of this post, the original ice tub scene in full :) I found this version interesting for many reasons, but especially that Bubba's destructive outburst at the end is explicitly referenced as a demonstration, like the sexual behaviour of a territorial animal. Very interesting...

Tumblr won't let me add any more images to this post, so I'll continue in a reblog!

#tcm #the texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre #tcm 2 #the texas chainsaw massacre 2 #texas chainsaw massacre 2 #vanita brock #vanita stretch brock #bubba sawyer #leatherface #drayton sawyer #chop top sawyer #stretch tcm 2 #horror #behind the scenes #horror bts

[rpgchoices]

Final thoughts of MA: Andromed

With general spoilers under cut!

This game felt like a Disney version of Mass Effect. Plot wise, it was very much a happy ending for all. Many missions had choices that were really not that conflicting, and I think only once I found myself in doubt on what to choose (the krogans vs salarian Pathfinder choice). For the rest, all the other choices had basically little negative consequence, or sometimes you did not even have a choice but your companions decided what to choose. For example, Peebee wants to save Kalinda, and your choice is shooting at Kalinda to get her to save the Remnant tech instead. Unless you are an absolute jerk, that is not a choice at all (a choice would have been to convince Peebee to save Kalinda or the tech).

I was generally okay with it, because I want the absolute happy ending, but I also feel like there is little replayability a part from a different romance path.

The plot was generally okay, even if there were too many things in it and I found myself caring more about personal quests than the full quest. The fact that we do not get any answer about Remant tech, or a final Kett ending doesn´t help. We just- activated tech we don´t really understand and that is supposed to be a victory, not sure how. At least we could decide to elect Moshae as an ambassador, and act less like colonists and more like guests, during the game.

I like exploring the planets, the different environments were always something I missed from Mass Effect, and I enjoyed the companions more than the Mass Effect ones. Companions and crew in ME always felt like on the brink of tearing each others apart, while here everyone really felt like a family. Not to mention how much family and connection were part of the main overall plot. Loved the voice actors too, and Ryder felt to me much more like an rpg character than Shepard. 10/10 would play again in the future, and definitely romance Peebee.

About the quest, not too fond of them. Many of them required zero investigation, but only go to A, find door locked, find point B, click on console, door open. Meh. At least there was a lot of party banter on those car rides. I also was not too fond of the map, the way it selected for missions sometimes was a bit confusing, or intentionally confusing given that some terrain could not be reached through certain points.

The lore was okay, I really enjoyed the idea of ancient technology, but after playing Heaven´s Vault four times and seeing how it can be done, and how creepy and interesting it can be, I was a bit disappointed by the fact that we never got to the bottom of the Remnant technology, or even the ethics of SAM as an implant. Or who was the Benefactor. I know there will be no future game, but I wish there could be one, just to see what happens. I also feel like the crew was left that a good finishing point, so a sequel using the other twin would be interesting.

I also played this just after Outer Worlds so it was definetely interesting to compare the two. I preferred ME:A just because the end of Outer Worlds left me a bit disappointed by how little impact we had on the actual society (capitalism).

Still, definitely enjoyed Andromeda. Great characters, and I played it for free on Xbox pass, so I might one day actually buy it.

#mass effect andromeda #somehow it left me wanting to play divinity original sin 2 #just starving for good combat #not that the one in mae was bad #it was better than other mass effect games

[filmparaden]

True Dylan

A one-act play, as it really happened one afternoon in California

By SAM SHEPARD

SCENE: IN THE DARK, a Jimmy Yancey piano solo is heard very softly, floating in the background. Soft, blue, foggy light creeps in, extreme upstage, revealing a large, weathered brick patio bordered by shaggy grass upstage and opening out to a distant view of the Pacific Ocean. The distant rhythmic splashing of waves is heard underneath the piano music and continues throughout the play, always in the background. The only set piece onstage is a round redwood table with a big yellow umbrella stuck in the middle of it and two redwood benches set across from each other at the table. The table and benches are set down left (from the actors’ point of view).

As the light keeps rising, a short, skinny guy named Bob is seen center stage dressed in nothing but a pair of light-green boxer shorts. His arms are clasped across his chest with each hand gripping the opposite shoulder, as though warding off the cold. He turns in a slow circle to his right and then repeats the circle to the left, looking out to the ocean as his gaze passes it. He stops, facing audience, covers his face with both hands, then rubs his eyes and draws his hands slowly down his cheeks to his chin. His mouth drops open and his head slowly drops back on his shoulders to stare at the sky. He holds that position. Piano music stops abruptly. Sam, a tall, skinny guy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a tape recorder, several notebooks, and a six-pack of beer, enters from right. He stops. Bob drops his hands and stares at Sam. Pause. Sound of distant waves continues.

SAM: Ready?

BOB: Yeah. I just gotta make a couple phone calls first.

[Bob moves toward stage right, then stops.]

BOB: Oh, you know where I just was?

SAM: Where?

BOB: Paso Robles. You know, on that highway where James Dean got killed?

SAM: Oh yeah?

BOB: I was there at the spot. On the spot. A windy kinda place.

SAM: They’ve got a statue or monument to him in that town, don’t they?

BOB: Yeah, but I was on the curve where he had the accident. Outsida town. And this place is incredible. I mean the place where he died is as powerful as the place he lived.

SAM: Nebraska?

BOB: Where’d he live?

SAM: He came from the farm, didn’t he? Somewhere.

BOB: Yeah, Iowa or Indiana. I forget. But this place up there has this kind of aura about it. It’s on this kind of broad expanse of land. It’s like that place made James Dean who he is. If he hadn’t’ve died there he wouldn’t’ve been James Dean.

SAM: Hm.

[Bob moves as though to exit stage right again, but stops again.]

BOB: You know what Elvis said? He said that if James Dean had sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. [pause] You need anything?

SAM: Nope.

BOB: You brought some beer?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: I just gotta make a couple phone calls.

SAM: Good.

[Bob exits stage right as Sam moves down left toward table. Just as Bob exits, the sound of screeching tires and a loud car crash comes from off right. Sam pays no attention, but goes about setting tape recorder, beer, and notebooks on table. Bob reenters from right but with no reaction to car-crash sounds.]

BOB: Who was playin’ that music before?

SAM: What music?

BOB: That piano music.

SAM: I dunno.

BOB: Hm.

SAM: “If James Dean sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson?’’ Elvis said that?

BOB: Yeah. Poor ol’ Ricky. I wish he was here with us today. I wonder if anyone ever told him, when he was alive, how great he was. I mean like the rock ’n’ roll critics.

SAM: You got me.

BOB: You know, Emilio Fernandez used to shoot the critics that didn’t like his movies. At parties.

[Bob exits stage right. Sam sits on bench facing stage right, pulls out a cassette tape and sticks it in recorder, punches a button, and the same Jimmy Yancey tune is heard coming from the machine itself. Only a snatch is heard before Bob’s voice comes from offstage right, speaking on the phone. As soon as Bob’s voice is heard, Sam shuts the recorder off and starts leafing through his notebooks, scribbling in them now and then.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Listen, what’s that thing gonna be like tonight? [pause] Yeah. There gonna be a lotta people there? [pause] Well, that’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out. [pause] Yeah. I don’t know. How many people you think there’ll be? [pause] Okay, well look, I got somebody here so. [pause] Yeah, I know. Yeah, well, I seen their act before. Yeah, I seen it. I seen it in St. Louis. Yeah. [pause] I dunno—’59 or ’60, somethin’ like that. [laughs, pause] I was around. I been around a long time. I can’t count anymore. Okay, look, I’ll talk to you later and see what’s goin’ on. [pause] Okay. Bye.

[Bob hangs up offstage. Sam looks in that direction, then returns to his notebooks, cracks open a can of beer, and drinks.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Sam, what’s this thing supposed to be about anyway?

SAM: I dunno.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Are we supposed to have a theme?

SAM: I got a buncha questions here.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] You brought questions?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: How many questions?

SAM: Couple.

BOB’S VOICE: What if I don’t have the answers?

SAM: Make it up.

BOB’S VOICE: Okay, so ask me a question.

SAM: [quickly putting a cassette in recorder] Okay, wait a second. I gotta see if this thing is working.

BOB’S VOICE: You got a tape?

SAM: [punching RECORD button] Yeah. Okay. All right. It’s rolling.

BOB’S VOICE: Ask me somethin’.

SAM: Right. [referring to notebooks] Let’s see—okay—let’s see now—okay—here we go—Do you have any ideas about angels? Do you ever think about angels?

BOB’S VOICE: That’s the first question?

SAM: You want me to start with something else?

BOB’S VOICE: [still off] No, that’s okay. Angels. Yeah, now, angels now—what is it? [pause] Oh—the pope says this about angels—he says they exist.

SAM: Yeah? The pope?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah. And they’re spiritual beings. That’s what he says.

SAM: Do you believe it?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah.

SAM: Have you had any direct experience with angels?

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Yeah. Yeah, I have. I just gotta make one more phone call, all right?

SAM: Yeah. [shuts tape off]

BOB’S VOICE: You need anything?

SAM: Naw, I’m fine.

[Sam drinks more beer, scribbles more notes. Pause. Bob’s voice is heard again offstage right on phone. Sound of waves continues.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Hi, it’s me again. [pause, laughs] Yeah, I just like the sound of your voice. Listen, what’s the area code for Tulsa, do you know? [pause] Tulsa, yeah. [pause] All right. Good. [pause] Yeah, that’s okay. I don’t need it right away. [pause] Oh, ya did? [pause] Yeah? [pause] So, it’s just a few people then? What’s a few? [pause] That’s more than a few. [laughs] Yeah, but, that’s not what you’d call a few. [pause] Aw. I dunno. Look, I’ll just have to think about it—see how the day goes—then I’ll get back to you. [pause] Yeah, okay. Bye. [hangs up]

SAM: [after pause] You want me to come back? I could go out and come back if you want. Have some lunch.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Naw, you’re here. Stay. I’m just gettin’ some clothes on. I’ll be right there. Ask me another question.

SAM: Oh, okay—[punching recorder on] uh—let’s see—[referring to notebooks] okay—What was the first music you can remember listening to? Way back.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music. First music?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Live, ya mean? Live?

SAM: Yeah. Live.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music ever?

SAM: Yeah.

[pause]

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Polka music.

SAM: Really?

[Bob enters from right wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans, and motorcycle boots with brass buckles. He carries a beat-up old acoustic guitar strung around his neck with an old piece of rope. He continually fingers the neck of the guitar and keeps picking out little repetitive melody lines, short blues progressions, gospel chords—whatever comes into his mind. He keeps this up through all the dialogue, even when he’s talking, rarely resting into complete silence.]

BOB: [onstage now] Yeah, polka.

SAM: [drinking beer] Where? Up in Hibbing?

BOB: Yeah, Hibbing.

SAM: Hibbing’s near Duluth, right?

BOB: Right.

SAM: I love Duluth.

BOB: Great town.

SAM: That lake.

BOB: Superior?

SAM: Yeah. Tough town, too.

BOB: [always moving, picking guitar] Especially when it freezes over. Indians come out. Fur trappers.

SAM: Beaver.

BOB: Yeah, beaver too. Loons.

SAM: So you heard this polka music in what—dance halls or something?

BOB: Yeah—no—taverns. Beer joints. They played it in all the taverns. You just walk down the street and hear that all the time. People’d come flyin’ out into the street doin’ the polka. Accordions would come flyin’ out.

SAM: Were they fighting or dancing?

BOB: Both, I guess. Mostly just having a good time. People from the old country.

SAM: Polish?

BOB: Some. I guess.

SAM: Were they singing in Polish?

BOB: They were singin’ in somethin’. Swedish maybe. Some language. But you know how you don’t need to know the language when it’s music. You understand the music no matter what language it’s in. Like when I went down and heard that Tex-Mex border music—that sounded like the same music to me even though the language was different. It all sounds the same to me.

SAM: Three-quarter time.

BOB: Yeah—waltz. I love to waltz.

SAM: How old were you then?

BOB: Aw, I dunno. Nine—ten.

SAM: Did you feel like you were cut off back then?

BOB: How d’ya mean?

SAM: I mean being up in the Far North like that. In the boondocks.

BOB: Nah, ’cause I didn’t know anything else was goin’ on. Why, did you?

SAM: Yeah. I still do. [laughs]

BOB: [sings a snatch and plays] Down in the boondocks/Down in the boondocks/Lord have mercy on a boy/from down in the boondocks.

SAM: So you didn’t have any big burning desire to get to New York or anything?

BOB: Naw. The only reason I wanted to go to New York is ’cause James Dean had been there.

SAM: So you really liked James Dean?

BOB: Oh, yeah. Always did.

SAM: How come?

BOB: Same reason you like anybody, I guess. You see somethin’ of yourself in them.

SAM: Did you dream about music back then?

BOB: I had lotsa dreams. Used to dream about things like Ava Gardner and Wild Bill Hickok. They were playin’ cards, chasin’ each other, and gettin’ around. Sometimes I’d even be there in the dreams myself. Radio-station dreams. You know how, when you’re a kid, you stay up late in bed, listening to the radio, and you sort of dream off the radio into sleep. That’s how you used to fall asleep. That’s when disc jockeys played whatever they felt like.

SAM: I used to fall asleep listening to baseball.

BOB: Yeah. Same thing. Just sorta dream off into the radio. Like you were inside the radio kinda.

SAM: Yeah—I could see the diamond with the lights lit up and the green lawn of the outfield and the pitcher’s eyes looking for the catcher’s signals.

BOB: But I don’t know if you ever dream about music. How do you dream about music?

SAM: Well, I mean, for instance, a song like “Pledging My Love.’’

BOB: Forever my darling.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: What about it?

SAM: Well, I used to dream myself into that kind of a song.

BOB: Really? I didn’t think you were that romantic.

SAM: Oh yeah, I’m very romantic.

BOB: So, you mean you kinda put yourself into the song when you were listening to it?

SAM:Yeah. Put myself in the place of the singer.

BOB: I see what you mean. [pause, still moving and picking] Yeah, I guess I used to dream about music then. You have all different kinda dreams with music, though. I mean, sometimes I’d hear a guy sing a tune and I’d imagine the guy himself. What’s the guy himself like? You know? Like Hank Williams or Buddy Holly or John Lee Hooker. You’d hear a line like black snake moan or Mississippi Flood—you could see yourself waist-high in muddy water.

SAM: Or maybe an image would come up from a line—like, I remember always seeing this image of my algebra teacher’s scalp when I heard that Chuck Berry line, The teacher is teachin’ the golden rule, from “School Day.”

BOB: His scalp?

SAM: Yeah, he had one of those Marine-style crew cuts where the scalp shows through on top. I still see his scalp when I hear that line.

BOB: You don’t hear that line much these days.

SAM: Nope. [pause] So, you’d mainly imagine the singer when you heard the song?

BOB: Yeah. A faceless singer. I’d fill in the face.

SAM: Is that the reason you went to see Woody Guthrie when he was sick? You’d heard his music?

BOB: Yeah. I heard his songs.

SAM: Is there anybody in your life you wished you’d met and didn’t?

BOB: [quick, still playing] Yeah, Bob Marley.

SAM: Really.

BOB: Yeah. We were playin’ in Waco, Texas, one time. And I missed him.

SAM: That was pretty close to miss each other.

BOB: Yeah. I wish I’d met him.

[rest]

SAM: So you went to see Guthrie in the hospital.

BOB: Uh-huh.

SAM: And you were there at his death bed?

BOB: Close.

SAM: Were you with him up to where he passed?

[Long pause. Bob stops playing and thinks hard.]

BOB: No.

[Bob immediately jumps back into playing and moving.]

SAM: You spent a lotta time with him in the hospital?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Was he coherent?

BOB: Yeah—no—he was coherent but he had no control over his reflexes. So he’d be…

[pause]

SAM: What’d you talk about?

BOB: Not too much. I never really did speak too much to him. He would call out the name of a song. A song he wrote that he wanted to hear, and I knew all his songs.

SAM: So you played ’em to him?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Did you ask him anything?

BOB: No, I mean there was nothin’ to ask him. What’re you gonna ask him? He wasn’t the kinda guy you asked questions to.

[pause]

SAM: So you just kinda sat with him for days.

BOB: Yeah—I’d go out there. You had to leave at 5:00. It was in Greystone—Greypark or Greystone—it’s in New Jersey. Out somewhere there. Bus went there. Greyhound bus. From the Forty-second Street terminal. You’d go there and you’d get off and you walked up the hill to the gates. Actually it was a pretty foreboding place.

SAM: How old were you?

[Bob stops still. Stops picking. Thinks.]

BOB: How old was I? [pause] I don’t know. Nineteen, I guess.

SAM: Nineteen. And what kinda stuff were you listening to back then?

BOB: Oh, Bill Monroe, New Lost City Ramblers, Big Mama Thornton. People like that. Peggy Seeger. Jean Ritchie.

SAM: Hank Snow?

BOB: I’d always listened to Hank Snow. “Golden Rocket.”

SAM: At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB: Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

SAM: This is true.

BOB: Naw, I’ve always been real content with the old forms. I know my place by now.

SAM: So you feel like you know who you are?

BOB: Well, you always know who you are. I just don’t know who I’m gonna become.

[Pause. Bob keeps moving and picking.]

BOB: Did we ever see each other back then?

SAM: When?

BOB: When we were nineteen.

SAM: I saw you one time on the comer of Sixth Avenue and Houston Street.

BOB: What year?

SAM: Musta been ’66, ’67. Somethin’ like that. You were wearin’ a navy-blue pea jacket and tennis shoes.

BOB: Yeah, that musta been me. Naw, this was earlier than that. I was listenin’ to all them records on Stinson label and Folkways.

SAM: Stinson?

BOB: Yeah. Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee. Almanac Singers.

SAM: Almanac Singers?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What about gospel?

BOB: I always listened to gospel music. Dixie Hummingbirds, Highway QC’s, Five Blind Boys, and, of course, the Staple Singers.

SAM: What about Skip James or Joseph Spence?

BOB: Yeah. Bahama mama. [pause] Skip James. Once there was a Skip James. Elmore James.

SAM: Rather be buried in some old cypress grove.

BOB: So my evil spirit can grab that Greyhound bus and ride.

SAM: I’d rather sleep in some old hollow log than have a bad woman you can’t control.

BOB: Now, what was it he died of?

SAM: Skip James?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Cancer of the balls.

BOB: What?!

SAM: Yeah. Cancer of the balls. He refused to go to any white doctors ’cause he was afraid they’d cut his nuts off.

BOB: Don’t blame him one bit.

[Phone rings off right. Bob exits off right, leaving Sam alone. Sam turns off tape then rewinds it a short ways and plays it back. Again, the Jimmy Yancey piano music comes from recorder. No voices. As Bob’s voice is heard off right on phone, Sam keeps rewinding tape, playing it back in short snatches, trying to find their voices, but all that comes out is the piano music.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Four oh five? Four oh five. You’re sure? [pause] I dunno. Four oh five sounds like Oklahoma City. I can’t remember. [pause] All right. [pause] Yeah. Four oh five. [pause] Naw, I think I’m gonna pass. [pause] I dunno. Sounds like too many record producers. [pause] Yeah. I’ll just hang around here probably. [pause] Okay. All right. [pause] Yeah.

[Bob enters again, with guitar, carrying a glass of whiskey on ice. He crosses to table, sets glass down after taking a sip, then starts picking the guitar again. Sam is still trying to find their voices on the tape but gets only the piano music.]

SAM: [fooling with tape] This is incredible.

BOB: What.

SAM: There’s nothin’ on here but piano music.

BOB: [laughs, keeps picking] You mean our voices aren’t on there?

SAM: Listen.

[He lets tape play. Jimmy Yancey rolls out.]

BOB: [listens] That’s the same music I was askin’ you about.

SAM: When?

BOB: Before. When you first came. That’s the music.

SAM: Well, our voices ain’t on here.

BOB: Don’t matter.

SAM: Well, I can’t remember all this stuff. How am I gonna remember all this stuff?

BOB: Make it up.

SAM: Well, there’s certain things you can’t make up.

BOB: Like what?

SAM: Certain turns of phrase.

BOB: Try it again. It’s gotta be on there. You had it on RECORD, right?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So it must be on there somewhere. You just gotta fool around with it.

[Sam rewinds, then plays tape. Their voices are heard this time, coming out of recorder.]

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] “Golden Rocket.”

SAM’S VOICE: [from tape] At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

[Sam shuts tape off.]

BOB: There. See. It was just hidin’ out. [laughs]

SAM: This is amazing. Where’d that music come from?

BOB: Musta been on there already. Is it an old tape?

SAM: No, I just bought it this morning. [Bob takes a sip of whiskey, sets glass down.]

BOB: Angels.

[Sam punches RECORD button. They continue. Bob keeps moving and playing guitar.]

SAM: Weird.

BOB: Is it on now?

SAM: Yeah. I guess.

BOB: Okay. Fire away.

SAM: Okay. Let’s see. [referring to notebook] Do you think it’s possible to have a pact with someone?

BOB: A pact? Yeah. I know that’s possible. I mean you should have a pact with someone. That presents a small problem for me, though—for instance, how many people can you have a pact with? And how many at the same time?

SAM: Not too many. How about women?

BOB: Nah, I don’t know anything about women.

SAM: How ’bout waitresses?

BOB: Well, it seems to me that waitresses are gettin’ younger and younger these days. Some of ’em look like babies.

SAM: So, you don’t have much hope for women?

BOB: On the contrary. Women are the only hope. I think they’re a lot more stable than men. Only trouble with women is they let things go on too long.

SAM: What things?

BOB: The whole Western sense of reality. Sometimes women have a tendency to be too lenient. Like a kid can go down and bust some old man in the head, rob a buncha old ladies, burglarize his brother’s joint, and blow up a city block, and his momma will still come down and cry over him.

SAM: Yeah, but that’s just nature, isn’t it? The nature of being a mother.

BOB: Yeah, I guess so. Nature.

SAM: Have you ever felt like a couple?

BOB: A couple? You mean two? Yeah. All the time. Sometimes I feel like ten couples.

SAM: I mean like you’re a part of another person. Like you belong. That other person carries something of you around with them and visee-versee.

BOB: Visee-versee?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Yeah. Sure. A couple. Sure. Eve felt like that. Absolutely. Look—listen to this: [sings and plays] You must learn to leave the table when love is no longer being served/Just show them all that you are able/Just get up and leave without saying a word.

SAM: Who wrote that?

BOB: You got me. Roy Orbison or somebody. I dunno.

SAM: Roy Orbison?

BOB: Naw. I dunno. Good lyric.

SAM: Yeah. [writing a note] You must learn to leave the table ….

BOB: I mean you gravitate toward people who’ve got somethin’ to give you and maybe you’ve got somethin’ that they need.

SAM: Yeah, right.

BOB: And then maybe one day you wake up and see that they’re not givin’ it to you anymore. Maybe that’s the way it is.

SAM: But maybe you’re not, either.

BOB: Yeah. Maybe you haven’t been givin’ it to ’em for years. Maybe the rhythm’s off.

SAM: You know, Eve heard this theory that women are rhythmically different from men. By nature.

BOB: Oh yeah? I’ll drink to that.

SAM: Yeah. That the female rhythm is a side-to-side, horizontal movement and the male rhythm is vertical—up and down.

BOB: You mean sorta like a flying horse?

SAM: Yeah. Sorta.

BOB: But then the two come together, don’t they?

SAM: Right.

BOB: So they become one rhythm then.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So there’s no such a thing as “sides” in the long run. It’s all the same.

SAM: It’s just a theory.

BOB: Yeah. Well, you can make a theory outta anything, I suppose.

SAM: Do you feel those two different kinds of rhythms in you?

BOB: Yeah, sure. We all do. There’s that slinky, side-to-side thing and the jerky, up-and-down one. But they’re a part of each other. One can’t do without the other. Like God and the Devil.

SAM: Did you always feel those two parts?

BOB: Yeah. Always. Like you feel the lie and the truth. At the same time, sometimes. Both, together. Like remember in Giant—

SAM: The movie?

BOB: Yeah. That last scene in Giant. You know that scene where Jett Rink stumbles all over himself across the table.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Well, I never did like that scene. Always felt like there was somethin’ phony about it. Didn’t quite ring true. Always bothered me. Like there was a lie hiding in there somewhere, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

SAM: Yeah, I never did either. You mean where he’s drunk and alone in the convention hall or whatever it was?

BOB: Yeah. You know why that was? Why it felt phony?

SAM: The makeup. All that gray in his hair?

BOB: No, no. I wish it was the makeup. Turns out Nick Adams, an actor at that time, who was a friend of James Dean’s, he overdubbed that speech because James Dean had died by that time.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. And that makes perfect sense because that don’t ring true. The end of that movie. But that’s what I mean—the lie and the truth, like that.

[pause]

SAM: Well, what happened to his voice?

BOB: Whaddya mean?

SAM: I mean what happened to James Dean’s original voice on the track? They must’ve had his voice track if they had the film on him.

BOB: I dunno. Maybe it was messed up or something.

SAM: Maybe it disappeared.

BOB: Maybe. Just vanished. I dunno.

[Again, the sound of screeching brakes and car crash off right. Neither of the characters pays any attention. Long pause as Bob moves and picks guitar. Sam makes notes.]

BOB: Sometimes I wonder why James Dean was great. Because—was he great or was everybody around him great?

SAM: No, he was great.

BOB: You think so?

SAM: Yeah. I mean, remember the scene in Rebel Without a Cause with Sal Mineo on the steps of the courthouse? Where he gets shot.

BOB: Plato.

SAM: Yeah, and he’s holding Plato in his arms, and in the other hand he’s got the bullets.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What was it he says? “They’re not real bullets’’ or—no—what was it?

BOB: “I’ve got the bullets!”

SAM: Right. [suddenly screaming with his arm outstretched in imitation of James Dean] “I’ve got the bullets!” [back to normal voice] I mean, that’s spectacular acting. Where do you see that kind of acting these days?

BOB: Nowhere. He didn’t come up overnight either. I mean he really studied whatever it was he was about.

SAM: I guess.

BOB: Well, why do you suppose—I mean what was it that he did that was so different? For instance, in that scene with the bullets. What made that scene so incredible?

SAM: It was this pure kind of expression.

BOB: Of what?

SAM: Of an emotion. But it went beyond the emotion into another territory. Like most actors in that scene would express nothing but self-pity, but he put across a true remorse.

BOB: Remorse?

SAM: Yeah. For mankind. A pity for us all. This wasted life. This dumb death of an innocent kid. The death of the innocent.

BOB: So he actually did have a cause then?

SAM: I don’t know.

BOB: “Rebel with a Cause.” See, that’s the devil’s work.

SAM: What?

BOB: Words have lost their meaning. Like rebel. Like cause. Like love. They mean a million different things.

SAM: Like Hank Williams?

BOB: Naw, you can never change the meaning of Hank Williams. That’s here to stay. Nobody’ll ever change that.

SAM: Did you used to listen to him a lot?

BOB: Overload. Who can you listen to if you can’t listen to Hank?

SAM: Did he mean the same thing to you as James Dean?

BOB: Yeah, but in different ways. They both told the truth.

SAM: They both died in cars.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: A Cadillac and a Porsche.

BOB: He was on his way to Ohio, I think. Some gig in Ohio.

SAM: I saw the car he died in. Cadillac coupe, convertible. I looked in the back seat of that car and this overwhelming sense of loneliness seized me by the throat. It was almost unbearable. I couldn’t look very long. I had to turn away.

BOB: Maybe you shouldn’ta looked at all.

SAM: Maybe. [pause] Are you superstitious?

BOB: Naw.

SAM: You had a crash, right? A motorcycle.

BOB: Oh, yeah. Way back. Triumph 500.

SAM: What happened?

BOB: I couldn’t handle it. I was dumbstruck.

SAM: How do you mean?

BOB: I just wasn’t ready for it. It was real early in the morning on top of a hill near Woodstock. I can’t even remember exactly how it happened. I was blinded by the sun for a second. This big orange sun was comin’ up. I was driving right straight into the sun, and I looked up into it even though I remember someone telling me a long time ago when I was a kid never to look straight at the sun ’cause you’ll get blinded. I forget who told me that. My dad or an uncle or somebody. Somebody in the family. I always believed that must be true or else why would an adult tell you something like that. And I never did look directly at the sun when I was a kid, but this time, for some reason, I just happened to look up right smack into the sun with both eyes and, sure enough, I went blind for a second and I kind of panicked or something. I stomped down on the brake and the rear wheel locked up on me and I went fly in’.

SAM: Were you out?

BOB: Yeah. Out cold.

SAM: Who found you?

BOB: Sarah. She was followin’ me in a car. She picked me up. Spent a week in the hospital, then they moved me to this doctor’s house in town. In his attic. Had a bed up there in the attic with a window lookin’ out. Sarah stayed there with me. I just remember how bad I wanted to see my kids. I started thinkin’ about the short life of trouble. How short life is. I’d just lay there listenin’ to birds chirping. Kids playing in the neighbor’s yard or rain falling by the window. I realized how much I’d missed. Then I’d hear the fire engine roar, and I could feel the steady thrust of death that had been constantly looking over its shoulder at me. [pause] Then I’d just go back to sleep.

[Phone rings off right. Bob turns and looks in that direction but doesn’t move toward it. He stops playing guitar. Phone keeps ringing. He just stares off right. Lights begin to fade very slowly. Bob stays still, staring off right. Sam stops recorder, then rewinds and punches PLAY button. The Jimmy Yancey music fills the room, joining the sound of waves. Lights keep dimming to black. The phone keeps ringing. The waves keep crashing. Jimmy Yancey keeps playing in the dark.]

[filmgnistan]

True Dylan

A one-act play, as it really happened one afternoon in California

By SAM SHEPARD

SCENE: IN THE DARK, a Jimmy Yancey piano solo is heard very softly, floating in the background. Soft, blue, foggy light creeps in, extreme upstage, revealing a large, weathered brick patio bordered by shaggy grass upstage and opening out to a distant view of the Pacific Ocean. The distant rhythmic splashing of waves is heard underneath the piano music and continues throughout the play, always in the background. The only set piece onstage is a round redwood table with a big yellow umbrella stuck in the middle of it and two redwood benches set across from each other at the table. The table and benches are set down left (from the actors’ point of view).

As the light keeps rising, a short, skinny guy named Bob is seen center stage dressed in nothing but a pair of light-green boxer shorts. His arms are clasped across his chest with each hand gripping the opposite shoulder, as though warding off the cold. He turns in a slow circle to his right and then repeats the circle to the left, looking out to the ocean as his gaze passes it. He stops, facing audience, covers his face with both hands, then rubs his eyes and draws his hands slowly down his cheeks to his chin. His mouth drops open and his head slowly drops back on his shoulders to stare at the sky. He holds that position. Piano music stops abruptly. Sam, a tall, skinny guy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a tape recorder, several notebooks, and a six-pack of beer, enters from right. He stops. Bob drops his hands and stares at Sam. Pause. Sound of distant waves continues.

SAM: Ready?

BOB: Yeah. I just gotta make a couple phone calls first.

[Bob moves toward stage right, then stops.]

BOB: Oh, you know where I just was?

SAM: Where?

BOB: Paso Robles. You know, on that highway where James Dean got killed?

SAM: Oh yeah?

BOB: I was there at the spot. On the spot. A windy kinda place.

SAM: They’ve got a statue or monument to him in that town, don’t they?

BOB: Yeah, but I was on the curve where he had the accident. Outsida town. And this place is incredible. I mean the place where he died is as powerful as the place he lived.

SAM: Nebraska?

BOB: Where’d he live?

SAM: He came from the farm, didn’t he? Somewhere.

BOB: Yeah, Iowa or Indiana. I forget. But this place up there has this kind of aura about it. It’s on this kind of broad expanse of land. It’s like that place made James Dean who he is. If he hadn’t’ve died there he wouldn’t’ve been James Dean.

SAM: Hm.

[Bob moves as though to exit stage right again, but stops again.]

BOB: You know what Elvis said? He said that if James Dean had sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. [pause] You need anything?

SAM: Nope.

BOB: You brought some beer?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: I just gotta make a couple phone calls.

SAM: Good.

[Bob exits stage right as Sam moves down left toward table. Just as Bob exits, the sound of screeching tires and a loud car crash comes from off right. Sam pays no attention, but goes about setting tape recorder, beer, and notebooks on table. Bob reenters from right but with no reaction to car-crash sounds.]

BOB: Who was playin’ that music before?

SAM: What music?

BOB: That piano music.

SAM: I dunno.

BOB: Hm.

SAM: “If James Dean sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson?’’ Elvis said that?

BOB: Yeah. Poor ol’ Ricky. I wish he was here with us today. I wonder if anyone ever told him, when he was alive, how great he was. I mean like the rock ’n’ roll critics.

SAM: You got me.

BOB: You know, Emilio Fernandez used to shoot the critics that didn’t like his movies. At parties.

[Bob exits stage right. Sam sits on bench facing stage right, pulls out a cassette tape and sticks it in recorder, punches a button, and the same Jimmy Yancey tune is heard coming from the machine itself. Only a snatch is heard before Bob’s voice comes from offstage right, speaking on the phone. As soon as Bob’s voice is heard, Sam shuts the recorder off and starts leafing through his notebooks, scribbling in them now and then.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Listen, what’s that thing gonna be like tonight? [pause] Yeah. There gonna be a lotta people there? [pause] Well, that’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out. [pause] Yeah. I don’t know. How many people you think there’ll be? [pause] Okay, well look, I got somebody here so. [pause] Yeah, I know. Yeah, well, I seen their act before. Yeah, I seen it. I seen it in St. Louis. Yeah. [pause] I dunno—’59 or ’60, somethin’ like that. [laughs, pause] I was around. I been around a long time. I can’t count anymore. Okay, look, I’ll talk to you later and see what’s goin’ on. [pause] Okay. Bye.

[Bob hangs up offstage. Sam looks in that direction, then returns to his notebooks, cracks open a can of beer, and drinks.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Sam, what’s this thing supposed to be about anyway?

SAM: I dunno.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Are we supposed to have a theme?

SAM: I got a buncha questions here.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] You brought questions?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: How many questions?

SAM: Couple.

BOB’S VOICE: What if I don’t have the answers?

SAM: Make it up.

BOB’S VOICE: Okay, so ask me a question.

SAM: [quickly putting a cassette in recorder] Okay, wait a second. I gotta see if this thing is working.

BOB’S VOICE: You got a tape?

SAM: [punching RECORD button] Yeah. Okay. All right. It’s rolling.

BOB’S VOICE: Ask me somethin’.

SAM: Right. [referring to notebooks] Let’s see—okay—let’s see now—okay—here we go—Do you have any ideas about angels? Do you ever think about angels?

BOB’S VOICE: That’s the first question?

SAM: You want me to start with something else?

BOB’S VOICE: [still off] No, that’s okay. Angels. Yeah, now, angels now—what is it? [pause] Oh—the pope says this about angels—he says they exist.

SAM: Yeah? The pope?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah. And they’re spiritual beings. That’s what he says.

SAM: Do you believe it?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah.

SAM: Have you had any direct experience with angels?

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Yeah. Yeah, I have. I just gotta make one more phone call, all right?

SAM: Yeah. [shuts tape off]

BOB’S VOICE: You need anything?

SAM: Naw, I’m fine.

[Sam drinks more beer, scribbles more notes. Pause. Bob’s voice is heard again offstage right on phone. Sound of waves continues.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Hi, it’s me again. [pause, laughs] Yeah, I just like the sound of your voice. Listen, what’s the area code for Tulsa, do you know? [pause] Tulsa, yeah. [pause] All right. Good. [pause] Yeah, that’s okay. I don’t need it right away. [pause] Oh, ya did? [pause] Yeah? [pause] So, it’s just a few people then? What’s a few? [pause] That’s more than a few. [laughs] Yeah, but, that’s not what you’d call a few. [pause] Aw. I dunno. Look, I’ll just have to think about it—see how the day goes—then I’ll get back to you. [pause] Yeah, okay. Bye. [hangs up]

SAM: [after pause] You want me to come back? I could go out and come back if you want. Have some lunch.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Naw, you’re here. Stay. I’m just gettin’ some clothes on. I’ll be right there. Ask me another question.

SAM: Oh, okay—[punching recorder on] uh—let’s see—[referring to notebooks] okay—What was the first music you can remember listening to? Way back.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music. First music?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Live, ya mean? Live?

SAM: Yeah. Live.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music ever?

SAM: Yeah.

[pause]

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Polka music.

SAM: Really?

[Bob enters from right wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans, and motorcycle boots with brass buckles. He carries a beat-up old acoustic guitar strung around his neck with an old piece of rope. He continually fingers the neck of the guitar and keeps picking out little repetitive melody lines, short blues progressions, gospel chords—whatever comes into his mind. He keeps this up through all the dialogue, even when he’s talking, rarely resting into complete silence.]

BOB: [onstage now] Yeah, polka.

SAM: [drinking beer] Where? Up in Hibbing?

BOB: Yeah, Hibbing.

SAM: Hibbing’s near Duluth, right?

BOB: Right.

SAM: I love Duluth.

BOB: Great town.

SAM: That lake.

BOB: Superior?

SAM: Yeah. Tough town, too.

BOB: [always moving, picking guitar] Especially when it freezes over. Indians come out. Fur trappers.

SAM: Beaver.

BOB: Yeah, beaver too. Loons.

SAM: So you heard this polka music in what—dance halls or something?

BOB: Yeah—no—taverns. Beer joints. They played it in all the taverns. You just walk down the street and hear that all the time. People’d come flyin’ out into the street doin’ the polka. Accordions would come flyin’ out.

SAM: Were they fighting or dancing?

BOB: Both, I guess. Mostly just having a good time. People from the old country.

SAM: Polish?

BOB: Some. I guess.

SAM: Were they singing in Polish?

BOB: They were singin’ in somethin’. Swedish maybe. Some language. But you know how you don’t need to know the language when it’s music. You understand the music no matter what language it’s in. Like when I went down and heard that Tex-Mex border music—that sounded like the same music to me even though the language was different. It all sounds the same to me.

SAM: Three-quarter time.

BOB: Yeah—waltz. I love to waltz.

SAM: How old were you then?

BOB: Aw, I dunno. Nine—ten.

SAM: Did you feel like you were cut off back then?

BOB: How d’ya mean?

SAM: I mean being up in the Far North like that. In the boondocks.

BOB: Nah, ’cause I didn’t know anything else was goin’ on. Why, did you?

SAM: Yeah. I still do. [laughs]

BOB: [sings a snatch and plays] Down in the boondocks/Down in the boondocks/Lord have mercy on a boy/from down in the boondocks.

SAM: So you didn’t have any big burning desire to get to New York or anything?

BOB: Naw. The only reason I wanted to go to New York is ’cause James Dean had been there.

SAM: So you really liked James Dean?

BOB: Oh, yeah. Always did.

SAM: How come?

BOB: Same reason you like anybody, I guess. You see somethin’ of yourself in them.

SAM: Did you dream about music back then?

BOB: I had lotsa dreams. Used to dream about things like Ava Gardner and Wild Bill Hickok. They were playin’ cards, chasin’ each other, and gettin’ around. Sometimes I’d even be there in the dreams myself. Radio-station dreams. You know how, when you’re a kid, you stay up late in bed, listening to the radio, and you sort of dream off the radio into sleep. That’s how you used to fall asleep. That’s when disc jockeys played whatever they felt like.

SAM: I used to fall asleep listening to baseball.

BOB: Yeah. Same thing. Just sorta dream off into the radio. Like you were inside the radio kinda.

SAM: Yeah—I could see the diamond with the lights lit up and the green lawn of the outfield and the pitcher’s eyes looking for the catcher’s signals.

BOB: But I don’t know if you ever dream about music. How do you dream about music?

SAM: Well, I mean, for instance, a song like “Pledging My Love.’’

BOB: Forever my darling.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: What about it?

SAM: Well, I used to dream myself into that kind of a song.

BOB: Really? I didn’t think you were that romantic.

SAM: Oh yeah, I’m very romantic.

BOB: So, you mean you kinda put yourself into the song when you were listening to it?

SAM:Yeah. Put myself in the place of the singer.

BOB: I see what you mean. [pause, still moving and picking] Yeah, I guess I used to dream about music then. You have all different kinda dreams with music, though. I mean, sometimes I’d hear a guy sing a tune and I’d imagine the guy himself. What’s the guy himself like? You know? Like Hank Williams or Buddy Holly or John Lee Hooker. You’d hear a line like black snake moan or Mississippi Flood—you could see yourself waist-high in muddy water.

SAM: Or maybe an image would come up from a line—like, I remember always seeing this image of my algebra teacher’s scalp when I heard that Chuck Berry line, The teacher is teachin’ the golden rule, from “School Day.”

BOB: His scalp?

SAM: Yeah, he had one of those Marine-style crew cuts where the scalp shows through on top. I still see his scalp when I hear that line.

BOB: You don’t hear that line much these days.

SAM: Nope. [pause] So, you’d mainly imagine the singer when you heard the song?

BOB: Yeah. A faceless singer. I’d fill in the face.

SAM: Is that the reason you went to see Woody Guthrie when he was sick? You’d heard his music?

BOB: Yeah. I heard his songs.

SAM: Is there anybody in your life you wished you’d met and didn’t?

BOB: [quick, still playing] Yeah, Bob Marley.

SAM: Really.

BOB: Yeah. We were playin’ in Waco, Texas, one time. And I missed him.

SAM: That was pretty close to miss each other.

BOB: Yeah. I wish I’d met him.

[rest]

SAM: So you went to see Guthrie in the hospital.

BOB: Uh-huh.

SAM: And you were there at his death bed?

BOB: Close.

SAM: Were you with him up to where he passed?

[Long pause. Bob stops playing and thinks hard.]

BOB: No.

[Bob immediately jumps back into playing and moving.]

SAM: You spent a lotta time with him in the hospital?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Was he coherent?

BOB: Yeah—no—he was coherent but he had no control over his reflexes. So he’d be…

[pause]

SAM: What’d you talk about?

BOB: Not too much. I never really did speak too much to him. He would call out the name of a song. A song he wrote that he wanted to hear, and I knew all his songs.

SAM: So you played ’em to him?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Did you ask him anything?

BOB: No, I mean there was nothin’ to ask him. What’re you gonna ask him? He wasn’t the kinda guy you asked questions to.

[pause]

SAM: So you just kinda sat with him for days.

BOB: Yeah—I’d go out there. You had to leave at 5:00. It was in Greystone—Greypark or Greystone—it’s in New Jersey. Out somewhere there. Bus went there. Greyhound bus. From the Forty-second Street terminal. You’d go there and you’d get off and you walked up the hill to the gates. Actually it was a pretty foreboding place.

SAM: How old were you?

[Bob stops still. Stops picking. Thinks.]

BOB: How old was I? [pause] I don’t know. Nineteen, I guess.

SAM: Nineteen. And what kinda stuff were you listening to back then?

BOB: Oh, Bill Monroe, New Lost City Ramblers, Big Mama Thornton. People like that. Peggy Seeger. Jean Ritchie.

SAM: Hank Snow?

BOB: I’d always listened to Hank Snow. “Golden Rocket.”

SAM: At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB: Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

SAM: This is true.

BOB: Naw, I’ve always been real content with the old forms. I know my place by now.

SAM: So you feel like you know who you are?

BOB: Well, you always know who you are. I just don’t know who I’m gonna become.

[Pause. Bob keeps moving and picking.]

BOB: Did we ever see each other back then?

SAM: When?

BOB: When we were nineteen.

SAM: I saw you one time on the comer of Sixth Avenue and Houston Street.

BOB: What year?

SAM: Musta been ’66, ’67. Somethin’ like that. You were wearin’ a navy-blue pea jacket and tennis shoes.

BOB: Yeah, that musta been me. Naw, this was earlier than that. I was listenin’ to all them records on Stinson label and Folkways.

SAM: Stinson?

BOB: Yeah. Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee. Almanac Singers.

SAM: Almanac Singers?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What about gospel?

BOB: I always listened to gospel music. Dixie Hummingbirds, Highway QC’s, Five Blind Boys, and, of course, the Staple Singers.

SAM: What about Skip James or Joseph Spence?

BOB: Yeah. Bahama mama. [pause] Skip James. Once there was a Skip James. Elmore James.

SAM: Rather be buried in some old cypress grove.

BOB: So my evil spirit can grab that Greyhound bus and ride.

SAM: I’d rather sleep in some old hollow log than have a bad woman you can’t control.

BOB: Now, what was it he died of?

SAM: Skip James?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Cancer of the balls.

BOB: What?!

SAM: Yeah. Cancer of the balls. He refused to go to any white doctors ’cause he was afraid they’d cut his nuts off.

BOB: Don’t blame him one bit.

[Phone rings off right. Bob exits off right, leaving Sam alone. Sam turns off tape then rewinds it a short ways and plays it back. Again, the Jimmy Yancey piano music comes from recorder. No voices. As Bob’s voice is heard off right on phone, Sam keeps rewinding tape, playing it back in short snatches, trying to find their voices, but all that comes out is the piano music.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Four oh five? Four oh five. You’re sure? [pause] I dunno. Four oh five sounds like Oklahoma City. I can’t remember. [pause] All right. [pause] Yeah. Four oh five. [pause] Naw, I think I’m gonna pass. [pause] I dunno. Sounds like too many record producers. [pause] Yeah. I’ll just hang around here probably. [pause] Okay. All right. [pause] Yeah.

[Bob enters again, with guitar, carrying a glass of whiskey on ice. He crosses to table, sets glass down after taking a sip, then starts picking the guitar again. Sam is still trying to find their voices on the tape but gets only the piano music.]

SAM: [fooling with tape] This is incredible.

BOB: What.

SAM: There’s nothin’ on here but piano music.

BOB: [laughs, keeps picking] You mean our voices aren’t on there?

SAM: Listen.

[He lets tape play. Jimmy Yancey rolls out.]

BOB: [listens] That’s the same music I was askin’ you about.

SAM: When?

BOB: Before. When you first came. That’s the music.

SAM: Well, our voices ain’t on here.

BOB: Don’t matter.

SAM: Well, I can’t remember all this stuff. How am I gonna remember all this stuff?

BOB: Make it up.

SAM: Well, there’s certain things you can’t make up.

BOB: Like what?

SAM: Certain turns of phrase.

BOB: Try it again. It’s gotta be on there. You had it on RECORD, right?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So it must be on there somewhere. You just gotta fool around with it.

[Sam rewinds, then plays tape. Their voices are heard this time, coming out of recorder.]

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] “Golden Rocket.”

SAM’S VOICE: [from tape] At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

[Sam shuts tape off.]

BOB: There. See. It was just hidin’ out. [laughs]

SAM: This is amazing. Where’d that music come from?

BOB: Musta been on there already. Is it an old tape?

SAM: No, I just bought it this morning. [Bob takes a sip of whiskey, sets glass down.]

BOB: Angels.

[Sam punches RECORD button. They continue. Bob keeps moving and playing guitar.]

SAM: Weird.

BOB: Is it on now?

SAM: Yeah. I guess.

BOB: Okay. Fire away.

SAM: Okay. Let’s see. [referring to notebook] Do you think it’s possible to have a pact with someone?

BOB: A pact? Yeah. I know that’s possible. I mean you should have a pact with someone. That presents a small problem for me, though—for instance, how many people can you have a pact with? And how many at the same time?

SAM: Not too many. How about women?

BOB: Nah, I don’t know anything about women.

SAM: How ’bout waitresses?

BOB: Well, it seems to me that waitresses are gettin’ younger and younger these days. Some of ’em look like babies.

SAM: So, you don’t have much hope for women?

BOB: On the contrary. Women are the only hope. I think they’re a lot more stable than men. Only trouble with women is they let things go on too long.

SAM: What things?

BOB: The whole Western sense of reality. Sometimes women have a tendency to be too lenient. Like a kid can go down and bust some old man in the head, rob a buncha old ladies, burglarize his brother’s joint, and blow up a city block, and his momma will still come down and cry over him.

SAM: Yeah, but that’s just nature, isn’t it? The nature of being a mother.

BOB: Yeah, I guess so. Nature.

SAM: Have you ever felt like a couple?

BOB: A couple? You mean two? Yeah. All the time. Sometimes I feel like ten couples.

SAM: I mean like you’re a part of another person. Like you belong. That other person carries something of you around with them and visee-versee.

BOB: Visee-versee?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Yeah. Sure. A couple. Sure. Eve felt like that. Absolutely. Look—listen to this: [sings and plays] You must learn to leave the table when love is no longer being served/Just show them all that you are able/Just get up and leave without saying a word.

SAM: Who wrote that?

BOB: You got me. Roy Orbison or somebody. I dunno.

SAM: Roy Orbison?

BOB: Naw. I dunno. Good lyric.

SAM: Yeah. [writing a note] You must learn to leave the table ….

BOB: I mean you gravitate toward people who’ve got somethin’ to give you and maybe you’ve got somethin’ that they need.

SAM: Yeah, right.

BOB: And then maybe one day you wake up and see that they’re not givin’ it to you anymore. Maybe that’s the way it is.

SAM: But maybe you’re not, either.

BOB: Yeah. Maybe you haven’t been givin’ it to ’em for years. Maybe the rhythm’s off.

SAM: You know, Eve heard this theory that women are rhythmically different from men. By nature.

BOB: Oh yeah? I’ll drink to that.

SAM: Yeah. That the female rhythm is a side-to-side, horizontal movement and the male rhythm is vertical—up and down.

BOB: You mean sorta like a flying horse?

SAM: Yeah. Sorta.

BOB: But then the two come together, don’t they?

SAM: Right.

BOB: So they become one rhythm then.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So there’s no such a thing as “sides” in the long run. It’s all the same.

SAM: It’s just a theory.

BOB: Yeah. Well, you can make a theory outta anything, I suppose.

SAM: Do you feel those two different kinds of rhythms in you?

BOB: Yeah, sure. We all do. There’s that slinky, side-to-side thing and the jerky, up-and-down one. But they’re a part of each other. One can’t do without the other. Like God and the Devil.

SAM: Did you always feel those two parts?

BOB: Yeah. Always. Like you feel the lie and the truth. At the same time, sometimes. Both, together. Like remember in Giant—

SAM: The movie?

BOB: Yeah. That last scene in Giant. You know that scene where Jett Rink stumbles all over himself across the table.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Well, I never did like that scene. Always felt like there was somethin’ phony about it. Didn’t quite ring true. Always bothered me. Like there was a lie hiding in there somewhere, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

SAM: Yeah, I never did either. You mean where he’s drunk and alone in the convention hall or whatever it was?

BOB: Yeah. You know why that was? Why it felt phony?

SAM: The makeup. All that gray in his hair?

BOB: No, no. I wish it was the makeup. Turns out Nick Adams, an actor at that time, who was a friend of James Dean’s, he overdubbed that speech because James Dean had died by that time.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. And that makes perfect sense because that don’t ring true. The end of that movie. But that’s what I mean—the lie and the truth, like that.

[pause]

SAM: Well, what happened to his voice?

BOB: Whaddya mean?

SAM: I mean what happened to James Dean’s original voice on the track? They must’ve had his voice track if they had the film on him.

BOB: I dunno. Maybe it was messed up or something.

SAM: Maybe it disappeared.

BOB: Maybe. Just vanished. I dunno.

[Again, the sound of screeching brakes and car crash off right. Neither of the characters pays any attention. Long pause as Bob moves and picks guitar. Sam makes notes.]

BOB: Sometimes I wonder why James Dean was great. Because—was he great or was everybody around him great?

SAM: No, he was great.

BOB: You think so?

SAM: Yeah. I mean, remember the scene in Rebel Without a Cause with Sal Mineo on the steps of the courthouse? Where he gets shot.

BOB: Plato.

SAM: Yeah, and he’s holding Plato in his arms, and in the other hand he’s got the bullets.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What was it he says? “They’re not real bullets’’ or—no—what was it?

BOB: “I’ve got the bullets!”

SAM: Right. [suddenly screaming with his arm outstretched in imitation of James Dean] “I’ve got the bullets!” [back to normal voice] I mean, that’s spectacular acting. Where do you see that kind of acting these days?

BOB: Nowhere. He didn’t come up overnight either. I mean he really studied whatever it was he was about.

SAM: I guess.

BOB: Well, why do you suppose—I mean what was it that he did that was so different? For instance, in that scene with the bullets. What made that scene so incredible?

SAM: It was this pure kind of expression.

BOB: Of what?

SAM: Of an emotion. But it went beyond the emotion into another territory. Like most actors in that scene would express nothing but self-pity, but he put across a true remorse.

BOB: Remorse?

SAM: Yeah. For mankind. A pity for us all. This wasted life. This dumb death of an innocent kid. The death of the innocent.

BOB: So he actually did have a cause then?

SAM: I don’t know.

BOB: “Rebel with a Cause.” See, that’s the devil’s work.

SAM: What?

BOB: Words have lost their meaning. Like rebel. Like cause. Like love. They mean a million different things.

SAM: Like Hank Williams?

BOB: Naw, you can never change the meaning of Hank Williams. That’s here to stay. Nobody’ll ever change that.

SAM: Did you used to listen to him a lot?

BOB: Overload. Who can you listen to if you can’t listen to Hank?

SAM: Did he mean the same thing to you as James Dean?

BOB: Yeah, but in different ways. They both told the truth.

SAM: They both died in cars.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: A Cadillac and a Porsche.

BOB: He was on his way to Ohio, I think. Some gig in Ohio.

SAM: I saw the car he died in. Cadillac coupe, convertible. I looked in the back seat of that car and this overwhelming sense of loneliness seized me by the throat. It was almost unbearable. I couldn’t look very long. I had to turn away.

BOB: Maybe you shouldn’ta looked at all.

SAM: Maybe. [pause] Are you superstitious?

BOB: Naw.

SAM: You had a crash, right? A motorcycle.

BOB: Oh, yeah. Way back. Triumph 500.

SAM: What happened?

BOB: I couldn’t handle it. I was dumbstruck.

SAM: How do you mean?

BOB: I just wasn’t ready for it. It was real early in the morning on top of a hill near Woodstock. I can’t even remember exactly how it happened. I was blinded by the sun for a second. This big orange sun was comin’ up. I was driving right straight into the sun, and I looked up into it even though I remember someone telling me a long time ago when I was a kid never to look straight at the sun ’cause you’ll get blinded. I forget who told me that. My dad or an uncle or somebody. Somebody in the family. I always believed that must be true or else why would an adult tell you something like that. And I never did look directly at the sun when I was a kid, but this time, for some reason, I just happened to look up right smack into the sun with both eyes and, sure enough, I went blind for a second and I kind of panicked or something. I stomped down on the brake and the rear wheel locked up on me and I went fly in’.

SAM: Were you out?

BOB: Yeah. Out cold.

SAM: Who found you?

BOB: Sarah. She was followin’ me in a car. She picked me up. Spent a week in the hospital, then they moved me to this doctor’s house in town. In his attic. Had a bed up there in the attic with a window lookin’ out. Sarah stayed there with me. I just remember how bad I wanted to see my kids. I started thinkin’ about the short life of trouble. How short life is. I’d just lay there listenin’ to birds chirping. Kids playing in the neighbor’s yard or rain falling by the window. I realized how much I’d missed. Then I’d hear the fire engine roar, and I could feel the steady thrust of death that had been constantly looking over its shoulder at me. [pause] Then I’d just go back to sleep.

[Phone rings off right. Bob turns and looks in that direction but doesn’t move toward it. He stops playing guitar. Phone keeps ringing. He just stares off right. Lights begin to fade very slowly. Bob stays still, staring off right. Sam stops recorder, then rewinds and punches PLAY button. The Jimmy Yancey music fills the room, joining the sound of waves. Lights keep dimming to black. The phone keeps ringing. The waves keep crashing. Jimmy Yancey keeps playing in the dark.]

[sandysxbox-blog]

True Dylan

A one-act play, as it really happened one afternoon in California

By SAM SHEPARD

SCENE: IN THE DARK, a Jimmy Yancey piano solo is heard very softly, floating in the background. Soft, blue, foggy light creeps in, extreme upstage, revealing a large, weathered brick patio bordered by shaggy grass upstage and opening out to a distant view of the Pacific Ocean. The distant rhythmic splashing of waves is heard underneath the piano music and continues throughout the play, always in the background. The only set piece onstage is a round redwood table with a big yellow umbrella stuck in the middle of it and two redwood benches set across from each other at the table. The table and benches are set down left (from the actors’ point of view).

As the light keeps rising, a short, skinny guy named Bob is seen center stage dressed in nothing but a pair of light-green boxer shorts. His arms are clasped across his chest with each hand gripping the opposite shoulder, as though warding off the cold. He turns in a slow circle to his right and then repeats the circle to the left, looking out to the ocean as his gaze passes it. He stops, facing audience, covers his face with both hands, then rubs his eyes and draws his hands slowly down his cheeks to his chin. His mouth drops open and his head slowly drops back on his shoulders to stare at the sky. He holds that position. Piano music stops abruptly. Sam, a tall, skinny guy dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a tape recorder, several notebooks, and a six-pack of beer, enters from right. He stops. Bob drops his hands and stares at Sam. Pause. Sound of distant waves continues.

SAM: Ready?

BOB: Yeah. I just gotta make a couple phone calls first.

[Bob moves toward stage right, then stops.]

BOB: Oh, you know where I just was?

SAM: Where?

BOB: Paso Robles. You know, on that highway where James Dean got killed?

SAM: Oh yeah?

BOB: I was there at the spot. On the spot. A windy kinda place.

SAM: They’ve got a statue or monument to him in that town, don’t they?

BOB: Yeah, but I was on the curve where he had the accident. Outsida town. And this place is incredible. I mean the place where he died is as powerful as the place he lived.

SAM: Nebraska?

BOB: Where’d he live?

SAM: He came from the farm, didn’t he? Somewhere.

BOB: Yeah, Iowa or Indiana. I forget. But this place up there has this kind of aura about it. It’s on this kind of broad expanse of land. It’s like that place made James Dean who he is. If he hadn’t’ve died there he wouldn’t’ve been James Dean.

SAM: Hm.

[Bob moves as though to exit stage right again, but stops again.]

BOB: You know what Elvis said? He said that if James Dean had sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. [pause] You need anything?

SAM: Nope.

BOB: You brought some beer?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: I just gotta make a couple phone calls.

SAM: Good.

[Bob exits stage right as Sam moves down left toward table. Just as Bob exits, the sound of screeching tires and a loud car crash comes from off right. Sam pays no attention, but goes about setting tape recorder, beer, and notebooks on table. Bob reenters from right but with no reaction to car-crash sounds.]

BOB: Who was playin’ that music before?

SAM: What music?

BOB: That piano music.

SAM: I dunno.

BOB: Hm.

SAM: “If James Dean sang he’d’ve been Ricky Nelson?’’ Elvis said that?

BOB: Yeah. Poor ol’ Ricky. I wish he was here with us today. I wonder if anyone ever told him, when he was alive, how great he was. I mean like the rock ’n’ roll critics.

SAM: You got me.

BOB: You know, Emilio Fernandez used to shoot the critics that didn’t like his movies. At parties.

[Bob exits stage right. Sam sits on bench facing stage right, pulls out a cassette tape and sticks it in recorder, punches a button, and the same Jimmy Yancey tune is heard coming from the machine itself. Only a snatch is heard before Bob’s voice comes from offstage right, speaking on the phone. As soon as Bob’s voice is heard, Sam shuts the recorder off and starts leafing through his notebooks, scribbling in them now and then.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Listen, what’s that thing gonna be like tonight? [pause] Yeah. There gonna be a lotta people there? [pause] Well, that’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out. [pause] Yeah. I don’t know. How many people you think there’ll be? [pause] Okay, well look, I got somebody here so. [pause] Yeah, I know. Yeah, well, I seen their act before. Yeah, I seen it. I seen it in St. Louis. Yeah. [pause] I dunno—’59 or ’60, somethin’ like that. [laughs, pause] I was around. I been around a long time. I can’t count anymore. Okay, look, I’ll talk to you later and see what’s goin’ on. [pause] Okay. Bye.

[Bob hangs up offstage. Sam looks in that direction, then returns to his notebooks, cracks open a can of beer, and drinks.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Sam, what’s this thing supposed to be about anyway?

SAM: I dunno.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Are we supposed to have a theme?

SAM: I got a buncha questions here.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] You brought questions?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: How many questions?

SAM: Couple.

BOB’S VOICE: What if I don’t have the answers?

SAM: Make it up.

BOB’S VOICE: Okay, so ask me a question.

SAM: [quickly putting a cassette in recorder] Okay, wait a second. I gotta see if this thing is working.

BOB’S VOICE: You got a tape?

SAM: [punching RECORD button] Yeah. Okay. All right. It’s rolling.

BOB’S VOICE: Ask me somethin’.

SAM: Right. [referring to notebooks] Let’s see—okay—let’s see now—okay—here we go—Do you have any ideas about angels? Do you ever think about angels?

BOB’S VOICE: That’s the first question?

SAM: You want me to start with something else?

BOB’S VOICE: [still off] No, that’s okay. Angels. Yeah, now, angels now—what is it? [pause] Oh—the pope says this about angels—he says they exist.

SAM: Yeah? The pope?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah. And they’re spiritual beings. That’s what he says.

SAM: Do you believe it?

BOB’S VOICE: Yeah.

SAM: Have you had any direct experience with angels?

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Yeah. Yeah, I have. I just gotta make one more phone call, all right?

SAM: Yeah. [shuts tape off]

BOB’S VOICE: You need anything?

SAM: Naw, I’m fine.

[Sam drinks more beer, scribbles more notes. Pause. Bob’s voice is heard again offstage right on phone. Sound of waves continues.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Maria? Hi, it’s me again. [pause, laughs] Yeah, I just like the sound of your voice. Listen, what’s the area code for Tulsa, do you know? [pause] Tulsa, yeah. [pause] All right. Good. [pause] Yeah, that’s okay. I don’t need it right away. [pause] Oh, ya did? [pause] Yeah? [pause] So, it’s just a few people then? What’s a few? [pause] That’s more than a few. [laughs] Yeah, but, that’s not what you’d call a few. [pause] Aw. I dunno. Look, I’ll just have to think about it—see how the day goes—then I’ll get back to you. [pause] Yeah, okay. Bye. [hangs up]

SAM: [after pause] You want me to come back? I could go out and come back if you want. Have some lunch.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Naw, you’re here. Stay. I’m just gettin’ some clothes on. I’ll be right there. Ask me another question.

SAM: Oh, okay—[punching recorder on] uh—let’s see—[referring to notebooks] okay—What was the first music you can remember listening to? Way back.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music. First music?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Live, ya mean? Live?

SAM: Yeah. Live.

BOB’S VOICE: [off] First music ever?

SAM: Yeah.

[pause]

BOB’S VOICE: [off] Polka music.

SAM: Really?

[Bob enters from right wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, black jeans, and motorcycle boots with brass buckles. He carries a beat-up old acoustic guitar strung around his neck with an old piece of rope. He continually fingers the neck of the guitar and keeps picking out little repetitive melody lines, short blues progressions, gospel chords—whatever comes into his mind. He keeps this up through all the dialogue, even when he’s talking, rarely resting into complete silence.]

BOB: [onstage now] Yeah, polka.

SAM: [drinking beer] Where? Up in Hibbing?

BOB: Yeah, Hibbing.

SAM: Hibbing’s near Duluth, right?

BOB: Right.

SAM: I love Duluth.

BOB: Great town.

SAM: That lake.

BOB: Superior?

SAM: Yeah. Tough town, too.

BOB: [always moving, picking guitar] Especially when it freezes over. Indians come out. Fur trappers.

SAM: Beaver.

BOB: Yeah, beaver too. Loons.

SAM: So you heard this polka music in what—dance halls or something?

BOB: Yeah—no—taverns. Beer joints. They played it in all the taverns. You just walk down the street and hear that all the time. People’d come flyin’ out into the street doin’ the polka. Accordions would come flyin’ out.

SAM: Were they fighting or dancing?

BOB: Both, I guess. Mostly just having a good time. People from the old country.

SAM: Polish?

BOB: Some. I guess.

SAM: Were they singing in Polish?

BOB: They were singin’ in somethin’. Swedish maybe. Some language. But you know how you don’t need to know the language when it’s music. You understand the music no matter what language it’s in. Like when I went down and heard that Tex-Mex border music—that sounded like the same music to me even though the language was different. It all sounds the same to me.

SAM: Three-quarter time.

BOB: Yeah—waltz. I love to waltz.

SAM: How old were you then?

BOB: Aw, I dunno. Nine—ten.

SAM: Did you feel like you were cut off back then?

BOB: How d’ya mean?

SAM: I mean being up in the Far North like that. In the boondocks.

BOB: Nah, ’cause I didn’t know anything else was goin’ on. Why, did you?

SAM: Yeah. I still do. [laughs]

BOB: [sings a snatch and plays] Down in the boondocks/Down in the boondocks/Lord have mercy on a boy/from down in the boondocks.

SAM: So you didn’t have any big burning desire to get to New York or anything?

BOB: Naw. The only reason I wanted to go to New York is ’cause James Dean had been there.

SAM: So you really liked James Dean?

BOB: Oh, yeah. Always did.

SAM: How come?

BOB: Same reason you like anybody, I guess. You see somethin’ of yourself in them.

SAM: Did you dream about music back then?

BOB: I had lotsa dreams. Used to dream about things like Ava Gardner and Wild Bill Hickok. They were playin’ cards, chasin’ each other, and gettin’ around. Sometimes I’d even be there in the dreams myself. Radio-station dreams. You know how, when you’re a kid, you stay up late in bed, listening to the radio, and you sort of dream off the radio into sleep. That’s how you used to fall asleep. That’s when disc jockeys played whatever they felt like.

SAM: I used to fall asleep listening to baseball.

BOB: Yeah. Same thing. Just sorta dream off into the radio. Like you were inside the radio kinda.

SAM: Yeah—I could see the diamond with the lights lit up and the green lawn of the outfield and the pitcher’s eyes looking for the catcher’s signals.

BOB: But I don’t know if you ever dream about music. How do you dream about music?

SAM: Well, I mean, for instance, a song like “Pledging My Love.’’

BOB: Forever my darling.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: What about it?

SAM: Well, I used to dream myself into that kind of a song.

BOB: Really? I didn’t think you were that romantic.

SAM: Oh yeah, I’m very romantic.

BOB: So, you mean you kinda put yourself into the song when you were listening to it?

SAM:Yeah. Put myself in the place of the singer.

BOB: I see what you mean. [pause, still moving and picking] Yeah, I guess I used to dream about music then. You have all different kinda dreams with music, though. I mean, sometimes I’d hear a guy sing a tune and I’d imagine the guy himself. What’s the guy himself like? You know? Like Hank Williams or Buddy Holly or John Lee Hooker. You’d hear a line like black snake moan or Mississippi Flood—you could see yourself waist-high in muddy water.

SAM: Or maybe an image would come up from a line—like, I remember always seeing this image of my algebra teacher’s scalp when I heard that Chuck Berry line, The teacher is teachin’ the golden rule, from “School Day.”

BOB: His scalp?

SAM: Yeah, he had one of those Marine-style crew cuts where the scalp shows through on top. I still see his scalp when I hear that line.

BOB: You don’t hear that line much these days.

SAM: Nope. [pause] So, you’d mainly imagine the singer when you heard the song?

BOB: Yeah. A faceless singer. I’d fill in the face.

SAM: Is that the reason you went to see Woody Guthrie when he was sick? You’d heard his music?

BOB: Yeah. I heard his songs.

SAM: Is there anybody in your life you wished you’d met and didn’t?

BOB: [quick, still playing] Yeah, Bob Marley.

SAM: Really.

BOB: Yeah. We were playin’ in Waco, Texas, one time. And I missed him.

SAM: That was pretty close to miss each other.

BOB: Yeah. I wish I’d met him.

[rest]

SAM: So you went to see Guthrie in the hospital.

BOB: Uh-huh.

SAM: And you were there at his death bed?

BOB: Close.

SAM: Were you with him up to where he passed?

[Long pause. Bob stops playing and thinks hard.]

BOB: No.

[Bob immediately jumps back into playing and moving.]

SAM: You spent a lotta time with him in the hospital?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Was he coherent?

BOB: Yeah—no—he was coherent but he had no control over his reflexes. So he’d be…

[pause]

SAM: What’d you talk about?

BOB: Not too much. I never really did speak too much to him. He would call out the name of a song. A song he wrote that he wanted to hear, and I knew all his songs.

SAM: So you played ’em to him?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Did you ask him anything?

BOB: No, I mean there was nothin’ to ask him. What’re you gonna ask him? He wasn’t the kinda guy you asked questions to.

[pause]

SAM: So you just kinda sat with him for days.

BOB: Yeah—I’d go out there. You had to leave at 5:00. It was in Greystone—Greypark or Greystone—it’s in New Jersey. Out somewhere there. Bus went there. Greyhound bus. From the Forty-second Street terminal. You’d go there and you’d get off and you walked up the hill to the gates. Actually it was a pretty foreboding place.

SAM: How old were you?

[Bob stops still. Stops picking. Thinks.]

BOB: How old was I? [pause] I don’t know. Nineteen, I guess.

SAM: Nineteen. And what kinda stuff were you listening to back then?

BOB: Oh, Bill Monroe, New Lost City Ramblers, Big Mama Thornton. People like that. Peggy Seeger. Jean Ritchie.

SAM: Hank Snow?

BOB: I’d always listened to Hank Snow. “Golden Rocket.”

SAM: At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB: Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

SAM: This is true.

BOB: Naw, I’ve always been real content with the old forms. I know my place by now.

SAM: So you feel like you know who you are?

BOB: Well, you always know who you are. I just don’t know who I’m gonna become.

[Pause. Bob keeps moving and picking.]

BOB: Did we ever see each other back then?

SAM: When?

BOB: When we were nineteen.

SAM: I saw you one time on the comer of Sixth Avenue and Houston Street.

BOB: What year?

SAM: Musta been ’66, ’67. Somethin’ like that. You were wearin’ a navy-blue pea jacket and tennis shoes.

BOB: Yeah, that musta been me. Naw, this was earlier than that. I was listenin’ to all them records on Stinson label and Folkways.

SAM: Stinson?

BOB: Yeah. Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee. Almanac Singers.

SAM: Almanac Singers?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What about gospel?

BOB: I always listened to gospel music. Dixie Hummingbirds, Highway QC’s, Five Blind Boys, and, of course, the Staple Singers.

SAM: What about Skip James or Joseph Spence?

BOB: Yeah. Bahama mama. [pause] Skip James. Once there was a Skip James. Elmore James.

SAM: Rather be buried in some old cypress grove.

BOB: So my evil spirit can grab that Greyhound bus and ride.

SAM: I’d rather sleep in some old hollow log than have a bad woman you can’t control.

BOB: Now, what was it he died of?

SAM: Skip James?

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: Cancer of the balls.

BOB: What?!

SAM: Yeah. Cancer of the balls. He refused to go to any white doctors ’cause he was afraid they’d cut his nuts off.

BOB: Don’t blame him one bit.

[Phone rings off right. Bob exits off right, leaving Sam alone. Sam turns off tape then rewinds it a short ways and plays it back. Again, the Jimmy Yancey piano music comes from recorder. No voices. As Bob’s voice is heard off right on phone, Sam keeps rewinding tape, playing it back in short snatches, trying to find their voices, but all that comes out is the piano music.]

BOB’S VOICE: [off right] Four oh five? Four oh five. You’re sure? [pause] I dunno. Four oh five sounds like Oklahoma City. I can’t remember. [pause] All right. [pause] Yeah. Four oh five. [pause] Naw, I think I’m gonna pass. [pause] I dunno. Sounds like too many record producers. [pause] Yeah. I’ll just hang around here probably. [pause] Okay. All right. [pause] Yeah.

[Bob enters again, with guitar, carrying a glass of whiskey on ice. He crosses to table, sets glass down after taking a sip, then starts picking the guitar again. Sam is still trying to find their voices on the tape but gets only the piano music.]

SAM: [fooling with tape] This is incredible.

BOB: What.

SAM: There’s nothin’ on here but piano music.

BOB: [laughs, keeps picking] You mean our voices aren’t on there?

SAM: Listen.

[He lets tape play. Jimmy Yancey rolls out.]

BOB: [listens] That’s the same music I was askin’ you about.

SAM: When?

BOB: Before. When you first came. That’s the music.

SAM: Well, our voices ain’t on here.

BOB: Don’t matter.

SAM: Well, I can’t remember all this stuff. How am I gonna remember all this stuff?

BOB: Make it up.

SAM: Well, there’s certain things you can’t make up.

BOB: Like what?

SAM: Certain turns of phrase.

BOB: Try it again. It’s gotta be on there. You had it on RECORD, right?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So it must be on there somewhere. You just gotta fool around with it.

[Sam rewinds, then plays tape. Their voices are heard this time, coming out of recorder.]

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] “Golden Rocket.”

SAM’S VOICE: [from tape] At that time were you fishin’ around for a form?

BOB’S VOICE: [from tape] Well, you can’t catch fish ’les you trow de line, mon.

[Sam shuts tape off.]

BOB: There. See. It was just hidin’ out. [laughs]

SAM: This is amazing. Where’d that music come from?

BOB: Musta been on there already. Is it an old tape?

SAM: No, I just bought it this morning. [Bob takes a sip of whiskey, sets glass down.]

BOB: Angels.

[Sam punches RECORD button. They continue. Bob keeps moving and playing guitar.]

SAM: Weird.

BOB: Is it on now?

SAM: Yeah. I guess.

BOB: Okay. Fire away.

SAM: Okay. Let’s see. [referring to notebook] Do you think it’s possible to have a pact with someone?

BOB: A pact? Yeah. I know that’s possible. I mean you should have a pact with someone. That presents a small problem for me, though—for instance, how many people can you have a pact with? And how many at the same time?

SAM: Not too many. How about women?

BOB: Nah, I don’t know anything about women.

SAM: How ’bout waitresses?

BOB: Well, it seems to me that waitresses are gettin’ younger and younger these days. Some of ’em look like babies.

SAM: So, you don’t have much hope for women?

BOB: On the contrary. Women are the only hope. I think they’re a lot more stable than men. Only trouble with women is they let things go on too long.

SAM: What things?

BOB: The whole Western sense of reality. Sometimes women have a tendency to be too lenient. Like a kid can go down and bust some old man in the head, rob a buncha old ladies, burglarize his brother’s joint, and blow up a city block, and his momma will still come down and cry over him.

SAM: Yeah, but that’s just nature, isn’t it? The nature of being a mother.

BOB: Yeah, I guess so. Nature.

SAM: Have you ever felt like a couple?

BOB: A couple? You mean two? Yeah. All the time. Sometimes I feel like ten couples.

SAM: I mean like you’re a part of another person. Like you belong. That other person carries something of you around with them and visee-versee.

BOB: Visee-versee?

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Yeah. Sure. A couple. Sure. Eve felt like that. Absolutely. Look—listen to this: [sings and plays] You must learn to leave the table when love is no longer being served/Just show them all that you are able/Just get up and leave without saying a word.

SAM: Who wrote that?

BOB: You got me. Roy Orbison or somebody. I dunno.

SAM: Roy Orbison?

BOB: Naw. I dunno. Good lyric.

SAM: Yeah. [writing a note] You must learn to leave the table ….

BOB: I mean you gravitate toward people who’ve got somethin’ to give you and maybe you’ve got somethin’ that they need.

SAM: Yeah, right.

BOB: And then maybe one day you wake up and see that they’re not givin’ it to you anymore. Maybe that’s the way it is.

SAM: But maybe you’re not, either.

BOB: Yeah. Maybe you haven’t been givin’ it to ’em for years. Maybe the rhythm’s off.

SAM: You know, Eve heard this theory that women are rhythmically different from men. By nature.

BOB: Oh yeah? I’ll drink to that.

SAM: Yeah. That the female rhythm is a side-to-side, horizontal movement and the male rhythm is vertical—up and down.

BOB: You mean sorta like a flying horse?

SAM: Yeah. Sorta.

BOB: But then the two come together, don’t they?

SAM: Right.

BOB: So they become one rhythm then.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: So there’s no such a thing as “sides” in the long run. It’s all the same.

SAM: It’s just a theory.

BOB: Yeah. Well, you can make a theory outta anything, I suppose.

SAM: Do you feel those two different kinds of rhythms in you?

BOB: Yeah, sure. We all do. There’s that slinky, side-to-side thing and the jerky, up-and-down one. But they’re a part of each other. One can’t do without the other. Like God and the Devil.

SAM: Did you always feel those two parts?

BOB: Yeah. Always. Like you feel the lie and the truth. At the same time, sometimes. Both, together. Like remember in Giant—

SAM: The movie?

BOB: Yeah. That last scene in Giant. You know that scene where Jett Rink stumbles all over himself across the table.

SAM: Yeah.

BOB: Well, I never did like that scene. Always felt like there was somethin’ phony about it. Didn’t quite ring true. Always bothered me. Like there was a lie hiding in there somewhere, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

SAM: Yeah, I never did either. You mean where he’s drunk and alone in the convention hall or whatever it was?

BOB: Yeah. You know why that was? Why it felt phony?

SAM: The makeup. All that gray in his hair?

BOB: No, no. I wish it was the makeup. Turns out Nick Adams, an actor at that time, who was a friend of James Dean’s, he overdubbed that speech because James Dean had died by that time.

SAM: Is that right?

BOB: Yeah. And that makes perfect sense because that don’t ring true. The end of that movie. But that’s what I mean—the lie and the truth, like that.

[pause]

SAM: Well, what happened to his voice?

BOB: Whaddya mean?

SAM: I mean what happened to James Dean’s original voice on the track? They must’ve had his voice track if they had the film on him.

BOB: I dunno. Maybe it was messed up or something.

SAM: Maybe it disappeared.

BOB: Maybe. Just vanished. I dunno.

[Again, the sound of screeching brakes and car crash off right. Neither of the characters pays any attention. Long pause as Bob moves and picks guitar. Sam makes notes.]

BOB: Sometimes I wonder why James Dean was great. Because—was he great or was everybody around him great?

SAM: No, he was great.

BOB: You think so?

SAM: Yeah. I mean, remember the scene in Rebel Without a Cause with Sal Mineo on the steps of the courthouse? Where he gets shot.

BOB: Plato.

SAM: Yeah, and he’s holding Plato in his arms, and in the other hand he’s got the bullets.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: What was it he says? “They’re not real bullets’’ or—no—what was it?

BOB: “I’ve got the bullets!”

SAM: Right. [suddenly screaming with his arm outstretched in imitation of James Dean] “I’ve got the bullets!” [back to normal voice] I mean, that’s spectacular acting. Where do you see that kind of acting these days?

BOB: Nowhere. He didn’t come up overnight either. I mean he really studied whatever it was he was about.

SAM: I guess.

BOB: Well, why do you suppose—I mean what was it that he did that was so different? For instance, in that scene with the bullets. What made that scene so incredible?

SAM: It was this pure kind of expression.

BOB: Of what?

SAM: Of an emotion. But it went beyond the emotion into another territory. Like most actors in that scene would express nothing but self-pity, but he put across a true remorse.

BOB: Remorse?

SAM: Yeah. For mankind. A pity for us all. This wasted life. This dumb death of an innocent kid. The death of the innocent.

BOB: So he actually did have a cause then?

SAM: I don’t know.

BOB: “Rebel with a Cause.” See, that’s the devil’s work.

SAM: What?

BOB: Words have lost their meaning. Like rebel. Like cause. Like love. They mean a million different things.

SAM: Like Hank Williams?

BOB: Naw, you can never change the meaning of Hank Williams. That’s here to stay. Nobody’ll ever change that.

SAM: Did you used to listen to him a lot?

BOB: Overload. Who can you listen to if you can’t listen to Hank?

SAM: Did he mean the same thing to you as James Dean?

BOB: Yeah, but in different ways. They both told the truth.

SAM: They both died in cars.

BOB: Yeah.

SAM: A Cadillac and a Porsche.

BOB: He was on his way to Ohio, I think. Some gig in Ohio.

SAM: I saw the car he died in. Cadillac coupe, convertible. I looked in the back seat of that car and this overwhelming sense of loneliness seized me by the throat. It was almost unbearable. I couldn’t look very long. I had to turn away.

BOB: Maybe you shouldn’ta looked at all.

SAM: Maybe. [pause] Are you superstitious?

BOB: Naw.

SAM: You had a crash, right? A motorcycle.

BOB: Oh, yeah. Way back. Triumph 500.

SAM: What happened?

BOB: I couldn’t handle it. I was dumbstruck.

SAM: How do you mean?

BOB: I just wasn’t ready for it. It was real early in the morning on top of a hill near Woodstock. I can’t even remember exactly how it happened. I was blinded by the sun for a second. This big orange sun was comin’ up. I was driving right straight into the sun, and I looked up into it even though I remember someone telling me a long time ago when I was a kid never to look straight at the sun ’cause you’ll get blinded. I forget who told me that. My dad or an uncle or somebody. Somebody in the family. I always believed that must be true or else why would an adult tell you something like that. And I never did look directly at the sun when I was a kid, but this time, for some reason, I just happened to look up right smack into the sun with both eyes and, sure enough, I went blind for a second and I kind of panicked or something. I stomped down on the brake and the rear wheel locked up on me and I went fly in’.

SAM: Were you out?

BOB: Yeah. Out cold.

SAM: Who found you?

BOB: Sarah. She was followin’ me in a car. She picked me up. Spent a week in the hospital, then they moved me to this doctor’s house in town. In his attic. Had a bed up there in the attic with a window lookin’ out. Sarah stayed there with me. I just remember how bad I wanted to see my kids. I started thinkin’ about the short life of trouble. How short life is. I’d just lay there listenin’ to birds chirping. Kids playing in the neighbor’s yard or rain falling by the window. I realized how much I’d missed. Then I’d hear the fire engine roar, and I could feel the steady thrust of death that had been constantly looking over its shoulder at me. [pause] Then I’d just go back to sleep.

[Phone rings off right. Bob turns and looks in that direction but doesn’t move toward it. He stops playing guitar. Phone keeps ringing. He just stares off right. Lights begin to fade very slowly. Bob stays still, staring off right. Sam stops recorder, then rewinds and punches PLAY button. The Jimmy Yancey music fills the room, joining the sound of waves. Lights keep dimming to black. The phone keeps ringing. The waves keep crashing. Jimmy Yancey keeps playing in the dark.]

[effectingsomedragons]

Mass Effect Trilogy Tag

Tagged by: @nicolasadrabbles

I actually got into the game just after ME2 came out in 2010, when I'd bought a 360 for a much anticipated G1-based Transformers game I'd preordered. I wanted a game to play while I waited and a friend recommended Mass Effect. From that point on, I was hooked.

Favorite game of the series: Mass Effect 2. It's more character driven, sure, but I really like being able to build up relationships and the focus on learning more about the truth of what happened to the Protheans.

MaleShep or FemShep?: I've always played with femShep, and I'll always play femShep in the future.

Earthborn, Colonist or Spacer?: My two main Shepards are Spacer and Colonist respectively, and I like them both for entirely different reasons, and for entirely different levels of angst.

Paragon or Renegade?: I am physically incapable of being intentionally mean to a character in a video game, so most of my playthroughs are overwhelmingly Paragon. Desi leans a little more Paragade but still overall pretty blue.

Biotics or Tech?: Hilariously, for my main Shepard, neither. She's a soldier and she is totally fine with shooting and/or punching a problem she can't talk down until it stops being a problem. But if I had to personally pick, biotics.

Favorite class: Soldier. I know it's the stock Basic Bitch class but it's honestly really fun, and it's just hilarious that this Just A Guy soldier would become the savior of the galaxy when surrounded by space wizards and tech geniuses.

Favorite companion: Garrus is definitely top of the list, followed immediately after by Tali and Kasumi, depending on the mission. They all had some of the best dialogue, and I am terrible at balancing a party.

Least favorite companion: Vega. I love him as a character, but I really was just generally frustrated that he took up the tank slot normally filled by a krogan, and we were denied Baby Boy Grunt. Still love him though.

My squad selection: ME1 - Garrus and Wrex or Garrus and Tali, sometimes Wrex and Tali, ME2 - Garrus and Tali, usually, but occasionally Zaeed and Kasumi for shits and giggles, ME3 - I weirdly never had a set squad but I did usually have Garrus with me.

Favorite in-game romance: Garrus, with Thane a close second despite his treatment by Bioware.

Other pairings I like: Tali/Kal, Sam/Gabby, Joker/Edi

Favorite NPC: Nyreen, Kal'Reegar, Zaal'Koris, and Niftu Cal

Favorite antagonist: I am again a basic bitch and really like Saren. His history fascinates me, and he's honestly a great mirror to hold up of what Shepard could become if they aren't careful.

Favorite mission: Priority: Rannoch. There's just something really heartbreaking but at the same time really sweet about it, depending on how you play it, though I always make peace between the quarians and the geth... which I think lends to the poignancy I feel. Their war ends in peace in the very place it began.

Favorite loyalty mission: Easily Tali's loyalty mission. My heart breaks for her every single time I play through it, especially when she breaks down after finding her father's body. And being able to rally the crowd if you helped Veetor and save Kal is easily my favorite way to solve that mission... unorthodox AND fun.

Favorite DLC: Lair of the Shadow Broker. It has some of the best dialogue in the entire game, including my favorite exchange between Liara and Shepard (see below).

Control, Synthesis or Destroy?: Destroy. The whole twist "but the Reapers aren't really bad they really just want to prove organics and synthetics will never get along" bs never sits well with me when I just made peace between the quarians and the geth and taught an AI to love. I usually use one of the happy ending mods just to clear it out further.

Favorite weapon: M-7 Lancer and M-5 Phalanx, my beloveds.

Favorite place: The Migrant Fleet, for what little time we get to spend there. But part of that is a wish of what could have been- I'd have loved to have seen more of it.

A quote I like:

Shepard: What kind of weapons does this thing have? Liara: It's a taxi; it has a fare meter!

Tagging... anyone who wants to do it!

#meme time

[winterscaptain]

focused.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: thanks to kira for helping me through the last dregs of this!! you’re amazing!! As promised, here’s lo-fi/mayhem in our ajf world. as (usually) usual, no context required to enjoy, but it’s pretty fun over here!

words: 6.4k warnings: language, canon-typical injury/violence, everyone’s mad and everyone’s worried!

summary: “knowing when to fight is just as important as knowing how.” terry goodkind, faith of the fallen. au!may 2008

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next? updated: february 1st, 2021

“Don’t get comfortable. There will be time to debrief on the plane.” Hotch’s eyes are trained on the monitor, where grainy security footage plays and replays an exceedingly casual murder in an underground subway station. 

Reid, entering behind you, squints at the monitor. “Where are we headed?”

“New York.”

Rossi advances on the monitor. “Five shootings in two weeks. It’s about time we got the call.” 

You watch as Hotch replays the tape again. “Why the delay?”

Aaron doesn’t answer you, but rather addresses Derek. “I want to take Garcia with us. Hopefully they’ll give us access to their surveillance systems.”

He’s distracted, almost absent-minded. It’s odd. 

“What do we know?” You try again with another question, and Emily dips her chin - she had the same one. 

Hotch pauses the video, turning toward the rest of you - loosely circled around the table. “All the killings are mid-day. Single gunshot to the head with a .22.”

“Any witnesses?” As always, JJ looks for somewhere to go as soon as wheels are down. 

She really doesn’t get paid enough. 

There’s something odd in her voice and temperament this morning, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. Now that you’re really awake and looking around, everyone's a little jumpy this morning. It doesn't help that the two most grounded people on the team are the most absent-minded of you all. 

“No.” 

Spencer pipes up. “.22-caliber pistol’s only 152 decibels. New York streets and subways are routinely well over a hundred.”

“So,” you ask, “could it be such that possible witnesses don’t even clock it before the unsub’s already on their way?”

Spencer nods. 

Derek shifts beside you. “They sound like mob hits.” 

Aaron dips his chin, but says, “Except none of them have ties to organized crime.”

The rest of the facts and questions fly past you - no connection between victims, no communication or contact, surveillance footage that shows next to nothing, an establishment that the unsub is bold and well-trained. 

Seems completely random. 

Spencer voices your next thought. “Son of Sam all over again.”

The grim look on Aaron’s face tells you all you need to know. 

+++

Derek, Penelope, and Emily shoot the shit as they get on the plane, but you notice JJ staring forlornly out the window. You resolve to discover what that’s about as soon as possible. Having her down was odd…

But she has been acting strange lately, not just today. 

You sit beside Hotch, across from Reid as Rossi flips through photos of the victims. 

Spencer makes astute observations about the continued pattern of, well, no pattern at all, while Hotch provides some remarks here and there. 

One of them catches your attention. “It’s a joint FBI-NYPD taskforce?” 

Yeah, because those always go over so well. 

“Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office. She’s running point on the case and called me directly.” He calls out to JJ, who then informs the pilot you’re all ready to get wheels up. “Kate’s starting to butt heads with the local detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes.” 

There’s something in his voice you can’t place. History, maybe? 

“Joyner, I know her,” Derek says. “She’s a Brit, right?” 

Hotch shrugs. “Well, dual citizenship. Her father’s British, her mother’s American. She was a big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau.”

You look over at him. 

That’s a ridiculous amount of knowledge for someone who doesn’t work in the same state, Aaron. 

“I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass.” It’s a test. The defiant tip of Derek’s chin tells you as much. 

Hotch takes the bait. “I didn’t think so.”

You can’t help it. “You know her?”

“We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard.”

You look at Emily, who shrugs. 

“And she’s good?” You wouldn’t call Dave’s tone skeptical, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was another test. He’s a lot subtler than Morgan. 

Hotch looks back at Dave. “I think we’re lucky to have her.” 

+++

You all step out of the elevator, and you stay closest to JJ. Her absent-mindedness had yet to leave her, and as the person closest to her age, you were doing your best to support her with your presence alone. 

JJ leans toward you as you approach the center of the office. “Is it just me or does she look -”

“- exactly like Haley?” You finish JJ’s thought. “Yeah.”

There’s a little smile you can see on Aaron’s face, just touching his profile. Agent Joyner has one too, and it makes you feel...something. 

Whatever it is, it isn’t comfortable. 

“Kate.”

“Aaron. How’ve you been?”

You take another glance at JJ. She seems to have the same thought as you. 

First name basis? How close are they?

“Well, thank you. This is my team.” He introduces you all one by one, and you attempt to plaster a polite smile on your face, just like everyone else. Derek’s the only one who doesn’t make an effort, and you tap the side of his shoe with your foot. 

Penelope gets settled right away, and the NYPD detectives approach shortly after that. Of course, they start with a snide remark at Spencer. Your hackles rise, and you take a little huff of a breath. 

Calm down. 

Kate introduces Detectives Brustin and Cooper. Dave gets right to the point, doing his best to establish baseline rapport. 

It doesn’t work. 

You don’t notice that you’ve crept closer to Aaron throughout the proceedings, now standing just off his shoulder, next to Emily, until Kate leans into him. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

The crumpling of your brow is quick, and you hope nobody noticed. Emily’s head, whirling around to look at Derek, is far less subtle. 

“Sure.”

Emily tracks back to JJ, who looks confused. In a hushed and suggestive tone, she tells her, “They...liaised when she was at Scotland Yard.”

You hide your laugh in your shoulder, covering your movement with an attempt to adjust your backpack. 

Derek steps up behind you. “Let me get that for you, kiddo.” 

You look up at him, hard-pressed to keep your mirth to yourself. A little smile plays at the edge of his lips as well. He turns you around when he’s done pretending to be helpful, holding you in the little huddle that develops between the rest of you and the NYPD detectives. 

Derek’s eyes keep flickering to Kate’s office, where she and Hotch chat informally and perhaps even fondly, to an extent. Heat rises in your cheeks. 

Get over yourself. 

+++

You attempt to ignore the sheer amount of time Aaron spends looking over Kate’s shoulder behind her desk. Tearing your eyes from her office window, you return to your task. 

The whiteboard marker in your hand is seeing lots of use as you follow Spencer’s instructions, tracing lines between key points, making notes, etc. Cooper’s banter with Emily puts a little smile on your face. 

“Anti-geographical profiling? Now you wonder why we’re so skeptical?” Cooper’s voice is full of play, but there’s a very real concern behind it. 

Emily laughs, but then explains, “This unsub’s organized. He strikes at the same time of day, he knows where the cameras are placed. That means he’s doing his own surveillance.”

You offer your two cents in support of Spencer, who outlines the difference between need-motivated killers and organized killers. Cooper looks a little impressed by the time you add, “So, essentially, we need to look everywhere this unsub isn’t to find where he lives. He has a comfort zone, and we just have to find it.” 

“What are we finding?” Hotch and Kate roll out of her office, and he settles beside you, peering at the map.

You look over your shoulder at him. “He’s organized, so we’ve redirected to an anti-geographical profile.” 

“Keep looking.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door, Kate trailing behind him with a confidence that tightens your jaw. 

Maybe Derek was right. Maybe she is a pain in the ass. 

+++

You keep your eyes up as Rossi and Hotch inspect the body on the busy New York street. Your mind wanders to a lecture at the academy, the voice of the late Jennifer Shepard echoing through your head. 

“Always watch the watchers.” 

But then again, she’d always backed it up with another story about “the man with all the rules” to undermine the rules in question. The stories did more than make you laugh - they helped you remember. 

“See anything?” Hotch looks up, not at you, but you know you have his attention. 

You shake your head, your eyes still on the crowd. “Nothing obvious.” 

He hums, and tunes back in as Derek says, “From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they’re gonna get is the back of his head.”

“Let’s not be too quick to decide what we do or don’t have.” Kate meets Derek’s eyes and stares him down. You bristle, but Hotch turns just the smallest bit toward you, reminding you to behave. 

The detective makes another snide remark as Kate brushes past the rest of you. 

Derek turns toward Hotch, and you step back, giving them the illusion of privacy. “You mind telling me why I’m catching attitude from her?”

Because you’re better at your job? Because you don’t have a chip on your shoulder the size of the Atlantic? Because you probably haven’t maybe slept with our unit chief, maybe?

“FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn’t bring this case home, she’s gonna be reassigned. And you are at the top of the list to replace her.” 

“You’re kidding me.” 

Aaron squints a little, but his words are deeply genuine. “Why should you be surprised? You’re good at your job. People notice that.” 

He’s right. 

“What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back from stealing her away from Scotland Yard?” 

Hotch shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t know. Politics here are different. And you can see she doesn’t pull punches.” He walks away, and Derek looks over his shoulder at you. 

With a little smile, you say, “He’s right, you know.” 

“You’re a terrible ass-kisser, kid.” 

Nevertheless, he taps your shoulder with his knuckle and you both make your way to Rossi, examining a tarot card. 

+++

“We’ve got more than one unsub.” Hotch’s tone is more than defeated, and you peer further over his shoulder, your fingers pressing lightly into the back of his arm for balance. 

Rossi circles the desk. “So, we have more than one unsub. What does that tell us?”

“Most teams stick together,” Spencer says. “Ng and Lake. The Krays. Bittaker and Norris. They don’t usually kill separately.” 

Derek is next, offering, “Could be some kind of gang initiation.” 

Emily and JJ volley about gang operations and local task forces for a moment before Kate asks. “Do you think we have enough for a working profile?”

You startle a little. She’s closer than you thought, on the other side of Hotch. You lean around him, the soft wool of his suit sleeve still under your fingers. “Broad strokes, maybe. Nothing specific, yet.”

Hotch makes a few assignments, but you’re focused on Derek. As you suspected, he has an idea. “I think we should get out on the streets.”

Also unsurprising, Kate has an immediate rebuttal. “I brought you here to create a profile.” 

“Which we can give in the morning, and they can share it with the afternoon shift.” 

She huffs. “We’ve allocated every extra man we have.” You don’t miss the warning glance Hotch shoots Derek or the way Derek ignores it. “This is New York City. It’s not like adding a few more people is gonna blanket the city.” 

“I understand it’s a long shot. But these guys, they hit at mid-day. We could target ingress and egress to particular neighborhoods. Position us near express stops - 14th, 42nd, 59th -”

“Morgan. It’s not your call.” Hotch’s rebuke is harsh, surprising. 

You inhale sharply and tuck your lip between your teeth, retracting your hand. 

This is gonna be a long case. 

+++

Thankfully, you’re all headed back to the hotel in fairly short order. Hotch has all but ordered Kate to bed, and you try not to let your thoughts stray too far in response. 

Spencer’s eyes wander up, and you follow them. “JJ -” 

Will?

You’d only met him once but like him well enough. He was polite, pleasant, and even funny. Seeing as you hadn’t heard much about him in the last few months, you assumed JJ had broken it off. 

Guess not. 

She turns. “Will.” 

“Hey,” he says, “took a shot and flew to D.C. but it didn’t work. I figured I’d train up to New York - only a few more hours.” 

Hotch looks a little surprised, which probably means you do too. He extends his hand. “Detective.” 

Will takes it. “I’m sorry for showing up like this. I know you’re working. But, um…” He drops his voice. “I can’t stand you being on this case and me not being here - not with what’s going on.” 

You look at JJ, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then Hotch, who looks a little confused. Aaron’s the first one to speak, and you’re more than a little touched by the concern in his voice as he addresses JJ and JJ alone. “Is there a problem?”

Will dips his head, and you know he’s disappointed. 

What the hell is going on? 

She turns toward the team. With a little laugh, she says, “I’m pregnant.”

Hotch freezes, and you step close to him as Emily congratulates her. Will extends his hand and Hotch shakes it again. “I’ve asked JJ to marry me.” 

JJ whirls around, and there’s a warning in her voice. “Will.”

“We’re, ah, working out some kinks.” 

“We’ll, um” Aaron says, coming back to himself, “give you both some privacy.” He nods and steps away. You follow close behind him, but you fall back as JJ hops after him. 

“Hotch -”

There’s something in his voice you’ve never heard before when he replies. “JJ, you could have told me.” He almost sounds...hurt? Your brow crumples, and you try to stay out of his eye line as they chat. 

Pin that for later...

“I know.” 

“I understand if you need to take some time.” 

“No, I want to be here.” She’s firm in her conviction, and you can’t say you’d be any different if you were in any similar situation - injury, illness, otherwise. 

“Okay. Seven AM.” 

She nods and turns back to Will while Hotch continues toward the elevators. The rest of the team passes ahead of you, leaping into the open lift. Aaron hangs back and you follow his lead, letting the doors close. 

“Are you okay?” 

He sighs. “Yeah. Just unexpected.” 

Taking a little leap, you step close to him in a show of camaraderie. He’d never let on, but he needs contact sometimes. You might even go so far as to say the poor man is touch-starved. 

He wraps his arm around you, and you bite back a pleased smile, feeling more than a little chuffed. You examine his profile. “What’s on your mind?”

His shrug says many things. His sigh says more. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

+++

“We’re not having that discussion, right now.” Hotch’s cutoff is flat, and it shoots irritation through you.

Your brow furrows, and you sputter for a second before turning on him. “What’s with you? That’s like the sixth time you’ve shut me down today.” 

Hotch opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Kate’s voice chirps from behind you. 

“Are all your younger agents this insubordinate, Aaron, or is it limited to this one?”

You grit your teeth, and blatantly ignore the apology blossoming in Hotch’s eyes as you say, “Excuse me, sir.” You turn your head, not quite looking at Kate. “Agent Joyner.” You brush past Hotch, almost shoulder-checking him, and leave the room. The door shuts loudly behind you. 

Derek looks up, and you wave him off as he rises to follow. 

Throwing the stairway door open, you fly down two flights of stairs before sitting heavily upon the landing. You throw your blazer off, the heat under the fabric only fueling your anger. 

Your hands cover your face and you manage three deep breaths before tears press in at your eyes. Molten humiliation courses through you, your face hot and hands shaking. 

It’s not fair to expect Kate to understand the rapport you have with Hotch, why you can push him inexplicably further than the rest of your team. It’s not fair, but you still feel betrayed by Hotch’s accommodation of her insecurity and Kate’s own ridiculousness. 

The lack of sleep doesn’t help.

A few relevant thoughts regarding the profile float through your head and you pin them for later. 

The door opens two floors above, and you hear Aaron’s familiar footsteps hesitate before they slowly descend to your level. You keep your face pressed into your hands as he sits beside you, resting his arms on his knees. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you today.”

You sniff, but don’t answer. He waits for you, a few minutes passing in silence, but you don’t have anything to say. 

“I’ve done my best to make Kate feel supported, but I -” he huffs, and you know he’s working hard to properly articulate his feelings. You appreciate it. “I’ve failed both you and Morgan in the process. I’ve explained the situation to him, but I didn’t speak to you before I…” He trails off. “For that, I’m sorry.” 

You drop your hands from your face, wiping at the evidence of your anger. “Just...remember who’s on your team, would you?”

“I do.” 

“Then -” You throw your arms up and huff at him, his response inspiring a new wave of irritation in your chest. “Then why the fuck are you riding my ass about this shit today? You haven’t taken a single one of my ideas, and all but one has been really good.” 

He sighs. “I know. I also know that you can take it. I trust you to be resilient in difficult political situations such as this one. I don’t have that same trust in Kate right now.” He pauses and you watch his left thumb worry a track back and forth over the knuckle of his middle finger. Your eyes wander to the barely-noticeable tan line where his wedding ring used to sit. With a start, you realize you didn’t notice its absence and you don’t know when he took it off. When he speaks again, your eyes snap back to your feet. “Your ability to step away instead of rightfully lashing out at Kate speaks to your excellence and professionalism in your role, and shows me my faith is not misplaced.” 

You look at him, finding his brown eyes soft and apologetic. “Thanks.” 

He grabs your blazer off the ground and stands. He straightens his suit jacket, offering you a hand. You take it and rise, using the back of your other hand to rid yourself entirely of tears. 

With gentle hands, he slips your blazer over your shoulders, fixing the collar and brushing debris off the back. You let him fuss, knowing all the while his concern is another apology. 

“It’s far too organized to be just organized crime, by the way,” you inform him casually, as if remarking on the weather. 

He looks almost startled. “What?”

You tug on his arm and take the stairs two at a time back up to Kate’s floor. “Look.” He follows you as you burst back through both sets of doors into the conference room, stepping in front of Kate for access to the map. “We have more than one unsub. They’ve attacked different neighborhoods across Manhattan - all different demographic and socio-economic backgrounds. They’re trying to send a message, and each attack is a play to build their audience. If anything, our presence tells them that it’s working.” 

A look of realization crosses Hotch’s face, and he presses a hand to your shoulder, his fingertips squeezing just a little before he lets go. “Well done.” He turns to Kate. “We’re ready to update the working profile.” 

You keep your eyes trained on Aaron, but Kate’s clenched jaw doesn’t escape your notice. 

+++

“Focused? From where I’m standing, your focus is on her.” 

It’s finally come to a head. Derek has absolutely lost it, rightfully so, in the middle of the federal building, while Hotch tries to keep the peace, and Kate looks appropriately chastised. 

You reach for Derek’s elbow with gentle fingers, but he shakes you off. 

“Take a walk. Now.” Aaron’s tone is nothing to trifle with, and it sends a shiver down your spine. 

Fuck. 

“Derek. C’mon.” You yank once on his sleeve and lead him out the doors. He’s pissed, almost vibrating with energy. 

You look over your shoulder exactly once to check on Aaron, who leans heavily over a desk. When he looks up, you turn your head before he can meet your gaze. 

Yes, it’s a punishment. Yes, he knows it. He'll get your attention once he’s earned it again. 

Derek cools off a little once you get outside, and he leads the way to the hotel bar. You’re sure you'd be better off returning to your post upstairs, but he needs you more than anyone else right now. 

You also don’t trust yourself to be in the same room as Aaron - the likelihood of losing your usually-endless patience with him is dangerously high. At this rate, you’d get yourself a first-class ticket to Suspension City - at worst ending with your removal from the unit. 

There was no way on this green earth that you’d end up off the unit of Hotch had any say, but your exhausted brain was only giving you the worst-case scenario at the moment. 

He sits heavily on a barstool and orders a Stella. You don’t comment on his choice to drink while on the clock. You take a water, and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t touch his beer. 

“Thanks for coming with me.” 

“Of course.” 

“You should go back.” 

Looking up, you see Rossi walking through the doors. “Alright, but you’re not getting out of anything.” By the time you’ve finished, Dave is at Derek’s other side, getting comfortable. You press a hand to Derek’s shoulder, leaving them alone. 

You take a few deep breaths before returning to the proper floor. Kate is in her office with Hotch over her shoulder. 

He looks up when you walk in. How’s Morgan?

“He’ll be back.” 

+++

You reach Emily with Derek and JJ, and she looks flustered. 

“Are you okay?” Derek takes stock of Emily, but you figure out there’s nothing to know about Cooper. 

Emily walks through the moments before and during the shooting, growing increasingly intense. You watch her as Derek digs and digs - finding the right questions for the answers she wants to share. 

“Wait,” you ask. “You think he deliberately shot someone where he could be caught?”

“What if he did?” Her eyes are wild, angry. “What if they chose this spot because we were here?”

“What are you thinking?” Derek leans forward, searching her face for answers.

She enumerates her points. “He had no ID on him. He waited until we caught up to him. He was strangely calm- it’s almost like suicide by cop.”

“Why?” You hear yourself ask. “Why would he do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to make us think everything was finished.” 

You look at Derek. He looks back at you. 

“We need to walk back through this profile.”

Just then, Aaron and Kate dip under the police tape and make a beeline for Rossi and Reid. Dave looks grim and you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you’re sure they’ve come to the same conclusion as you. 

Terrorism. 

+++

“So much for theory.” Dave uncrosses his arms and the room leaps into action. 

Kate grabs her blazer and looks at Aaron. “We need to hit the ground running.” 

“I'm gonna head to the hospital,” Emily says, already headed for the door. “I'll check on Cooper and brief detective Brustin.” 

“Good.” Aaron makes the rest of the assignments. “Dave, will you go talk to the commissioner?” He assigns you and Derek to Homeland Security for a briefing, and you grab your things. You will be Derek’s shadow for the duration, and you’re more than happy you’re with him. 

So why does something feel...wrong?

You look at Aaron, and his brow is furrowed. He meets your eyes. What’s wrong?

I don’t know. 

His mouth presses into a thin line. This first, then that. 

You nod and he starts talking again. “Kate and I will go talk to the mayor and we'll meet back here as soon as possible.”

“One advantage that we have right now is that they don't know we know they're watching.”

For once, you agree with Kate. It’s about damn time. 

+++

You get into the car with Derek and head toward the DHS field office. 

“I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve done well.” 

Smiling a little, you thank him. “Though I do think we’ve pushed Hotch to the absolute limit this week, between the two of us.” 

He rolls his eyes, speeding down the shockingly barren New York streets. “If one of us isn’t, who is?”

“Rossi.” 

You both freeze as an explosion goes off. You don’t know where it is, but Derek turns around with a spectacular screech of tires. 

“Derek...What -”

“We’re going back. That’s not good. Let’s go.” He guns the engine, and you’re on your way back to the federal building with sirens blaring. 

His phone rings and he checks the caller ID as he answers. “Yeah. I'm still here.” He looks at you. “We’re still here.” 

“Yes, you are. Thank God.”

Garcia. 

“I'm almost back at the federal building. What the hell's going on?” 

“Alright, we're going over the closed-circuit footage right now.” You can hear her faintly through the phone, and he puts her on speaker. 

“Who else have you checked on?”

“You're the first. Rossi and Reid called me.”

“All right. Keep me on the line while you check on everyone else.” 

Emily picks up next. “Is everyone ok?”

Garcia tells her she’s got the both of you on the line, and she’s already spoken to Rossi and Reid. 

Your body is almost completely bowed toward Derek, twisted in the passenger seat. “Emily, where are you?” 

“I'm following detective Brustin to one of the NYPD’s Critical Incident Command Posts.”

“One of them?” Garcia’s confusion is only a little frantic, and you more than sympathize with her tangent. Anything is a better thought than the one you’re all sharing at this very moment. 

Derek explains the decentralization of the CICP’s following 9/11 - too many eggs in one basket. 

Garcia cuts him off, getting back on track. “Has anyone talked to JJ?”

Emily answers her. “She was headed back to the hotel.” 

“In an SUV? 

“I think so. Stay with me a minute. I'll dial her mobile.” 

JJ’s voicemail rings through Derek’s phone, and your heart sinks. “This is Agent Jareau, Communications Director for the FBI’s Behavioral--” It cuts off.

You lean over the center console. “What was that? What happened?”

Garcia’s voice is flustered when she answers, “It went dead mid-message.”

“Try her again. She's probably back at--” You lose Emily. 

You lost all of them in the middle of a sentence, and all the blood drains out of your face. Derek drops his phone into one of the cupholders and reaches out. You grab his hand, holding it in both of yours. 

This is a nightmare. 

Derek keeps driving, and you find a police barricade on your way back to the federal building. Derek throws the car into park and you both leap out of the car, flashing your badges at anyone who will look. You find the man in charge, but he tells you to get back to the federal building. 

Hot anger flies through you. 

Who does he think he is? 

You stick close to Derek, but startle when you hear Hotch cry out. Pressing along the barricade, you call across the block. “Aaron! Aaron! We’re here!” 

You get leave to go, and you and Derek sprint toward Aaron and Kate. He’s covered in blood, both his and Kate’s and you get on one side of him while Derek crouches on the other side of Kate. Your hands flutter over him for a moment, one of them landing on the nape of his neck. The softness of his hair is the same as it’s always been, and it grounds you. 

“Aaron -” 

He’s not looking at you. “Morgan, we've got to get her out of here.” 

Derek throws his arm out of the side, outlining the situation. “They're not letting any ambulances down here ‘til they clear the scene.” He turns to the young man hovering behind Aaron. “Kid, you gotta get behind the barricades. Let's go. Go!”

Hotch nods at him. “Go, Sam.”

“Good luck.” The kid sprints off, and Derek draws Hotch’s focus again. 

“Talk to me. Can we carry her?” He leans further over Kate, into Aaron’s eye line. “Hotch, can we carry her?”

“No, I tried. Morgan, she's gonna bleed to death if we don't get her out of here. We gotta do something.” The ache in his voice is horrible. You reach out, brushing some hair off Kate’s forehead. She’s cold to the touch, and you press your hand to the side of her face, willing your warmth into her. 

“C’mon Kate.” You whisper to yourself. She’s still not your favorite person, but Aaron’s agony as he literally holds her body together tears your heart in two.

Derek’s phone rings, and it’s Penelope. “Garcia, I got Hotch. But listen to me. You gotta get somebody down here right away, you hear me? Right now. What? You're absolutely sure?” Derek looks up, finding the kid standing by the shelled remains of the car. “Hotch. The kid. He's the bomber.” 

“Go.” Aaron’s voice is defeated, and you hesitate as your body coils to chase after Derek. Aaron looks at you. “Please. Stay.” 

You nod, and tuck in close to him, keeping one hand on his arm and another on Kate’s cheek. An ambulance pulls up, and you’re more than relieved. 

Hotch briefs the paramedic. “She's got an arterial bleed in her back and I'm doing my best to hold it closed. 

“You ok?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour. 

“I just want to get her out of here.”

That’s not a fucking answer, Aaron. 

You let it go, for now. He’s a mess, but he’s alive and he’s conscious. That’s what’s important right now. You tune back in. 

“You were calling for help and I couldn't listen anymore. My partner was too afraid to come in here with me.” 

Aaron leans into Kate, and your heart pulls again. “Kate, we're gonna get you out of here. We're on our way out of here.”

You help as much as you can, following instructions and making sure Kate’s stable. 

+++

When you’re all finished, you get into the passenger seat of the ambulance. Hotch is on autopilot and he shouldn’t be driving, but you’re ready to take over at a moment’s notice. 

When you’re stopped at the emergency room entrance, you flash your credentials as Hotch explains the situation as clearly as he can. The Secret Service agent reluctantly waves you through. Kate’s crashing in the back, and Aaron’s agitation flies through the roof. 

It’s a blur, but you finally end up in the hospital, shadowing Aaron. He collapses, and you cry out for help, holding his hands as he hits the ground. 

Everything's happening so fast. 

When will it end?

+++

“Kiddo, where’s Hotch?” Derek comes flying through the doors of the ER, and you throw yourself into him. 

“He’s fine. Massive trauma to his right ear and a shrapnel wound. Kate’s in surgery.” 

There’s a commotion from behind the open door, and you both rush in when you hear Hotch’s voice.

You get in between Hotch and the attending, doing your best to calm him down. “Aaron, Hotch. Calm down. Slow down. You’re really hurt.” 

“Where’s Kate?” 

You press your hands into his wrists, and he twists his arms, surprising you by gripping your forearms. “She’s in surgery. Your go-bag is on its way. Nothing’s happened since the first blast.” 

He looks somewhat placated but looks over at Derek. “Sam?”

“He’s dead.” 

Hotch releases you. “Morgan, the profile's wrong. Call JJ.” 

+++

“Are you ok?” Emily takes full stock of him, and isn’t happy with what she finds. 

“Yeah. I just want to understand why I'm still alive.” You help him with his vest, minding his shoulder. You’re not sure what’s wrong with it, but he’s favoring one over the other. He looks at you, and there are thanks in his brown eyes. You offer him a quick, soft smile but continue with your task, gently tightening the vest around his tender ribs, smoothing over the velcro with even pressure. 

You’re listening as they go along, talking signatures and bomb-making and all manner of horrific precedent. You pass two pieces of fresh cotton to Hotch, who immediately replaces the bloodied cotton in his right ear. He shakes his head with two deep blinks.

His ears are ringing something stupid right now, I bet. 

I wish I could do more. 

Just be here. Do your job. That’s what you can do. 

All at once, you figure out that the ambulance is the bomb. You spot Hotch as he moves (way too fast) down the hallway. 

Goddamn it, Aaron. 

+++

The bastard slit his throat. 

Fuck. 

The look on Aaron’s face is nothing short of disgust, and you’re sure yours matches. 

+++

You’re waiting for him when he walks out of the operating room. His eyes are hollow and they seem to look through you rather than at you. 

“Hotch - Aaron - I’m so sorry.” 

You didn’t particularly like Kate, but you know how much he cared for her. His pain often feels like yours - even more frequently, you can't parse his from yours. While you didn’t expect to mourn her, you find that weight in your belly anyway. Your eyes mist up against your will, your breath hitching in your throat. 

He doesn’t say anything, and your voice is almost desperate when you ask, “What can I do?”

Brown eyes flicker around the room. He looks more like a caged animal in this moment than in any other you’ve ever seen. You approach him slowly, and you’re not sure if he heard you. There’s still blood on his neck from his ear, and you’re terrified he’s lost his hearing for good. 

“Aaron?”

He finally acknowledges you when you’re close enough to him to take his hand. You catch him as he wilts, pressing a hand to the back of his head as he tucks his head into your neck. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Aaron.” 

He mumbles something into your shoulder, and you lean back, holding him up with your hands on his biceps. 

“What?”

“Call Haley. Tell her, please. They got along really well. She’d want to know.” 

You nod and guide him to a chair. He sits heavily, tilting his head against the wall. Pulling your phone from your belt, you ask, “Do you want me to stay here?”

He nods, his eyes closed. 

You dial the familiar number and hold the phone to your ear, settling down on his left so he can hear. 

Haley answers the phone, a question at the end of your name. 

“Yeah, Haley, it’s me. Hi.” 

“Hi. Is everything okay?”

You look at Aaron, who’s still and quiet beside you. “Not really.” 

“I heard about the bombing in New York, the murders...Is everyone alright?”

“We’re alright. Aaron’s fine - some mild injuries but nothing serious.” 

“Okay?” You hear the unspoken question. Then why are you calling?

“I was told you’d - um.” You take a deep breath, and it catches. Aaron flips his hand palm-up on his knee, and you take it. “I was told you were close with Kate Joyner, from the New York field office. She used to be at Scotland Yard?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Her voice falters. “Wait. Oh, God…”

“Haley I’m so sorry.” You swallow some tears. “I’m so sorry, but she was killed in the bombing.” 

You hear a shaky breath on the other side of the line. “Oh.” There’s a pause, and you suspect she has more to say. You’re right. “Aaron told you to call, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” 

She sighs. “Can I talk to him?”

You look over and he nods, releasing your hand and holding it out for the phone. “Yeah, he’s right here.” She says something else, and you put the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I just wanted to thank you. Thank you for telling me.” 

You nod to yourself. “Of course. Here’s Aaron.” 

He takes the phone from you. An exhausted, “Hi,” leaves him. 

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re alright.” 

A little smile pulls at his lips. “I’m alright. How’re you?”

Her bright laugh echoes faintly through the phone, but there’s a solemn edge to it. “You’re asking me how I am?”

His eyebrows rise, his eyes still closed. “Isn’t that polite?”

You can almost see her suppressed smile. “It is. I’m fine. Jessica and I just finished dinner and put Jack down for the night.” 

“How’s Jack?”

You tune out, the exhaustion taking over. Aaron pats the seat on his other side and you shuffle around, tucking yourself under his open arm. Leaning against his shoulder, you close your eyes, letting the voices of two divorced people who love each other very much lull you into something that feels a little like sleep. 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @dcvidrossi @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @micaiahmoonheart @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @joemazzello-imagines @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @hotchlinebling @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @yourlovelynewsbian @sparklingkeylimepie @aili28 @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @a-dorky-book-keeper @hotchnersgoddess @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @dontkissthewriter @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @ahopelessromantic @violentvulgarvolatile @andreasworlsboring101 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @colbyskoalas  @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @katiejuliana @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @sapphicstars

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #tali writes fanfiction #tali talks cm #a joyful future #a joyful future fanfic

[pip-n-flinx]

SO. Since you have brilliantly crafted the perfect Paloma, Sam and I are selfishly eager to know if you have a preferred Old Fashioned recipe. :D

OOooooookay. So this is a can of worms here. But for starters, we begin at the beginning.

An Old Fashioned is derived from an older cocktail called a Bittered Sling. Fundamentally, a Bittered Sling is bitters (often aromatics,) sugar, and whiskey. Rumor from an old bartenders manual has it that someone walked in to a bar and asked for Whiskey ‘the old fashioned way’ referencing the Bittered Sling, thus the drink was born. There’s also something called an Improved Cocktail which replaces either the bitters or the sugar with a sweeter liquor like a maraschino or orange, but that’s mostly a historical sidenote at this point.

Most of the time, when you go out to a bar and order an Old Fashioned what you’re getting is a Mid-Century Old Fashioned (henceforth the MCOF for reference.) This is an adaptation to the old standby inspired by the advent and widespread use of the ice machine. In a similar vein to the Mint Julip, the MCOF uses crushed or small cube ice to strain out muddled additives - usually and orange round and/or a maraschino cherry with sugar - meaning you can have your cocktail infusing while its in the glass! It does also mean that your ice (now having greater surface area) melts faster, diluting your cocktail and eventually letting all the pulp from the fruit slip into your mouth

The downside to this, for me at least, outweighs the benefits. While it does incorporate some of the fruit notes from the horribly named Improved Cocktail, it dilutes the whiskey, letting any oils or esters in your booze separate and form strange little oil droplets in your drink. It’s designed to be slammed, not sipped, which is just not how I drink my whiskey anymore. Personally, I also don’t like the fruit they add at most bars either. The full (or half) orange wheel doesn’t have fleshy juicy bits to soak in your whiskey, it also has the pith between the skin and the beloved orange slices. This tends to lend a very bitter taste to the drink if it sits for any time at all. And the cherries! Don’t get me started on the bleached and died monstrosities that pass as maraschinos in the states. Gimme a proper Luxardo from Italy or a properly jarred Michigan cherry instead of that fake red bleached nonsense any day.

Another brief history of bartending aside is that for many-many years Bourbon and Tennessee Whiskey were considered too sweet for mixed drinks. At least in the states, Rye was the mixing whiskey of choice, as its spice and astringency were thought to lend more depth to cocktails and hold up better to more robust flavors like citrus and vermouth.

So, with all this in mind, what is my favorite Old Fashioned? Well, there are several recipes that come to mind. A sugar cube, two dashes of Cherry Bark and Vanilla bitters, 2.5 oz Rittenhouse Bottled-In-Bond Rye, and a large rock of ice is a staple where I am. Old Overholt Bottled-In-Bond and Rossville Union Barrel Proof are common substitutions for the above recipe in my house. The first Old Fashioned I ever fell in love with uses a whiskey no longer commercially available. A barspoon full of simple syrup, two dashes of Angostura orange bitters, 2.5 oz of Nikka Coffey Malt Japanese whisky was the recipe that will haunt me to the end of my days.

If you wanted to use bourbon instead of rye, I’d recommend something like Elijah Craig or maybe an Old Forester with a higher proof. I’d steer away from Woodford (too friendly already, hard to improve with bitters) and wheated Bourbons like Makers (strange creamy vanilla note doesn’t always play nice with your bitters, also I always find these kinds of bourbons to be just too thin, and they just wash out when ice starts melting into them or you add a cut of water....)

If you’re trying to write a Old Fashioned obsessive, I’d consider making them a bitters enthusiast. I myself have more than a dozen (at one point 18) different bitters in my collection. My current secret weapon is the Bittermens Elemakule Tiki Bitters XD However, specifically for ‘shoot-it-again’ Sam Shepard, I’d consider a different tact: Perhaps he’s a purist about the cherries alone. I’d definitely peg him as a Mid-Century Old Fashioned man myself @swaps55, but perhaps he’s a purist about cherries not being died red? Feels in character to me, but I’ll let you be the judge

[seealandraw]

What is your Shepard’s relationship with their crew?

i realize my hand writing isn't the easiest to read, so i'll transcribe it all (with a little more detail) beneath a cut. Also! Each game is their feelings by the climax/endgame, which matters big in me3's case since it's post-reveal that miles sabotaged the genophage and i feel like the crew outside of garrus and javik deserved to know lol

ahead of time i'll mention that when miles refers to someone as "good soldier" it means they trust that person's ability to carry themselves and in general it's a sign of respect. they're military at heart and their measure of worth is what they learned being basically raised by them post-mindoir lol miles has a very hard time with the concept of 'friends' due to their colonist/sole survivor status of losing people CONSTANTLY so it takes a lot for them to get around it

MASS EFFECT 1

Miles > Ashley: good soldier/has a crush and is confused by it?? respects her opinion Ashley > Miles: likes to shoot the shit with her cool commander that treats her like a person

Miles > Kaidan: good soldier/please don't hit on me i'm begging you Kaidan > Miles: crushing on/is intimidated by them

Miles > Liara: is put off by/does not like her digging into their brain Liara > Miles: crush/is desperate for their approval

Miles > Joker: no time for his tomfoolery but trusts him Joker > Miles: "what a stick in the mud"

Miles > Wrex: likes the professional distance/respects him immensely/friends with benefits Wrex > Miles: respects/likes to kill things along side them/friends with benefits

Miles > Tali: tries to be close with/feels the need to protect her/doesn't want her to die under their command. Tali > Miles: thinks they're super cool/admires them greatly

MASS EFFECT 2

Miles > Thane: they are IN LOVE!!! respects him as a person/wants to be a better person being near him Thane > Miles: he is IN LOVE!!! understands them/respects their actions despite not always agreeing with them

Miles > Mordin: respects opinion of/convinced the genophage was right thanks to him lol Mordin > Miles: interesting soldier/desperately in need of therapy

Miles > Samara: good soldier/respects her dedication to justice Samara > Miles: Were It Not For Her Oath She Would Have Slaughtered Them

Miles > Grunt: good soldier/a fine example of the krogan Grunt > Miles: respects as his krantt/revels in their violence

Miles > Legion: does not trust in the slightest Legion > Miles: no data available

Miles > Joker: relies on/good soldier/friends? Joker > Miles: wants to help them/thinks of them as a close friend

Miles > Tali: friends? cares deeply for her and wants to protect her Tali > Miles: friends! tries to follow in their footsteps and be a force for good in the galaxy

Miles > Jack: mutual hatred but respect Jack > Miles: mutual hatred but respect

Miles > Jacob: good soldier/thinks he's lost sight of his morals/confidants Jacob > Miles: greatly respects/is intimidated by/confidants

Miles > Miranda: distrusts/dislikes in general Miranda > Miles: dislikes/god they're hot thou

Miles > Kasumi: friends??? she should go to jail thou she's a criminal Kasumi > Miles: friends/thinks they're a hottie/loves to mess with them

MASS EFFECT 3

Miles > James: good soldier/out of his depth with the current mission James > Miles: doesn't know how to feel about them/lost a great respect for them with deception

Miles > Javik: good soldier/trusts him implicitly/hot bug man (they've fucked once)/confidants Javik > Miles: doing right by the galaxy/trusts them to achieve their goals of the reaper's defeat/confidants

Miles > EDI: doesn't trust but sees her as a valuable asset to the crew EDI > Miles: complex feelings to sort through/horror at their actions against the geth/krogan

Miles > Joker: trying to gain his trust again Joker > Miles: affronted by their actions/can't support them but can't hate them either

Miles > Tali: wants to earn her forgiveness/truly wishes to change in her eyes Tali > Miles: disgusted by their actions/wants nothing to do with/but can't stop loving them

Miles > Liara: still hates for the whole 'givng body to cerberus' thing lol Liara > Miles: horrified by their actions/still sees their value in the fight against the reapers, but nothing more than that

Miles > Steve: good man/good soldier Steve > Miles: doesn't know about sabotaging the genophage/ values them as a bright light in his life

Miles > Sam: pretty girl/too good for them/values her skillset Sam > Miles: doesn't know about sabotaging the genophage/has a small crush on them

#commander shepard #nonbinary shepard #themshep #art.txt #i drew sam and stebe just for this bc i wanted to include them

[swaps55]

the thought of a hannah shepard character study sends me WILD, i am obsessed with her. i think you write her so well - she's so INTERESTING because a lot of the things she does make absolutely no sense to me! i would die for a hannah shepard character study personally

I've been sitting on this ask only because I wanted to have the time and spoons to respond to it properly.

You have no idea how delighted I am that people find Hannah Shepard so compelling. She's an incredibly complicated character who is TOUGH to parse.

Because Opus is centered around Sam, and she's done some grievous harm to him that can't be undone, she's generally seen by most as an antagonist, someone undeserving of sympathy and very deserving of anger and judgement.

But I often think about how that might shift if she became the central character. I think the world looks very different through her eyes, and she's more of a victim than people realize.

She didn't want kids. She didn't want a family. But she got swept up in the whirlwind that was Daniel Shepard. Did Daniel force her to have a child? Not purposefully. There was no ill intent. But he treated it as a foregone conclusion, and Daniel, like Sam, gets target locked on one thing and often forgets the world around him. He wanted a child so badly, she let him convince her that she did too, because if he was so excited about it, how could it be a mistake?

But for her, it was, and it's a bell you can't unring. I think her decision to walk away, to distance herself from her family, was an act of self-preservation, and one she genuinely thought was the best thing for all of them. She failed Sam, no question, but I think in some pretty significant ways, Daniel failed her. He was so caught up in what he wanted, he didn't leave room for her own needs

She does love Sam, in her own way, but it isn't the kind of love he needs or wants. It's just all she was capable of giving. Her needs and Sam's fundamentally conflict. It's a tragic thing for both of them.

And love her or hate her, without Hannah, the reapers probably win. Hannah is the reason Sam got the biotic training he got. She is the reason he successfully became an N. She is a big part of the reason his career didn't die after Torfan. She advocated, bulldozed, and opened doors for him at every possibly opportunity. She may have failed him as a mother, but she would do anything to make sure he succeeds, and not for her own ego's sake. He isn't a legacy for her, even though Sam probably thinks that. She fights for him behind the scenes, and would do so at the expense of herself if needed. Will we get to see this in Opus? Maybe. I hope so.

Was any of what she did in the best interest of Sam? Probably not. But she was exactly what Commander Shepard, and therefore the galaxy, needed.

A big piece of the overall conflict in Opus centers on how Sam and Commander Shepard struggle so mightily to co-exist, and the ways in which the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. At every turn, Sam has to surrender his own well-being to Commander Shepard, because that's who the galaxy needs. Protecting Sam over Commander Shepard has a huge price. In the end, most everyone, even Kaidan, is forced to choose Commander Shepard over Sam. And Hannah Shepard's relationship with him is one of the lenses to examine that theme.

She's such an important and divisive character, and I love her.

#swaps replies #okaidanalenko #hannah shepard #'shoot it again sam' shepard #opus!verse

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (10/?)

Chapter Title: Collide

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

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

Story Rating: R

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

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

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

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

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

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

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

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

Miranda was here. Living in the now.

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

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

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

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

It was something to savour. So she did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that had been the point.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, this was definitely one of those instances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, not usually.

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

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

Because they wouldn’t be alive much longer.

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

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

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

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

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

Or, if they did, then they shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Almost.

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

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

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

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

“What was?” asked Samara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her oldest daughter. Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find yourself?” Samara suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

It was still warm.

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Until she saw the body above her move.

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

Without warning, it seized her left hand.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

And then the pilot opened her mouth.

And a river of maggots came pouring out.

Wriggling.

Writhing.

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

She could smell it.

She could fucking smell it.

And they just kept coming.

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

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

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

Drip.

Drip.

It shoved that handful of maggots directly onto her face.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

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

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

Four forty-five in the morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That relentless

Fucking

Sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was just so fucking…

Blank.

Neutral.

Numb.

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

But Samara wasn’t there.

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

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

But what the hell did she have to complain about?

She was still here.

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

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

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

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

Did it matter?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then again, maybe she was wrong about them.

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

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

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

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

And Shepard.

Where did she even start when it came to Shepard?

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

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

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

Do you even miss us?

At all?

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

Do you even care that we’re gone?

You haven’t cried.

Not once.

Not even the faintest sting in your eye.

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

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

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

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

“Morning, Miss,” Leah Brooks greeted her.

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

“Sure is,” Rodriguez confirmed.

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

“Black market,” Rodriguez answered with a shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

Miranda fumbled her spoon.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Why?” asked Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shepard stared at her sceptically, sensing the obvious sarcasm.

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

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

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

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

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

“Point taken,” Shepard conceded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you swear?” Miranda pressed.

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

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

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

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

Shepard really was a hero.

A bloody icon.

How could Miranda possibly say no?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, she was so fucking tired.

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

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

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

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

…

…

...

“Hey, eyepatch.”

…

…

...

“Eyepatch?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she was awake.

She was fucking awake.

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

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

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

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

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

When that joke garnered no response, Oriana sent another.

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

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

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

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

But she stopped herself.

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

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

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

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

Why bother her? Why disturb that?

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

Perhaps that was a sign.

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

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

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

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

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

It always had been.

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

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

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

She’d succeeded at that, at least.

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

They couldn’t have been more different.

And Miranda wanted it to stay that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absence.

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

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

One hour.

Two hours.

What was the point of anything anymore?

What was the fucking point?

Three hours.

Four hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That got Miranda’s attention. “What?”

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

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

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

“This is peer pressure,” Miranda complained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One song turned into two. And two into three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright. Arcade it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

Miranda snorted. So much for creativity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? I thought they were all rigged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not undersell yourself. It is not an easy feat,” Samara told her, not about to let this go unremarked upon. “Well done, Miranda. You are the first, and I suspect only human ever to learn this ability. And it would be a great achievement even if you were asari. Indeed, I have personally never met anyone, other than some fellow Justicars, who have mastered it.”

“Well, I owe that entirely to you. So here. Present for you.” Miranda held out the Blasto The Hanar Spectre keychain she'd won from the claw machine earlier, as a token of her appreciation for Samara’s teachings a year ago.

Samara smiled, politely raising her hand to decline. “Although I am grateful, I am afraid I cannot accept this; Justicars eschew personal possessions.”

Miranda's brow crinkled, looking down at the stupid thing in her hands in abject incredulity. “...It's a keychain.”

“That is not the point,” Samara reminded her, although clearly not at all shocked or offended why someone who had not chosen a religious life might fail to understand this. The fact that the gift had no material value did not make it any less of an indulgence. “I have sworn an oath to the Goddess. I can own nothing but what you see before you - my weapons and my armour - for that is all that is essential for me to carry out my duties as a Justicar.”

“Alright. Allow me to rephrase,” Miranda began, sensing a solution to this issue. “This is a...tactical keychain,” she informed her, arching an eyebrow as she twirled the chain around her finger. “It provides an entire additional square inch of armour plating. So I insist that you take it for your own protection.”

Samara laughed, more freely than Miranda had ever seen her do so. “There is that sense of humour you maintain you do not have again,” Samara wryly commented. “I will never comprehend why you insist on claiming that you are not funny.”

“Because I'm not.” Miranda shrugged, wearing a small, self-deprecating smile. “You also described yourself as ‘terribly dull’ earlier when you’re by far the most captivating person I’ve ever spoken to, so if we’re going to start this debate right now, then I’m pretty sure I’m going to win.”

“You would not be a stranger to that, would you?” Samara sighed, realising Miranda would not relent from her position. “Very well, then. You have convinced me.” She took the keychain, clasping it in her fingers. “Make no mistake, this is still yours,” she said, pointedly. “However, I will hold this in safekeeping on your behalf. And I will return it to you the next time we meet.”

“See? Was that so hard?” said Miranda, glad they'd reached a compromise.

Samara tried not to smile, because it was evident that she knew she was technically stretching the rules by accepting this gift, even on loan (though Miranda naturally assumed that she was kidding about intending to return it later), but despite her intentions she couldn't really fight it off. Not tonight.

“If you do not mind my asking, I know what your plans for the future are in the long term, but what of the short term?” Samara asked her, curious to know where Miranda would go when she left the Citadel.

“What else is there to do but get ready for whenever Shepard needs us?” said Miranda, leaning against a nearby railing overlooking a lower section of the strip. “I’ve taken command of a small ship and started putting together a team of Cerberus defectors. So, whatever happens, I’ll be there.” She looked over at Samara. “I suppose I don’t need to ask you, but...what about you?”

“I am as I am,” Samara answered, confirming Miranda’s assumptions. “When the day comes, I will walk into the fire, alone, with nothing but what you see before you, and fight to my last breath. And, should I die, I can only pray that my final acts honour the memory of all the Justicars who perished before me.”

“...I don’t see how they wouldn’t,” Miranda said softly. “I mean, you’re you.”

Samara didn’t respond to that. “Miranda, I...” Samara hesitated. Her expression was unsettled, but she swallowed, quickly finding an equilibrium and settling on what she intended to say. “Though I imagine we will be fighting on the same battlefield in the near future, it has not eluded me that we may not get a chance to speak like this before that time comes to pass. Or...ever again.”

“I know,” Miranda admitted, glancing down. The same thought had been swirling in her head even before Shepard’s party. She wasn't sure if they were meant to address that, or if that looming spectre of death was an open secret they weren't supposed to confront, but she was glad Samara had raised it. The problem was, there were too many things she wanted to say if this was going to be the last conversation they ever had. Thoughts she hadn’t even put into words in her mind, and could never fully express. “...I really am sorry about Rila,” was where Miranda chose to begin. It would have felt wrong not to tell her that.

Samara swallowed and nodded her head, trying to stay strong. Then her resolve cracked, and the tears came. Her hands went to her face, unable to stem the tide. Even the strongest woman in the universe could only carry so much.

For a split-second, Miranda thought she had made a mistake bringing this up, seeing how much Samara was hurting over her recent loss. But then it occurred to her. Maybe Samara breaking down in front of her didn’t mean she’d done anything wrong. Maybe it showed just how much she needed this moment of connection with someone she trusted - to allow herself the vulnerability to be hurt.

Had anyone even comforted Samara at all since it happened?

Had anyone given her the chance to grieve for her daughter?

“I did everything I could to save her. Even though I should not have. Even knowing it might mean putting myself in the position of choosing between my children and The Code. Even while the rest of my Order gave their lives to save so many on Thessia.” Samara drew a deep breath, but it wound up shallower than she intended in her sorrow. “...I violated one of my Oaths, Miranda.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, not knowing enough about the Justicars to understand what that meant. “You mean you broke The Code?”

“No. No, I would never...never break The Code. Not while I draw breath,” Samara insisted, making that clear, even through her tears. “But the first step to becoming a Justicar is to take the Oath of Solitude. That means you are forsworn from any family, including children. I did not utter a single word to Falere or Rila in four hundred and thirty-one years, save for when I wrote to them a year ago to let them know Mirala was dead. However, when I heard their monastery may be under threat...I did not go to them as a Justicar.” Her breath hitched as the moisture trickled down her cheeks. “I went to them because I am their mother.”

“Of course you did,” said Miranda, feeling nothing but sympathy for her, and a touch of anger towards the Justicars for subjecting Samara to that dilemma in the first place. For depriving her of the shattered, broken remnants of a family she had left, and making her feel ashamed for protecting her daughters from certain death. “There’s no oath in the universe anyone could swear that would make a mother stop loving her children. Not a mother like you.”

“No, there is not,” Samara confirmed, her voice breaking under the strain as her body was racked by another sob. “I saw so little of Rila before she died, but what I saw...I could not be prouder of the woman she became, in spite of the cruel hand fate dealt her. I always knew her to be the most responsible of my daughters, always taking care of her younger sisters, though she was barely any older than they were. But she was so strong, Miranda. I never knew she was so fearless. So ferociously protective. She gave her own life so that Falere could live.”

“And you,” Miranda added. “So that you could live too.”

Samara didn’t reply to that.

“How’s Falere?” Miranda asked, after Samara didn’t respond.

“She is well. Alone, but well.” Samara glanced down at her hands, her tears beginning to dry on her cheeks. “She was always a gentle and sensitive soul, so much like her fath--” Samara’s voice caught on that word. She couldn’t say it. It hurt to speak of her. “The woman she has grown into...she is so much kinder than I could possibly have imagined. She had not seen my face or heard my voice for four hundred and thirty-one years. She had every right to hate me. But, instead, she...when all was said and done, she embraced me.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” said Miranda, thinking that should have gone without saying. “She’s your daughter. She loves you.”

“That is more than I deserve.” Samara’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.

Miranda couldn’t stand to hear her talk about herself that way. “Samara--”

Samara raised a hand to silence her. “Respectfully, Miranda...It is no fault of yours, but there are some things that are beyond even your understanding. I believe this is one of them. I would prefer not to argue with you.”

Miranda sighed. She hated to admit it, but Samara had a point. If she felt that way, it wasn’t like it was a poorly-considered opinion. She had lived her own life for nearly a thousand years, and the disconnect between Samara and Falere had been there for centuries. It wasn’t Miranda’s place to debate with her about her perception of herself, or where she stood with Falere, much as she wanted to.

“...But you weren’t lying before, right?” Miranda pressed, unable to leave that thought alone. When Samara said things like this, it made her worry about her. “You are going to keep seeing Falere, aren’t you?”

“My Oaths say I should not,” Samara acknowledged.

“But you will,” Miranda intuited.

Samara held back the last of her tears, the first signs of a conflicted, broken smile coming to her lips. “I have no choice. In truth, there is no power in the universe, nor within myself, that could force me to stay away,” she said honestly, recognising she did not have the willpower to resist seeing her daughter again, especially knowing Falere had nobody else to look after her.

“Good,” Miranda forcefully enthused. For as much as she respected Samara, she might have had to slap some sense into her if she said otherwise. “No offence, and I know this is easy for me to say because I don’t have a single religious or spiritual bone in my body, but any oath that would compel you to stay away from the one person in your life who makes you happy isn’t an oath worth keeping. For me, that person is my sister. For you, that person is Falere.”

At long last, Samara allowed herself to smile again, her eyes glistening from her tears, but shedding no more. “She is.” Her voice was soft, perhaps even fragile, but Miranda had never heard it filled with so much tenderness. “I should not permit myself to feel this way, but...if you thought you perceived a change in me tonight, Miranda, you did,” she admitted. “Though losing Rila broke my heart, and my wounds for her will bleed until my dying days...even so, I have never felt more at peace than I do at this moment. Or, if I have, then I cannot remember it.”

Miranda could only imagine. In her own life, she had gone without seeing Oriana for nineteen years. And, the moment they met on Illium, it was like a weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. That was nothing compared to what Samara had endured.

Going four hundred and thirty-one years not seeing her daughters, the people who mattered most to her...it must have been torture. Now, that torment had finally stopped. Even though Rila hadn’t lived long enough to be part of this new reunion, Samara had still regained a connection with Falere she never thought she would have again. She had some semblance of her family back.

That was life-changing.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Miranda said sincerely. After everything she’d lost, Samara had more than earned her just reward. "And, for what it’s worth, I hope this is merely the start of newer and brighter things for you and Falere.”

After recollecting her composure, Samara faced her. “Thank you, Miranda.” 

Miranda was not anticipating that shift in focus. “For what?”

“For this. For tonight,” Samara clarified, gesturing at their surroundings. “For allowing me to enjoy myself more than I have in centuries. And for reminding me to savour these effervescent glimmers of happiness while I still can.” She paused for a moment, averting her gaze down towards her hands on the railing. “I think, perhaps, on some level, you sensed I needed this. But perhaps you do not appreciate just how much I did. So, again, I thank you for spending your night in the company of this poor, tired old woman, when it was not required of you.”

Miranda hesitated at that. Of course, it meant a lot for Samara to tell her that she had gotten so much out of their time together, and that it had helped her in some way. But Miranda never liked it when Samara made those resigned, self-defeating comments about herself. They made her sound like some washed up, retired old racehorse about to be put down with two barrels behind the garden shed. And that was the furthest thing from reality.

Samara was amazing. Beyond compare. She had not lost a step. Aside from being a matriarch and continuing to get stronger with every passing year, she did not show a single sign of age. It certainly hadn’t hindered her yet, and probably would not for many decades yet to come. Asari regularly lived to be over a thousand years old. Hell, although hitting eleven-hundred was rare by most accounts, even that wouldn’t be unheard of. Not by a long shot.

Not that Miranda was an expert, but just from knowing her, she would guess Samara was still a long way off from the natural end of her life. About as far off as any of the human members of The Normandy. So why did she so often talk about herself like she was past the point where she had anything of worth left to offer - a broken relic of a bygone age to be carelessly discarded and cast aside?

Did she think Miranda was just doing this because she felt sorry for her?

“...I didn’t invite you out with me because I pity you,” Miranda broke the silence, glancing over at Samara. That had never been what this was, and she would correct any such mistaken assumptions as promptly and frankly as possible, so that there was no chance for misinterpretation. “I wanted to spend time with you because I like you, and I care about you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Samara confirmed, returning Miranda’s gaze. “And I hope you know that I did not spend time with you because I was merely seeking some distraction from what has come to pass in recent weeks.”

“I do,” Miranda replied in kind. She folded her arms across the railing, seeing no reason not to continue being so transparent. “This probably isn’t going to be a shock to you, because there aren’t exactly a lot of contenders for the title, but did you know you might very well be the best friend I’ve ever had?” 

Jacob may have been her friend for longer, sure, but they butted heads a lot, often on pretty fundamental things. There were some things she hadn’t told him, and may never tell him. Some things she couldn’t go to him about. Whereas Samara just...knew her so intimately. She got her on an entirely different level. One that didn’t even require words, a lot of the time.

Samara’s eyes dipped slightly. “It...occurred to me, some time ago, in fact, that...I could possibly say the same thing about you,” she replied. Miranda was taken aback by that, and it must have shown on her face. “You doubt me, but you have a stronger claim to that position than you know.”

Miranda brushed that off, finding it too hard to believe. Samara had been alive for over nine centuries. She’d definitely had better friends. “You’re just being nice.”

Samara squinted at that comment, visibly perplexed. “I do not know where you have garnered this impression that I am ‘nice’, or would say things I do not mean just to be thus. I can assure you, I have never at any stage of my life been renowned for being particularly ‘nice’ to anybody. Quite the contrary,” Samara assured her, wanting to clear up that mischaracterisation. “I mean no offence, but...in that regard, you and I are more alike than you seem to think.”

“None taken,” Miranda nonchalantly replied. She supposed she understood where Samara was coming from by not accepting that description. If anyone tried to tell Miranda she was ‘just being nice’, she would have looked at them like they had grown a second head. “And I guess you do have a point. I mean, the first time I met you, you crushed a woman’s skull with your foot.”

“You would have used a gun,” Samara noted.

“Yeah, probably,” Miranda conceded. “You were always nice to me, though.”

“Not always. There were times when I challenged you. Like you, I am not prone to remaining silent when I disagree with someone. If I am less stubborn and stern than I once was, it is only because experience has humbled me, and I have spent many centuries practicing patience and mindfulness,” said Samara. 

Samara wasn’t wrong about any of that, Miranda thought. Samara had indeed called her out on her bullshit a couple of times, although whenever she did offer advice she had always treated it as something constructive rather than an exercise in judgement, which was largely why it had been so effective.

“However, if despite all that you perceived me as being especially nice to you...I probably was,” Samara admitted with a small sigh, willing to concede that wasn’t misplaced. “It is easy to be nice to a person you are already fond of.”

“Why though?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask, earning a confused look. “That’s something I’ve never been able to figure out. Look, I know I’m not the most self-aware person, but I’m better than I was. And, God, I could be fucking intolerable sometimes.” Miranda grimaced in annoyance at her own memory of herself, eliciting a faint smirk from Samara. “But even at my worst, you never had a problem with me. So, why did you like spending time with me?”

“How long do we have before our absence will be noticed? Because, if I answered that question comprehensively, we would be here a very long time,” Samara stated. That was, without question, the most heartwarming thing Miranda had ever heard another person say about her. “If I am being truly honest, I have often wondered the same thing about why you chose to spend your time with me.” 

“Is that a joke?” Miranda asked, not sure how Samara could even question that.

“You know very well that it is not,” Samara said astutely. She wasn’t a liar.

“Well, then, you and I remember things very differently, because you had countless things to offer me. Wisdom. Insight. Friendship. A place where I could just sit in silence for a while. You've taught me so much, but somehow you never made it feel like you were lecturing me. Even when you clearly were,” Miranda remarked, with a hint of teasing to her tone. “The only problem is that I've gained so much more out of knowing you than you have from knowing me.”

“That is not true,” Samara firmly insisted, the quickness of her response catching Miranda somewhat off guard. “The life of a Justicar is a solitary one. We meet many people, but have no companions. I had no companions. Until you. The connection we share is unlike any I have known in centuries. Or...even before that. You have enriched my life. I am better for having known you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Miranda instinctively replied. Samara was...well, she wasn’t a ‘perfect’ person per se, because they didn’t exist. But she was as close as Miranda had ever seen to one. She was a perfect version of what she strove to be. So how could Miranda make her better than she was? How could she possibly do anything to improve upon such sheer mastery of the self?

“Goddess, you do not even know…” Samara’s suddenness took Miranda by surprise. She watched as she let her fingers fall across her face, sighed deeply and shook her head, choosing her words carefully. “Forgive me. It is difficult for me to say this, but...when we travelled together, there were times where I thought…” Samara stopped herself, as if reconsidering what she intended to say. “Perhaps I did not always recognise it then, but in hindsight there were days where I do not know how I could have withstood my burdens if you were not with me.”

Miranda didn’t know what to make of that. It just...didn’t make sense. Samara was so strong. “But I didn’t do anything,” Miranda pointed out. 

At that, Samara uttered a quiet sound, almost like a short, sombre laugh. “But you did,” she said, meeting Miranda’s gaze once more. “You were there. And you have shown me nothing but kindness from the moment we met.”

Miranda still couldn’t accept what she was hearing. Besides, she didn’t remember doing anything that would strike a normal person as especially compassionate, because that wasn’t who she was. “But I’m not kind,” she said.

“No, perhaps you are not,” Samara acknowledged, never blind to the person Miranda was. She was not known for being sensitive or sympathetic, for good reason. “But you were to me,” she stated plainly. That was all that mattered.

Miranda didn’t completely agree with that. But she was glad Samara thought so. And, if nothing else, it was true that Samara did make her want to try to be a better person than she was, and had brought different shades out of her in a way that nobody else had, irrespective of whether they came naturally to her.

That was the thing about people like Samara, Miranda thought. When a person had a special connection with someone else, a special relationship, then they got to know a version of them that didn’t exist for anyone else. Parts of them nobody else ever saw. Truths nobody else ever knew. So maybe the Miranda reserved for Samara's eyes only really was gentler than the one everybody else had met. But, if so, that was only because their friendship brought that out of her.

As the silence lingered, the memory of one very unkind thing she had done emerged in Miranda’s mind. It wasn’t lost on her that there was still one regret she had in their friendship. One mistake for which she’d never made amends.

It was not something she had forgotten about. She recalled with discomforting clarity how she’d never taken her numerous chances back on The Normandy to confess to Samara about looking into her past without her consent. She’d never apologised for it, though she had intended to do so, eventually. She would have done it after The Collector Base but, when the Alpha Relay was destroyed, the thought had genuinely completely fallen from her mind amid so much death. By the time she thought about it again, it was too late. They had already parted ways.

So many months had passed since all of this transpired that part of her just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and not raise the subject now. But Miranda knew this was the only chance she would get. If she was ever going to apologise, this was her moment. She had to take it, or live with being a coward.

“...Samara, can I say one more thing?” Miranda broke the silence.

“You may always speak freely with me, Miranda. Indeed, that you always say precisely what is on your mind is perhaps my favourite thing about you. Certainly, one of them,” Samara said with a charming twinkle in her eye.

“Okay, then.” Miranda took Samara’s encouragement at face-value, and elected to come out with it, even if it was a heavy subject. “What happened to your family wasn't your fault,” Miranda began, deciding to approach the topic from that angle. The unexpected shift in the conversation caused Samara to stiffen visibly. “And you know I'm not the sort of person who'd say something I didn't think was true purely to make you feel better, no matter how much I like you. But you didn't do anything to make that happen. None of it is your fault. None. So please stop blaming yourself for what happened four hundred years ago.”

Samara didn't seem to know how to react to Miranda’s words, as they were the last thing she had anticipated. It was obvious it was a message she struggled to accept, even after all this time. Of course, she had no idea how much Miranda knew about her past, beyond the broad picture she’d painted. Not yet.

“Has anyone ever told you that before?” Miranda asked, curious.

“...They have not,” Samara answered, no less taken aback. From prior conversations, Miranda knew she had scarcely spoken about her past. Her daughters’ diagnoses made her a pariah as soon as they happened, leaving her nobody to turn to, and Justicars did not discuss the people they were before they swore their Oaths. Samara had carried her burdens alone every day since.

“Then I'm glad I said it,” Miranda replied, already feeling a sense of relief just from stating that out loud, though she knew she was far from finished when it came to things she had to get off her chest. “I should have said it a long time ago.”

“Then may I also say something I should have said a long time ago?” Samara cut her off, speaking rather quickly. Miranda gestured for her to go right ahead. If she was being that abrupt, then it must have been important. “I wish you loved being Miranda Lawson as much as everybody else believes you love being Miranda Lawson,” Samara spoke plainly. “Because she is and has always been a far, far better person than you seem to think she is. And there is not a single thing about her that makes her a ‘failure’. It wounds me whenever you think otherwise.”

Miranda was totally blindsided. She hadn’t expected Samara’s response at all, since she would never say anything unless she truly meant it. In fact, any prior thoughts Miranda had were completely ripped from her mind.

Samara didn’t need to ask whether anybody had told Miranda that before. She knew they hadn’t. Evidently, that knowledge bothered her a great deal.

“Miranda, I...” Samara reached out and touched Miranda's arm, as if considering saying something more. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before meeting Miranda's eyes. “I think we have been gone longer than we ought. We should return before our absence becomes a cause for concern,” she said, mustering a faint smile, sensing they had both lost track of time.

“Of course,” Miranda concurred, too dumbstruck by Samara’s confession to remember that there were words she had left unsaid. “After you.”

With that, Samara led the way back towards Shepard's apartment.

As she trailed behind her, Miranda discreetly wiped at the corner of her eye, maintaining her composure, masking any lingering signs that betrayed any frailty, and just how much Samara’s words had touched the core of something she hadn’t even known was as raw and vulnerable as it was.

It may have been a scant two hours that they’d shared there alone on the Silversun Strip, but stealing that precious time together felt like the best decision Miranda had ever made. It may have been over sooner than she would have liked but, if nothing else, at least she could look back on this night in the coming days and feel content with the way she left things between them.

She wanted to part ways with Samara on a high note. After all, deep down in her heart, Miranda knew it was the last time Samara would ever see her again.

*     *     *

Of all the people Miranda had expected to be banging on her door in the middle of the night, Samara was not high on that list. She hadn’t expected to see her anytime soon, given she had left only two weeks ago. And, when they eventually did meet again, Miranda hadn’t imagined Samara would look like this.

“Samara, what are you doing here? It’s freezing out, and you’re drenched--”

“I must speak with you,” Samara cut her off, her voice firm, and her eyes ablaze with a strange intensity Miranda had never seen in her before. It seemed as though Samara didn’t even feel the ice-cold rain on her. “It cannot wait.”

Judging from her tone, that wasn’t a request.

“Uh...Of course,” was all Miranda could mutter as she held open the door for her, closing it behind her. It wouldn’t have even occurred to her to say no. Not when Samara was in such a state, moving with such urgency. “In here.” Miranda gestured towards her room. Samara marched in without hesitation.

Suffice it to say, Miranda was a little stunned. What the hell was happening?

She followed her inside, and clicked the door shut. There wasn’t much space in her small room, but Samara found enough to pace back and forth. She was uncharacteristically wringing her hands as she wore wet tracks in the floor. These were things Miranda had quite literally never seen her do before.

“Samara, what is this? What’s going on?” Miranda asked.

“Forgive my intrusion. But I needed to see you. I could not...the way we left things, I…” Samara paused for a moment, meeting her gaze. “I fear that perhaps you already know what has brought me here, and what I wish to discuss.”

Miranda said nothing, too disoriented and sleep-deprived to be capable of doing anything other than staring at her in a dazed silence. She had no idea what she was talking about, or what could make her act so out-of-sorts. Miranda had never seen Samara so dishevelled. So discombobulated. So...frazzled.

“Oh. Oh, I see. You do not. I see. Very well, then. I…” At that realisation, Samara resumed her pacing, running her hand along her crest. “I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning, then. I do not know why I expected to avoid this.”

“Samara, please slow down.” Miranda raised her hand, her mind far too clouded with fog to make sense of any of this. Even just watching her march back and forth felt like running a marathon, which would have been an exhausting prospect even if she had slept in the past four days. Her request fell on deaf ears.

“Miranda, I was...I was dishonest with you the last time we spoke,” Samara began. “No, worse than dishonest. I have been deceiving you, for no other reason than because I have been too craven to admit the truth. What is worse, I fear that you have sensed my deceit, and that this is what has damaged our friendship. I cannot...I cannot abide this. I cannot continue to lie to you.”

Miranda could barely even make out what she was saying as she paced. She was speaking so quickly, and with such adamance that it felt like she might spontaneously combust from internal friction if it weren’t for the rain soaking her skin. Miranda had never seen Samara in this state. She was like a completely different person. A stranger wearing the face of someone she knew.

Samara was so restrained. So dignified. So elegant. She was a woman who had walked alone, unflinching into mortal peril thousands of times with no regard for her own life, and somehow emerged unscathed, even where countless others had fallen around her. She was the most fearless individual Miranda had ever met. 

There was none of that here.

She was...overcome.

Her proverbial armour had cracked.

“Samara, respectfully, you’re a category five hurricane right now. I need you to bring it down to a stiff breeze,” said Miranda, gesturing for her to cool her frantic energy just a little bit, because right now this was impossible to follow.

At last, Samara halted, and stood still. “...Yes. Yes, of course. You have my apologies,” Samara replied, no less anxious, but at least she seemed able to recognise what an incoherent onslaught her words must have sounded like. 

Miranda leaned back against the chair that was tucked into her desk, gripping it with her hand to take some weight off her bad leg. Whatever could have left Samara so shaken, it had to be serious. Nothing ever rattled her.

Except apparently this.

“What have you been lying about?” Miranda asked, that being about the only thing she had managed to make out of Samara’s hasty, jumbled rant a moment ago.

At that question, Samara held her stare, a distant expression falling across her face. “...After all this time, you truly do not suspect, do you?” she asked aloud, the realisation sinking in, as if that was a possibility she had not contemplated.

“Suspect what?” was all Miranda could say, tempted to utter a desperate laugh as she shrugged her good shoulder, not because there was anything remotely funny about this, but because she was so fucking tired, and so fucking lost.

“Why I abandoned you as I did. Why I fled this city and deserted you. Why you have been forced to contend with so much pain, suffering and death alone, when I ought to have been here to share those burdens with you, and taken care of you when you needed me by your side,” said Samara. Her voice was shaking.

Miranda softened when she heard that. Did Samara really think she was angry at her for leaving? “Samara, no.” Miranda shook her head, unconsciously gesturing with her amputated arm as if to strike that thought from history. “Of course I understand why you left. You’re a Justicar. You have your Code--”

The moment that word left her lips, Samara laughed a humourless laugh, laced with turmoil and despair. Miranda was struck mute by that. It was so unlike her.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, you truly still believe that about me?” said Samara, her hand on her forehead, as if she couldn’t fathom what she was hearing - that even now people still trusted her at her word. “No. No, my dear, it is a fiction. A comforting lie. A shadow I hide behind.”

Miranda damn near recoiled in abject confusion. “But you are a Justicar.”

“Yes, but that is not why I acted as I did. When I turned my back on you, it had nothing to do with The Code,” Samara unburdened herself at long last, revealing a secret that had been silently killing her. “When I left, it was for one reason only. And that was because I...because I could not be here to watch you die…”

Samara’s voice cracked on the last word, and her hands covered her face as tears began to swell from beneath the surface.

Miranda was dumbfounded - rendered speechless from utter astonishment. She had only seen Samara break like this twice before. Had only seen her cry twice before. That was when she killed Morinth. And when she opened up about losing Rila. Only the deaths of her daughters affected her like this.

Samara trembled, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes shone with remorse as she met Miranda’s frozen visage across the room. “I am so sorry,” Samara told her sincerely, her words cut by the hitch of a breath. “I know my contrition means nothing, but I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I do not blame you if you despise me. You should. I know I deserve it, because the truth is that I failed you. I failed you because I am weak, and I am broken, and I could not...I could not lose you.”

Miranda’s heart tore in half when she heard that. Her head fell, and she pressed her palm to her eye, squeezing it shut. Was this why Samara thought Miranda had snapped at her the last time they spoke? Was she responsible for hurting her like this? God, she regretted that day even more now than she already had before.

“You didn’t fail me, Samara,” Miranda quietly assured her. “You saved my life.”

“That, too, was selfishness,” Samara confessed, owning up to her sins. “When the dust settled, I saw you had not returned. When I realised how close you had been to the Conduit, I went searching for you. And only for you.”

“That’s not true,” Miranda interjected, refusing to let Samara denigrate herself for what had been unparalleled heroism. “You saved dozens of lives in the wasteland.”

“Because The Code demanded I must, and my life would be forfeit if I did not. Every time I came across another survivor, I had to stop and render aid. But, though The Code compelled me to do everything in my power to rescue those in need, I tell you plainly I did not want to. I did not care about any of them. I would have abandoned every single one of them if I could,” Samara said starkly, stripping bare her truth. That revelation hit Miranda like a shockwave. It was something Miranda would have said. Not Samara. “People thought me brave, but I was not. People thought I was saving lives, but that was never my goal. My deeds should not entitle me to praise, but rather scorn, because I was selfish. I was so selfish. My only reason for going out there again and again was to find you.”

Samara swallowed. Miranda would have, but her mouth was suddenly dry.

“...And I did,” Samara continued, her features softening as she gazed upon Miranda. “You were caked in blood and dirt when I found you. So much so that I could barely recognise you. And then you...and then you stopped breathing.”

Samara took a moment to compose herself, affected by those painful memories. She drew a deep breath, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

“I did not merely believe that you would die. I knew it. I was certain of it,” Samara quietly admitted. “The infection had already reached your blood. It was shutting down your organs. There seemed to be no hope that you would survive. The only reason you were breathing was because machines were doing it for you. Your pulse was so weak. Your condition showed no signs of improving. As I sat by your bedside, I came to understand that I was doing nothing but watching your life slip away before my very eyes. Every day, you were slowly dying in front of me. And I could not endure it. I...I broke. I ran away, rather than face it.”

“But you left me that message,” Miranda pointed out, struggling to fit the puzzle pieces together in her clouded head between things she already knew, parts of the story she had been told by others, and what Samara was saying now.

“A lie,” Samara said bluntly, her voice too strained to speak louder than a whisper. “To convince myself that I had not forsaken you. That I was not hiding in the shadows from my fears. That I was merely doing as I ought to, as a Justicar. A lie that rang hollow.” Samara glanced down at her feet, ashamed of her actions. “If I truly believed that you had any chance of recovering, I tell you from my heart, I would not have left. Never. And, if I had sincerely been forced into some temporary departure by my Code as I claimed, I would have placed a much better message beside your bed for you to find when you awoke. But I did not do so. I did not do so, because I could not bear to step into your room again. I was afraid each time I went near you, it would be the moment you would…”

Samara couldn’t even finish that sentence. She didn’t have to.

Miranda didn’t interrupt her, too overwhelmed to respond. 

“This is why I have returned now. To apologise for my selfishness. Not to seek your forgiveness. Just to apologise,” Samara explained, repentant for her recent failings. “You have earned nothing less than that.”

“I…” Miranda didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t...form the words. It was a lot to take in. She could scarcely process it in her heavily fatigued state. She couldn’t think. She was so tired. So confused. “I still don’t understand. You’ve seen death before. Why couldn’t you be here? Why did you have to leave?”

“Goddess…” Samara turned away, facing the wall. “You truly do not know…”

“No, I don’t. So tell me,” said Miranda, growing exasperated with how Samara kept doing things like that. Acting like there were things she should already know, which she didn’t. She wasn’t psychic. She couldn’t read her mind. Obviously not. Samara had come all this way to throw this confession at her feet out of fucking nowhere. Why hold back now? “You’ve already said so--”

“Because I could not bear the pain of losing you!” Samara snapped back, her voice sharper and louder than before, as if she had to force the words out, fighting against herself to speak them. But, once they were said, they couldn’t be retracted. “I did not trust what I would do. How I would withstand it. Goddess, Miranda, I was coming apart. I had already broken The Code for you!”

Miranda’s eye widened. “What do you mean?”

“You know this. You said it yourself.” Samara faced her once more, moving a step closer. “I...I threatened to murder doctors, because they wanted to turn off your life support,” Samara confessed, hard as it was for her to say. “You were functionally dead, and I was prepared to harm innocents rather than accept it - to use violence against healers so I could keep you hooked to those machines.”

Miranda’s heart stopped in her chest.

Wait, what? That wasn’t something Jacob had just misunderstood? Her weary mind went black. She couldn’t even comprehend that revelation. 

“I breached two tenets, in total. Not only by threatening innocent medics, but that I lied about The Code in order to compel them to spare you,” Samara confided in her, exposing her transgressions, her shame. “This is not permitted. I was unjust. Had I any sisters left to judge me, I might be expelled from the Order for this. At worst, perhaps even executed. Though, if there is but one small mercy to be found, it is that my words, evil though they were, were only words. I took no violent act, drew no weapon, and made no attempt to carry out my threats. Had I done so, The Code would not suffer me to live. Nor should it.”

“...You…wait…” Miranda couldn’t hear herself, her ear was ringing so loud.

What the fuck was happening? This couldn’t be real.

“In what small part of me was still capable of thinking rationally, I knew my behaviour had made me a danger to myself and others,” Samara continued. “If you passed, I could not take the risk of what I might do. At least, that was what I told myself. In truth, by that stage, I was simply too afraid to stay. Afraid of how much it would hurt when you...” She trailed off into silence, her meaning clear.

Miranda didn’t even catch all of that, her thoughts blank. No, this didn’t make sense. Samara was a Justicar. A servant of her Code. She was the embodiment of her way of life. She stuck to it rigidly. She never bent the rules, much less broke them. She would never do that. She was so disciplined. So loyal to it.

Samara hadn’t even broken The Code when it came to her own daughters. An Oath, yes. But not The Code. From what Miranda understood, that was the difference between breaking a promise, and breaking the law. She had told Miranda straight to her face that she couldn’t do the latter. That she would never.

And yet now Samara was standing there in front of her telling her that she had not merely violated The Code, but that she had done so consciously. For her.

Twice.

“Now you see me for what I truly am. Frail. Weak. A fraud.” Samara glanced aside, accepting that what she had done would forever tarnish her in Miranda’s sight, as it should. “So, like a coward, I ran. As far as I could. Every day thinking, is this the day she died? Is this the day? Surely, she must have passed by now, Samara. Just go back. Just go. Confront this. Be with her. But I could not. I could not return, because I was not ready to know. Because I was not ready to feel--”

Her voice caught, rendering her unable to finish that bleak thought.

Miranda felt a heavy tide rising inside her. Like she was swimming in a maelstrom. Sucked in under the water. Unable to breathe. Unable to think or react. It was so much all at once. It was as if she’d been consumed by a tsunami.

“...Why are you telling me this?” Miranda asked through the haze.

“Because you do not deserve to believe you are at fault,” Samara insisted, taking another step towards her. “I abandoned you in your hour of need, not because you mean nothing to me, but because you...you are so important to me it scares me. But that is my burden, not yours. You should not have to suffer for my lack of bravery. I could not bear it if you thought that I have treated you so carelessly because you have slighted me in some way. You have not. I am to blame. Only me. The failure is mine, and mine alone. I am the monster here. Not you.”

“Please don’t say that,” said Miranda. It hurt to hear Samara berate herself like that. She was the opposite of a monster. “I wouldn’t even be here if not for you.”

“But I should have been here.” Samara took another step. As the space between them shrank, Miranda felt a shiver pass through her body, but not because it was cold. “I should have watched over you. Cared for you when you awoke. Been by your side as you rebuilt this city. Weathered the terrible news with you when you learned what became of our friends. But I could not. Instead, I left you. I let fear take hold, and surrendered to despair. Worst of all, I gave up hope. I did not have faith in you, when I should have known you are beyond extraordinary.”

“You don’t owe me anything--”

“Please.” Samara quietly cut her off, refusing her forgiveness, feeling unworthy of it. Even so, she could not refrain from reaching out, curling stray strands of hair back behind Miranda’s ear. Miranda’s pulse spiked, thundering like a drum. “I was distraught for so long. Too paralysed with sorrow to return, and face the news. So convinced that everything I dreaded had come to pass. That I had been too late when I found you in the wastes. That you had succumbed while I was away. That I would find nothing here but your grave.” Samara’s eyes shone as she looked upon her, a warm smile coming to her face. “I do not know how I ever doubted you would defy the odds. You are truly incredible. You always have been.”

Miranda didn’t dare to breathe, Samara was so close. All those bottled up feelings came flooding to the surface. It felt like somehow Samara should just know. That she should be able to lay eyes upon her, and glean from a single glance how easily Miranda came undone in her presence.

God, the things it did to her for Samara to be this near, her fingers on her skin. It was too much. She should have withdrawn and pulled away, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want Samara to stop. She needed her, with every fibre of her being.

Miranda couldn’t take it. For her own sanity, she had to force herself to turn her head away. To look somewhere else. Anywhere else but Samara.

"Do not hide from me.” Samara’s fingers curled beneath her chin, lifting her head, compelling Miranda to lock her eye on Samara once more. “I know I ran before, but it was not because of you. Do not think it was ever to do with you.”

She realised then that Samara must have assumed the reason Miranda averted her gaze was because she’d felt self-conscious in that moment. Of her wounds. Of the scars on her face. Little did she know that had nothing to do with it.

It became achingly apparent then as she got lost in that shimmering sapphire stare that Samara had no idea what Miranda felt towards her. And that those feelings were so powerful and intense that they were threatening to devour her. 

How could Samara not see what she was doing to her? 

She was laid open. Bare. Exposed.

Samara’s fingers combed through Miranda’s hair until they grazed the cord that held her eyepatch in place. Miranda was so transfixed that she almost didn’t even feel her touch it. “May I?” Samara asked her permission to remove it, gauging whether Miranda trusted her enough to show the extent of her scars.

Miranda swallowed and nodded, giving her consent. That was never the problem. Least of all with Samara. Miranda stood stiff against her desk, knuckles turning white against her chair as Samara carefully slipped it off.

Samara released a slow exhale as she set that black cloth down on the table, a wave of heartfelt warmth washing over her features as that barrier fell by the wayside. As if on instinct, her fingers reached out to touch her face, but she stopped her hand just short of Miranda’s scarred cheek. “Will it hurt if I…?”

Miranda shook her head, almost too tense to speak. “Not if you’re gentle,” was all she could manage. And when was Samara ever anything less?

With Miranda’s tacit approval, Samara softly cupped her cheek. Miranda’s breath hitched. How could she be so on edge that such a feather-light caress could make her feel like her entire world was on the verge of exploding? 

“I have been devout in my faith for a very long time, and yet...Believe me when I tell you, the only time in my nine hundred and seventy-one years of life that the Goddess has ever answered my prayers was when I turned around on that balcony, and saw you standing there in front of me,” Samara professed.

If she moved so much as a single muscle, Miranda wasn’t sure there was any power on Earth that could stop her from crashing her lips against Samara’s, no matter how wrong she knew it was, or how bad of an idea. She willed her body to stay stone still, because it was all she could do to control herself.

If Miranda hadn’t been leaning so heavily on the desk and chair behind her, she was certain her legs would have given out right from under her. Samara’s skin was still so cold from the rain, but her touch was hotter than fire, and Miranda like wax beneath her fingertips. She could have melted into a puddle on the floor.

“I know I should not, but…” Without another word, Samara tilted Miranda’s head down, and pressed a tender, savouring kiss to her forehead. Miranda’s palm shook against her desk. She was trembling like a leaf. When she parted from her, Samara let her head rest against Miranda’s, cradling her jaw. “...I am sorry, but that is all I have wanted to do ever since I learned you were alive.”

Miranda’s heart wasn’t just pounding. It was screaming.

Somehow, she just knew, if she dared to utter a single sound, she wouldn’t be able to keep from shouting the truth at the top of her voice. The desire to say those five pivotal words seeped from every pore. She was bursting at the seams. 

“No, I should not have done that.” Samara shook her head, taking a step back. It was only then that Miranda realised she hadn’t taken a single breath in the last minute, and sharply gasped for air. “I have been selfish. Allowed myself to…” Samara stopped herself, as if suddenly coming to her senses. “Forgive me, Miranda. I have said all I needed to say. I should--”

The instant she turned to leave, Miranda’s hand shot out and seized Samara by her wrist, grabbing her as tightly as she’d ever held onto anything in her life.

“Don’t you dare walk away,” Miranda growled. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Samara hesitated, caught off guard. “...I thought you did not want me here.”

“Why would I not want you here?!” Miranda shot back, her tension built to breaking point. She felt like she was going insane, trying to find her balance on shifting sands. Nothing made sense anymore. For all Samara’s honesty, she still didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

“Because I abandoned you,” Samara answered. That had been the whole reason for her confession. Her apology. “Because I hurt you. Because you hate me.”

“Hate you? Samara, you idiot, I’m in love with you!” the words tore themselves from Miranda’s chest before she could stop them. Samara froze. Miranda released her tight grip on Samara’s wrist. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to stuff that confession back in.

God damn it. She’d really just said that out loud, hadn’t she?

“Fuck…” Miranda cursed under her breath, realising there was no going back. It was out there now. She had to confront it. “I’ve never...you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this way. It’s like a kind of madness.” She wasn’t sure what to say, or whether it was even a good idea to keep talking. But she had to. Now that she’d said it, she had to. “That was why I asked you to leave me alone before. Not because I hate you, but because...I feel the exact opposite.”

Miranda pressed her hand to her forehead, fighting off the incessant pain in her skull. The insomnia that made it so hard to think. To put these complicated feelings into words. She was so not in the right frame of mind to have this conversation.

Yet here they were.

“I’m pretty sure I have for a long time, actually. I was just too bloody stupid to figure it out any earlier. But...” In place of adding anything further, Miranda simply gestured, leaving her feelings out there, in the open, for Samara to do with as she wished. It was a horrible position to be in. She hated every second of it.

“...No,” was the first thing Samara said. Her voice sounded so distant. And it was tinged almost with a sense of...dread. “No. You do not. You should not.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I do. I think about you all the time. And I don’t...I don’t know what to do about it,” Miranda admitted, shrugging her shoulder. 

“No,” Samara repeated herself, more insistently. Her suddenness startled Miranda a little. “You...you are mistaken.”

“I’m not,” Miranda reflexively answered back. She couldn’t help but get defensive, hearing Samara tell her she was wrong about her own feelings, when she knew painfully well she wasn’t. “I tried to convince myself that I was, but--”

“You do not know what love is. And you do not know who I am,” Samara coldly shut her down, refusing to hear this. “If you did, you would know there is nothing about me that is worthy of you.”

“Fucking hell, Samara…” Miranda ran her hand through her hair. This was not how she would have planned this to go. For one thing, she never anticipated she would have to contend with Samara being in staunch denial about her dramatic love confession. But then she paused, as the final part of Samara’s sentence gradually registered in her tired mind. “...I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

“You…” Samara swallowed heavily, realising she had perhaps revealed more than she ought. Maybe because she thought her own feelings had already been blatantly obvious, and it hadn’t occurred to her to think Miranda wouldn’t have realised them by now. But she didn’t take it back. “No, I cannot do this.”

Samara moved for the door as if to leave. In response, Miranda extended her hand, biotically lifting Samara six inches off the ground, holding her in place.

“No,” Miranda sternly commanded her, not letting her run off and hide again. She was getting pretty bloody sick of that. “We’re talking.”

Samara could have overpowered her easily if she wanted to. Miranda was no match for her biotic prowess, especially not in her current state. She could have broken out of this grip with little more than a shadow of a thought. They both knew that. But she didn’t fight. She didn’t resist.

After a moment, Samara just gave her a nod, as if to confirm she would stay. Miranda let go. Samara’s feet hit the floor. She didn’t so much as stumble.

“You were saying,” Miranda prompted, losing patience for her evasiveness.

“...You heard what I said. It is as it seems,” was all Samara could bring herself to say, not denying Miranda’s suspicions. She would not lie to her.

“Do you feel the same way about me?” Miranda asked, forcing her to acknowledge it out loud. To put it into words. There was no room for misunderstanding here.

“That is not the point,” Samara responded, tersely.

Miranda sighed heavily, intuiting what she meant. “Of course. You’re a Justicar,” she said. It didn’t matter what Samara felt about her, if The Code forbade it.

Samara’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I...am uncertain what you mean by this.”

Miranda’s expression mirrored Samara’s, equally bewildered. “Doesn’t the Justicar Code forbid...?” Miranda didn't finish that sentence, simply glancing down at the space between them, choosing to be deft in her words. Using any specific term that entered her mind might be perceived as demanding or presuming too much, or too little, and she wouldn’t risk that. 

Samara stared at her, the open-ended meaning not lost in the silence. It was obvious from looking at her expression that she wished her status as a Justicar permitted her to speak falsely. That would have made things so much easier. “...It does not,” she replied to Miranda's myriad unspoken questions, and the words running through her mind. It was the same answer for all of them.

At that, relief dared to trickle through Miranda’s skin. 

“That was never the problem,” Samara continued, not allowing Miranda to think that information changed anything. It didn’t.

“Then what is?” Miranda replied. “There’s obviously a connection between us. We both feel it. And if your Code says there’s nothing wrong with that, then--”

“Because I deserve to be alone!” Samara professed. “That is my penance.”

Miranda recoiled. It actually, physically hurt to hear that. “How can you say that?”

“Miranda, listen to me,” Samara implored her, holding her focus. “You are a remarkable woman. You are brilliant and exceptional, in every respect--”

“So are you,” said Miranda.

“No, you are not listening.” Samara raised her hands, determined to continue. “You are so young. You still have so much life ahead of you. So much potential. When others see you, as I have seen you, the entire galaxy will fall at your feet. As it should. You have nothing to gain from me. I am...I am regret, and ruin,” Samara told her, a faint glint of unshed tears in her eyes. “If you truly saw me for what I am, you would know there is only death and misery for you here.”

“I do know you, Samara,” Miranda spoke quietly. “I know that, despite all the tragedy you’ve endured that would break a lesser person, you somehow still manage to wake up each day and choose to be warm, and kind, and good--”

“I am none of those things,” Samara assured her.

“You are to me,” Miranda persisted, undeterred. “I know you are, because you found me when I was at my most jaded, my most cynical, my most closed off--”

“Miranda, no.” Samara shook her head, pleading with her not to feel this way.

“And, instead of rejecting me, you...you reached out to me,” Miranda continued, talking right through any interruption, or resistance. Because this needed to be said. “You made me smile more than anyone has ever made me smile. You showed me that...that opening up to someone you trust and letting yourself be vulnerable around them isn’t a weakness, but that it takes bravery and strength.”

“Please stop this,” Samara begged her, her voice a whisper.

But Miranda didn’t stop. “You single-handedly made me a better person than I was before I met you.” There was no denying that. Without Samara, she wouldn’t have learned from her past mistakes. She would have kept perpetuating the same cycles, and never stopped to reflect on her preconceived notions about what mattered to her, and what made her happy. “So, if you’re unworthy of love, then what does that make me? Because, from where I’m standing...Samara, there aren’t enough superlatives to describe you.”

“Enough!” Samara swept her hand across her body, signalling for this to cease.

But Miranda wouldn’t.

“No.” Miranda pressed forward. She was pouring her heart out. She’d never done this before, because she’d never felt this way about anyone. And, now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? You’re it. You’re it for me. I will never feel the way about anyone else that I feel about you, and I know because I’ve tried, and those efforts failed so hard I didn’t even think the ability to fall in love with someone existed in me, until I met you. You’re not just beyond comparison to everyone else. God, you’re...you’re fucking transcendent.”

“Do not...say these things!” Samara cut her off, her voice so loud and forceful that there was no doubt it bellowed through the whole apartment. Miranda had never heard her raise her voice before, let alone like that. “You know not of what you speak. You love a shadow. Nothing more.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed. “What is it you think I don’t know, Samara?” she challenged, determined to prove herself. “I know more than you think.”

“I killed the last person I loved!” Samara shot back, refusing to subject herself to that indescribable agony a second time. She would never let that happen again.

“No, you didn’t, Samara. She killed herself,” Miranda curtly replied.

“You know nothing of it!” Samara insisted through her teeth.

“I know everything,” Miranda interrupted, unshaken by what Samara thought were secrets. They weren’t. “I know every little fucked up detail you didn’t want me to know. I know you tried to kill yourself too, and the only reason you failed is that your neighbour found you. I know you blame yourself for Mirala becoming Morinth because you think whatever you said to her the night before her test scared her into running away and melding with her best friend to prove she wasn’t an Ardat-Yakshi. I know the police blamed you and wanted to charge you with something, anything, and that you broke down during your interrogation and told them you blamed yourself for everything too. I know the whole world turned against you for something that wasn’t your fault. I know it all.”

Miranda’s response thrust Samara into stunned silence. Miranda had the decency to look contrite, already seeing the fire of betrayal in steely blue eyes. Exactly like she expected. Exactly why this admission had been so easy to put off.

“There’s nothing about you that’s a mystery to me,” Miranda continued, quieter than before. “I looked into your past when we were aboard the SR-2. I’m surprised you didn’t already assume I did. I mean, this is me we’re talking about.”

As that slowly sank in, Samara stepped away and shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Miranda. Yet I suppose you are correct; I cannot claim this was a shock,” said Samara, in a tone Miranda had never heard before. “After all, you have at all times been nothing if not transparent about your duplicity.”

Miranda’s eye darkened. That hurt.

“Fuck you, Samara. You don’t get to turn this around on me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, between the two of us, I’m not the one lying.”

“Yes, how very dare I be hurt by your treachery,” Samara countered, looking her in the eye once more, her words laced with biting sarcasm. “I should know better than to criticise you, or confront you with consequences for your actions. After all, you are Miranda Lawson. You can do nothing wrong.”

“I’ll apologise as much as you want later. But that’s not what this conversation is about. So don’t change the subject,” Miranda snapped. 

“What more is there to say?” said Samara, her arms folded across her chest, unwilling to discuss it further. This hadn’t helped. “You know my answer.”

“There is so much more to say, because you’re pulling away and I don’t even know why. To punish yourself for some imaginary sins? Is that it? Look…” Miranda crossed the distance between them, reaching out and gently clasping Samara's hand, guiding it to rest upon her chest, where she could feel her heartbeat. “Whatever this is, I...I want this,” Miranda assured her. “Do you?”

Samara withdrew, resisting the temptation. “What I want is irrelevant.”

“Why is it irrelevant?” Miranda pursued her. “You’re a person, Samara. An incredible one, but still just a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. You've spent four hundred years being selfless, to a greater degree than your Code required you to be. You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to feel things. To want things. To need things. You’re allowed to...to move on with your life.”

“Move on?” Samara echoed incredulously. She turned her body away, refusing to look at her, visibly caught up in a tempestuous tumult of conflicting emotions.

Hurt.

Anger.

Grief.

“If you knew me half as well as you claim to, you would understand what an insult it is to me that you would tell me such a thing,” said Samara, shaking her head in contempt and disbelief. “‘Move on with my life’. The audacity...”

“I'm not saying that to get something from you. Genuinely, I'm not. You don't have to...” This wasn’t working, was it? “What I’m trying to say is that, whatever this is between us, this doesn’t have to go the way I want it to. I’m not even sure what that is, or what that would mean. I was so convinced this could never happen. But don't you deserve a bit of happiness?” she asked, trying to catch Samara’s eyes, though she was intent on avoiding her. “If I bring that to you, then—“

Before she could finish, Samara exhaled heavily and stepped closer, until the space between them virtually evaporated. Miranda trembled as she stumbled backwards on instinct, until she could go no further, and hit the wall near the door.

“Do not speak of happiness.” Samara pinned Miranda in place without exerting any force whatsoever. Without touching her. Whatever Miranda had intended to say before swiftly fled her mind. “My happiness died centuries ago. And I promised myself -- I promised myself, I would never...never betray that.”

Miranda moved to protest, but stopped abruptly when it became apparent Samara wasn’t really talking to her, but rather that she was arguing with herself.

“But, I...you were not...you were not part of that plan. I did not foresee how much I would...how much I would come to...” As her dilemma tore at her soul, Samara grimaced and braced herself on the wall, as if in physical pain. “I do not know what to do. I know I do not deserve this, but...perhaps we can, without...”

“Yes,” Miranda all but whimpered. Whatever she meant, her answer was yes.

She wanted this. So bad. Even if it might have been a terrible mistake. Even if it might have ruined everything they already had. At that moment, she didn't care.

Miranda wanted to kiss her. To sink her teeth into her neck, and tear her armour off. Her body was screaming at her to do those things, desperate to touch her, and powerless to resist if this was what Samara chose. But, in what little part of her brain could still think, she knew she had to let Samara take the initiative for whatever happened next. If she didn’t, she would push her away forever.

They probably only stood like that for a few seconds, but time moved so slowly it felt like minutes. Miranda could see the cogs spinning in Samara’s head. The conflict. The indecision. Temptation. Torn between resistance and surrender.

Samara’s fingers brushed her bare arm. She’d leaned so close Miranda felt her breath against her lips. Then, blue eyes went black. And Miranda felt the magnetic sensations she recognised as a meld beneath Samara’s fingertips. 

In an instant, everything changed.

A wave of sheer, uncompromising despair crashed over Miranda, plunging her into the deepest, darkest, blackest abyss she had ever known. It felt as if her very soul had been ripped from her body and murdered in front of her, leaving behind only a hollow, empty shell. Any memory of happiness or joy was stripped from her mind, and shattered into a million pieces at her feet.

She had never felt more devastatingly, crushingly alone.

Bereft of hope.

And, although it had come over her as suddenly as the blink of an eye, it felt like she had never known anything else.

Abruptly, Samara glowed blue, her biotics repelling Miranda, like a barrier between them, pressing her back against the wall. The meld ended only a fraction of a second after it began, leaving both of them visibly shaken. The moment they separated, Miranda's hand flew to her lips, trembling as tears spilled from her eye, coursing down the unscarred side of her face, beyond her control.

Samara staggered backwards, as if she had seen a ghost. “No, I...I cannot.”

“No, don't...” Miranda could hardly speak, overcome by a grief that she could not name. She shook her head. What was happening? She never cried, unless her sister was involved. But this sorrow. It had lasted only a fleeting moment, but it was intense and crushing and it dwarfed any sadness she had ever felt. So much so that it hurt just to breathe. Just to be alive. “I'm sorry, I don't...I'm not...I'm not normally like this. I don't know why this is happening.”

“Because it came from me,” Samara answered, her lips scarcely moving.

“...What did you say?” Miranda lifted her head, staring at Samara, shellshocked. But she hadn’t misheard. Whatever she was feeling, these weren’t her own emotions. In that brief instant that they had started to meld, Samara had inadvertently transferred whatever she was currently feeling onto her. 

“I did not mean for this to happen. I am so sorry. I...I thought I could contain myself. My boundaries. I never wanted you to experience this...” Samara whispered until her words trailed off into silence, confirming it to be true.

That realisation struck Miranda to her core, that agony still permeating her being.

“...Is this how you feel about me?” Miranda asked, a deep, dull ache pooling like lead at the base of her heart at the very thought - that this was how miserable she had made her by putting her in this position. Samara didn’t respond, neither confirming nor denying it. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

“It does not matter. This cannot happen,” Samara stated, her voice hollow.

“Samara.” Miranda reached out for her, but Samara raised her hand, signalling for her not to come closer, convinced this had been a terrible mistake.

“In another time, or another life, this would have been...” Samara didn't finish that thought, shaking her head. “I cannot contemplate this. I must not.”

“So, what? You’re just going to run off again?!” Miranda’s shout was enough to momentarily stop Samara in her tracks. Her throat was strangled with emotions that weren’t entirely her own. But some of them sure were. “Tell me, Samara, when did the strongest woman I’ve ever met turn into such a pathetic coward?”

“This is what I have always been!” Samara hissed in response, despising herself for this horrible misdeed. There was no hint of the stoic, composed, restrained person Miranda previously knew. “I have always been a coward. A fraud. A monster. A mistake. A worthless, selfish waste! I have the blood of over a thousand murders on my hands! I am nothing! I should not even be here!”

“Then why don’t you just fucking go!” Miranda shot back, lashing out in pain.

Samara took her at her word, looking at her one last time before she stormed out. Miranda heard the front door slam. The instant it did, Miranda slid down the wall, tears spilling from her eye, the weight of what just happened combining with Samara’s despair, still coursing through her body.

She felt so cold. Like everything right, or good, or light was just...absent.

There was only shadow.

Only grief.

A shaky exhale escaped her lips. What had she done? This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. She’d told Samara the truth, and pushed her away forever. They would probably never speak again. Not after this.

She didn’t even realise that the door to her room was still open until a few heads peeked around the corner to see her. Obviously, they’d been roused by raised voices, and the door slamming. The walls weren’t that thick. They probably hadn’t heard everything. But they would have heard enough.

“Are you okay, Miss?” Reiley asked, visibly concerned.

Miranda wiped her eye and picked herself up to her feet, refusing to let herself look vulnerable in front of them. Even though it was too late for that. “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, taking her eyepatch off the desk and putting it on.

“You don’t look fine,” Jason pointed out as Miranda limped her way past them.

“Samara left in a hurry. And we heard fighting,” Rodriguez noted, not really sure how to approach this. “...Did you fuck things up between you?” she asked, in what sounded like an effort to be understanding and comforting. It wasn’t. Jason chastised her insensitivity with a light slap to the back of her head. “What? It’s fucking obvious they just had a fight…”

Miranda ignored them, grabbing her things, pulling on her jacket and scarf.

“What are you doing?” said Jason, shaking his head at her. For a second, it almost sounded like he was the responsible adult in the house. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Miranda answered stonily.

“It’s 1:00am,” Jason pointed out, as if convincing her to see reason.

“I don’t care.” Miranda slipped on her shoes, and took hold of her cane. She couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t lie there and think about this. Couldn’t feel this.

“Are you coming back?” said Reiley, confused.

Miranda was tempted to lash out at them and say no out of sheer bitterness and spite, but she couldn't. Unlike Samara, she didn't run from her problems.

“...I'll see you in the morning,” she said, before she closed the door and left. None of them knew it then, but they would not, in fact, see her in the morning.

And, when they did see her again, they would wish they hadn’t.

So would Miranda.

*     *     *

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

[afraidofchange]

Happy kiss and/or drunk kiss for Jolly and Samantha? 👀

kissing prompts. | @sunbentsky

  “You know, Shepard,” Sam’s words seem to slur together; whatever bar rail concoction Joker had put together ( that she teased him about, mercilessly ) seems to be hitting her harder than anticipated. “I’ve always, um, admired your uh,” Sam wets her lips ( as if that’s going to help her thought process ) as they sit together, tucked away in the corner of the sofa while everyone else is either upstairs doing some kind of contest or shooting bottles off the bar or crying in the shower, as it were. “Your... well, your...” A hand lifts to help her out, trailing along the Commander’s arm, covered from shoulder to wrist in ink. “Tattoos, that’s the word. They’re really....”

  Briefly, her eyes flick upwards, and there’s a noticeable lack of distance between them now wherein Shepard has leant in towards her. Sam can feel the heat rush to her cheeks, darkening in colour (both on account of the booze and the Commander’s close presence). She laughs beneath her breath, nothing more than a nervous chuckle to fill the gap before she’s expected to say something again. 

 “Aha, well they’re... really attractive. On you. Really, really um, attractive,” The words begin to trail off, as her nervous eyes flick between Jolly Shepard’s eyes to her lips and back again and before she really knows it, Sam finds herself leaning in to kiss the other woman, caring little for who might be watching on at this point in the evening. Shepard’s lips are, to Sam’s surprise, softer than they appear, and that fact in of itself encourages her to let it linger a little longer, a little deeper than she would’ve otherwise.

When she pulls back, her face feels like it’s on fire. “I... you know, maybe I should um, go back to the hot tub...” And perhaps, boldly (influenced directly by the tequila), she adds, “And you’re um, welcome to join me...” And, despite the magnetic attraction keeping her to the couch, Samantha musters the means to get up, stumbling a bit awkwardly before finding the stairs, only briefly glancing over her shoulder in Shepard’s direction. 

#sunbentsky #[ oh this got Very Gay Very Fast and I for one am Here For It ] #SAMANTHA TRAYNOR: IC

[tabloidtoc]

OK, March 8

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Bruce Springsteen

Page 1: Big Pic -- as part of Coach's latest campaign Jennifer Lopez posed with a supersized pink version of their new Pillow Tabby purse

Page 2: Contents

Page 3: Contents

Page 4: Chris Harrison gone for good? The Bachelor host's future with the show remains uncertain after his controversial interview with Rachel Lindsay

Page 6: Since the start of his career Justin Timberlake has endured his fair share of scandals but after welcoming his second son with wife Jessica Biel over the summer and celebrating his 40th birthday, he is confessing that he feels immense guilt about the past and he won't be making the same mistakes in the future -- Justin's done some soul-searching and accepts that he's wronged a lot of people over the years with his own terrible mistakes and he says he's still a work in progress, but step one has been to stand up and admit he's hurt too many women -- in addition to a boozy night out with his Palmer costar Alisha Wainwright in 2019 and his part in the now-infamous Nipplegate incident with Janet Jackson at the 2004 Super Bowl, Justin recently came under fire again due to the documentary Framing Britney Spears which showed him exploiting his breakup from Britney Spears to help his solo career -- Justin's learned from his mistakes and has a lot more sensitivity about the impact of his actions on other people and that's the big difference between the Justin of today and his old, immature self and that self-awareness was evident in an emotional statement that he posted apologizing to both Britney and Janet for the errors in his ways -- his words drew praise from his wife Jessica who says he's come a long way as a husband, a father and more importantly, a human being

Page 7: Wendy Williams is on the prowl for a new man and he's got to be husband material and she is ready for a serious commitment -- Wendy's been staying up until all hours of the night checking out guys online and on exclusive dating apps and she wants someone age-appropriate, fun, kind, independent and of course has no history of cheating -- she's feeling very optimistic and even buying new perfume and clothes and jewelry for all the dates she hopes to have once lockdown lifts

* Texas native Matthew McConaughey is seriously considering throwing his hat in the ring to become the state's next governor -- he's been putting out feelers to see if he's got sufficient support and if enough donors are willing to write checks, he'd mount an aggressive run in 2022 -- he's already gotten the thumbs-up from his wife Camila Alves and their three kids -- at this point, he needs to see an actual path to winning because he's not interested in just making a protest statement; don't be fooled by his aw-shucks attitude, Matthew means business

* Now that Keeping Up With the Kardashians is coming to an end, the hunt is on for a new family to replace the clan and one reality pro is poised to nab the prize: Real Housewives of Beverly Hills star Lisa Rinna -- there's already been talk about Lisa picking up the torch and her family is camera ready, consisting of husband Harry Hamlin, and their daughters Delilah Hamlin who's dating Love Island's Eyal Booker and Amelia Hamlin who's dating Scott Disick

Page 8: Things keep going from bad to worse for Armie Hammer -- he was forced to drop out of his upcoming movie Shotgun Wedding with Jennifer Lopez after direct messages he allegedly sent to women in which he described himself as a cannibal and detailed disturbing sexual fantasies were leaked online -- Armie was also fired by his talent agency WME and now the disgraced star may get cut from his new film Next Goal Wins which has already been shot -- he's radioactive and everybody knows it and his completed but unreleased work is getting a second look as studios want to do damage control, and that includes another of his finished projects Death on the Nile where his part could end up on the cutting room floor -- he's a pariah now and it's hard to see how he's ever going to come back from this

* Jennifer Aniston has always had a spiritual side but these days she is taking things to a whole new plane -- Jen has surrounded herself with psychics and has been doing Goddess Circles with the same group of close friends for 30 years, but now she's taking courses to learn to heal herself and be her own guru -- BFF Courteney Cox has been a big influence and Jen's learned a lot from Courteney, who's had a long-term interest in mediums, astrologists and horoscopes, and she's trying to fuse it all together into her own brand of spirituality -- Jen's had a lot of time alone, which has only deepened her questions about the universe and how she can make the most of her life and she's determined to find the answers

* Princess Eugenie is over the moon after welcoming her first child, a baby boy with businessman husband Jack Brooksbank but now the new mom is torn about taking time out from her royal responsibilities -- Eugenie would love to take a long break from everything and focus solely on raising her son however she knows deep down how much she's needed, especially since Prince Harry and Meghan Markle are showing no signs of coming back -- as she weighs her options, Eugenie is looking to her multi-tasking cousin-in-law Duchess Kate for some inspiration because she's impressed by how Kate is able to juggle her official duties while raising three young kids

Page 10: Red Hot on the Red Carpet -- stars captivate in enchanting puff-sleeve numbers -- Bel Powley, Aubrey Plaza, Lupita Nyong'o

Page 11: Kaitlyn Dever, Lucy Boynton, Margaret Qualley

Page 12: Who Wore It Better? Hilary Swank vs. Madeline Brewer, Bella Hadid vs. Devon Windsor, Alison Brie vs. Dua Lipa

Page 14: News in Photos -- Tayshia Adams and her fiance Zac Clark felt on top of the world when the visited the Empire State Building together

Page 15: Chrissy Teigen and John Legend were inseparable while out and about in Beverly Hills, Bill Murray and NFL player Larry Fitzgerald Jr. were among the many stars to shoot their shot during a charity golf tournament in Pebble Beach, Rita Ora performing on an episode of the U.K. show Dancing on Ice in Hertfordshire

Page 16: At the Australian Open Serena Williams came out on top during the fourth round, Bachelorette alum Jordan Kimball and fiancee Christina Creedon couldn't wait until they got home to enjoy Candy Pop popcorn's new Peanut M&M's flavor from Sam's Club in Houston, Heidi Montag spent the day hitting the slopes at Lake Tahoe

Page 17: Hailey Bieber starring in Beyonce's new Ivy Park x Adidas collection

Page 18: Brody Jenner had a blast snow tubing while shooting the second season of The Hills: New Beginnings in Lake Tahoe, Avril Lavigne stepped out with her new boyfriend Mod Sun for a romantic dinner in West Hollywood

Page 20: Justin Bieber looked like he'd just hopped out of bed in a sweater and checkered fleece pants in L.A., Robin Thicke in front of a piano in L.A.

Page 21: Steve Martin doubled up on face coverings on the set of his new project Only Murders in the Building in NYC, Michelle Obama on her new show Waffles + Michi, Cardi B spoiled herself with high-end goods during a day of shopping on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills

Page 22: Brooke Burke romancing with boyfriend Scott Rigsby on Valentine's Day, Lucy Hale accessorized her look with her newest rescue pup Ethel in L.A., Jessica Lange and Susan Sarandon masked up for a snowy outing in NYC

Page 24: For Galentine's Day Vanessa Lachey snacked on macarons and sipped on wine in L.A.

Page 25: Bella Hadid alongside models Mayowa Nicholas and Heejung Park in Michael Kors' new campaign for the Spring 2021 collection, Hugh Grant stepped out for some fresh hair in London, Sofia Vergara kept it casual during a visit to a pal's house in Beverly Hills

Page 26: Inside My Home -- Katherine Heigl and Josh Kelley's Rocky Mountain retreat

Page 28: Marriage isn't easy especially during a global health crisis but for Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard divorce is not an option -- Kristen said she and Dax at the start of the pandemic were at a point in their marriage where they definitely needed a little therapy brush-up and every couple of years they're being very antagonistic towards each other and they don't want that so they go back to therapy and figure out how they can serve their team goal better and it's been incredibly helpful and even in the toughest times they always have each other's back and they're committed to being each other's biggest support systems -- while their relationship may never be perfect, they're happy and love each other and that's what matters most

Page 29: Now that Tom Brady has won his seventh Super Bowl with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, he has set his sights on the next prize: baby No. 3 with wife Gisele Bundchen -- they've been telling friends they hope to make an announcement by summer at the latest and Tom and Gisele have been super loved-up since leaving Boston and moving to Florida after the QB signed on with the Bucs and the change of scenery has worked wonders on their love life and put them in baby-making mode -- the duo, who recently bought a $17 million spread on Miami's exclusive Indian Creek Island, plan to build a luxury mansion there complete with a nursery and they hope to be all settled in when the new arrival comes -- they've never felt healthier or been happier

* Aaron Rodgers looked positively giddy when he revealed he had a fiancee, Shailene Woodley at the NFL Honors, but the QB is dreading the next step: bringing her home to meet his parents because it's no secret that Aaron's been estranged from them for years and the last thing he wants is for Shailene to get caught up in the drama -- Shailene wants Aaron to clear the air with his folks, but he's not ready to do that and he doesn't want to bring Shailene into a toxic environment

* It's only been two years since Miranda Lambert married Brendan McLoughlin but she's already itching for some alone time -- she's headed to Texas in April for her first concert in over a year and she's told Brendan he shouldn't come because it will be all work and no play but she really wants to get away from him for a while and after the pair's recent road trip together, Miranda is desperate for some space -- sometimes Miranda feels like she's living with a baby because Brendan whines and complains about life on her farm

Page 30: Kourtney Kardashian and Travis Barker's romance is heating up fast, so much so that she's practically handed over the keys to her Calabasas estate and she loves having Travis sleep over and sometimes he'll stay the whole weekend -- he gets along famously with her children and Travis has been a friend of the family for years, so the kids have pretty much known him their whole lives and they'll do fun stuff together like hiking or playing video games and Travis loves making breakfast and showing off his pancake-flipping skills --Travis is spending so much time at Kourt's place that he's moved a bunch of his stuff in to make it easier for his kids Landon and Alabama with ex Shanna Moakler to visit him there -- everyone's convinced they'll be living together full-time before you know it

* Prince Harry and Meghan Markle were met with a flurry of well-wishes after they revealed they're expecting baby No. 2 -- the couple decided to wait until Meghan was safely into her second trimester to share the news and they only told a handful of family members before the public and they wanted to cherish this secret for as long as they could -- Harry and Meghan have been nesting at their Montecito mansion and have been busy prepping the nursery and making sure it's eco-friendly with energy-efficient lighting and they're keeping it as plastic-free as possible

* Love Bites -- Clare Crawley and Dale Moss reunited, Kit Harington and Rose Leslie welcomed a baby boy, Paris Hilton and Carter Reum engaged

Page 32: Cover Story -- Bruce Springsteen's private world -- he's an open book in his songs, but here's Bruce's untold story of his struggles with depression and regret -- he still has dark thoughts from time to time but therapy and medication have helped a great deal

Page 36: Stars' Cheating Confessions -- sometimes all you can do is beg for forgiveness; these celebs have all had to plead their case -- Donny and Debbie Osmond, Jude Law and Sienna Miller, Jada Pinkett Smith and Will Smith

Page 37: David Letterman and Regina Lasko, Dean McDermott and Tori Spelling, Kevin Hart and Eniko Parrish

Page 40: Interview -- Elizabeth Olsen -- the Avengers star dishes about getting witchy again for Marvel's mind-bending WandaVision

Page 42: Golden Girls -- how these Golden Globes nominees get their award-worthy figures -- Anya Taylor-Joy, Nicole Kidman, Lily Collins

Page 43: Kaley Cuoco, Michelle Pfeiffer, Amanda Seyfried

Page 44: Aadila Dosani's vegan recipe for Chickpea and Potato Soup

Page 46: Style Week -- Ashley Graham is the new global brand ambassador for self-tanning label St. Tropez

Page 48: What's Hot Right Now -- create a naturally gorgeous, flushed look with fashion designer Jason Wu's namesake makeup collection

Page 49: Haute hippie retro jeans -- take a trip back to the '70s with Revice Denim's ultra-cool capsule, Los Angeles Lovers -- Delilah Belle Hamlin

Page 50: Flower Power -- floral prints are spring's hottest trend -- rock the pretty blooms for a fresh, boho-chic look -- Kaia Gerber

Page 52: DIY Blowout -- these foolproof finds deliver impeccable hair right at home -- Drew Barrymore

Page 54: Entertainment

Page 55: Q&A with Mary Fitzgerald of Selling Sunset

Page 58: Buzz -- after months of playing it coy, these celebs confirmed their relationships on Valentine's Day -- Scott Disick and Amelia Hamlin

Page 59: Vanessa Hudgens and Cole Tucker, Sharna Burgess and Brian Austin Green, Kourtney Kardashian and Travis Barker, Kendall Jenner and Devin Booker

Page 60: Sound Bites -- Halsey on not conforming to conventional beauty standards, Anderson Cooper on coparenting with his ex, Ashley Graham on the importance of self-care, Kate Winslet on feeling like a fish out of water in Hollywood

Page 61: Tom Holland on the plot of the next Spider-Man flick, Mila Kunis joking about keeping her family entertained during quarantine, Drew Barrymore when asked if she's ever been skinny-dipping, Madelaine Petsch on playing a teen in Clare at 16

Page 62: Horoscope -- Pisces Lupita Nyong'o turned 38 on March 1

Page 64: By the Numbers -- Riz Ahmed

#tabloid #grain of salt #tabloid toc #tabloidtoc #bruce springsteen #elizabeth olsen #wandavision #aadila dosani #riz ahmed #chris harrison #the bachelor #justin timberlake #wendy williams #matthew mcconaughey #lisa rinna #armie hammer #jennifer aniston #princess eugenie #duchess kate #who wore it better? #katherine heigl #josh kelley #dax shepard #kristen bell #tom brady #gisele bundchen #aaron rodgers #shailene woodley #miranda lambert #brendan mcloughlin

[lettersofwrittencollective]

My wet dream

Author: @lettersofwrittencollective

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2499

Warnings: making out, implied smut (if you’re interested in the smut version let me know) 

Prompt: “Do you wish things were different?”  

A/N: The biggest congrats to @waiting4inspiration on reaching 2k! Thanks for letting us write! This is my first time writing for Dean and it does feel off (to me) but ya know, that’s why we write to learn and grow. Hope you enjoy! 

Masterlist || Supernatural Masterlist 

Ring

Ring

Ring 

The obnoxious ringtone goes off, waking you from your slumber. Fumbling around for your phone, you found it and answered the call, “Yeah?”

“Y/N,” comes the voice on the other side of the line and you’re instantly awake. You remain silent for a moment, waiting to see what he’ll say. 

“You still awake?”

“Screw you. Why you waking me up at,” you pull the phone away to check the time, “3 in the morning?”

You can hear him sigh on the other line, “We need your help.”

“Well that’s something you don’t hear every day,” you chuckle as you get out of bed and make your way towards your closet to grab one of your duffels and more ammunition. 

“Yeah, well, we do,” your friend muttered. 

“Alright, so what are you guys hunting?” 

“We’re pretty sure it’s a succubus.”

“Well then - I think you definitely need my help. Where you guys at?” you ask him as you begin to change your night clothes. 

“Rubensville”

“Wait, Rubensville, Illinois?” you ask as you pull your jeans on. 

“Yea, the very one.”

“Be there in about 3 hours,”. 

“Wait, where are you?”

“Heading to my car,” you tease him as you grab your keys and make your way down the stairs. “See you in a bit Sammy boy. Text me the name of the motel.”

Just after dawn, you pull up to the small town and double check your phone. Sam had, indeed, said they were at the Shepards Inn. Parking the jeep, you find their room number and knock on the door. 

The door opens and you’re looking at one of your oldest friends. Hugging the tall brunette, you let out a soft chuckle and hug him tightly as he hugs you back just as tightly before letting go. 

Making your way into the room, you notice that there’s a body missing. 

“Where’s your brother?”

“Ummm-” Sam says before clearing his throat, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Chuckling, you look over the notes Sam had left on the small table, “Which means he’s either with a bar bunny or he got himself caught by that demon.”

“Or, he got up to go get you some breakfast,” Dean's voice cuts through the room and you look up to see the green-eyed hunter. In his hands are two bags of food that smell delicious and he walks in giving you a bag and a cup of coffee. 

“Pancakes,” he says as you take the bag and you sigh. You HATE pancakes, they’ve never sat right in your stomach for some reason. 

Looking at the bag, you make a face before sighing and sitting down. While you may hate the food, you’re gonna need the fuel if you’re gonna be any help on the hunt. The coffee though, that’s a gift you have no intention of turning down. Rummaging through the bag, you realize that there’s no creamer or sugar. 

No matter, while it’s not your favorite thing to do, you can drink your coffee black.  Before you do, you opened the box of food Dean brought and a smile came to your face.

Biscuits and gravy, extra gravy with sausage and french toast. The only breakfast meal you actually enjoy. Curious, you take a sip of the coffee and smiled, sugar and cream just the way you liked it.

“You remembered?” you asked him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Of course I remembered, you always ordered the same damn thing at every damn diner we went to.”

“Dean, that was three years ago,” you pointed out. 

“Eat your food.”

Rolling your eyes, you figure it’s best to just shut up and eat. You used to hunt with the Winchester boys a bit more regularly. Regularly enough that a couple of demons and angels had thought you were dating the boys. It had led to a couple of demons trying to kidnap you in order to lure the brothers out. 

You’d managed to get away before the brothers had come charging in but it had almost cost you your life with the amount of blood you’d lost. 

Thankfully, hospitals are required to treat patients that come in and you’d gotten a transfusion and a few days to recover. You don’t remember a whole lot from those days, but you do remember Dean. 

He’d been there each time your eyes opened. You’re pretty sure he was there while you were out of it too. You can remember hearing him even when you couldn’t see him. He’d begged you not to die and he’d threatened a reaper, though you don’t remember actually seeing one. 

It hadn’t been the last hunt you’d gone on with the boys but it was one of them. After that, Sam called you a couple of times and you’d show up to help but Dean was always paranoid and turned it into anger at you and his brother. 

You’d woken once to their arguing. Dean and Sam hadn’t realized just how thin the walls were and they’d argued back and forth. Sam didn’t see the issue with you being there, every time Dean brought something up he’d point out that you were a hunter. You knew the risks and you still did your job. Hell, you’d escaped demons trying to get to them. 

Dean wasn’t having any of it but Sam kept pushing and pushing, in his own way and eventually Dean broke. He was worried that they couldn’t protect you and that you’d be used against them again just like Lisa and Ben had.

After that hunt, you’d made sure to pick up more and more jobs. It made it harder for the boys to ask you to come help them out but you always checked in. Every few days you send them a text and a picture of a very specific flower. 

Thankfully, no one seemed to catch onto it and you’d been able to continue this way for the last couple years. One of them would occasionally call but those conversations were always over too soon.

It didn’t take long to finish your food and when you did, you sat down to help plan the rest of the hunt. A succubus, a damn demon that feeds on the souls of the living through sex. As far as ways to go, it’s not too terrible, everyone ends up with a happy ending but the problem is the soul never rests. 

“So, do  regular excorcisms work on these things?” 

You shake your head, “They should. The problems getting close enough to one to actually perform the exorcism.”

Both look at you like you’ve lost your mind and you sigh, “They’re children are sirens. What do you think they’re capable of?” 

You see Dean let out an involuntary shiver before he shakes it out.

“Sirens become whatever you want, they’re more evolved that way I guess. Meanwhile, Succubus and Incubus become your wet dream. Whatever your type is, whatever you like, they take all those parts and become that so that their prey lusts after it. It’s got some kind of pheromone or something, makes people all hazy and makes them hornier than a cat in heat.”

“And how do you keep from becoming fido?”

“Well considering they’re just demons, we should be good with the tattoos. You two just better hope that she doesn’t recognize any of us or it’s gonna get a bit more difficult.” Sam looks like he’s confused and so you point out, “She’ll turn her powers to some poor schmuck who’ll then be trying to get to her using any means necessary.”

It didn’t take long for the three of you to set up. Dean and Sam were supposed to play bait while you got to play the part of the jealous girlfriend to whichever one she decided to pick up and would then gank the bitch. 

The whole thing was going according to plan, you were waiting in your jeep when Dean came back, a somewhat grumpy look on his face. 

“Struck out then?” you chuckled.

“Shut up,” he grumbles and you just shake your head. 

“Her loss I’m guessing. Now, you go around back and in about 2 minutes I’ll go in and we’ll finish this.”

You watch as Dean gives you a look. shoving him you tell him to get going. He looks like he wants to argue with you but you remind him there’s work to be done. He huffs but goes without much more of a fight. Watching him, you realize there’s something about his walk that seems off. Almost like he’s not sure what his gait is supposed to look like. 

Pulling out your phone, you shoot off a quick text, 

Where you at, right now? 

It only takes moments to respond, Near the kitchen- she seems to like Sammy here. 

Fuck 

You had a succubus and an incubus on your hands. 

Sending Dean another text, you grab one of your knives from under the seat. She’s got a playmate. Need you to gank the you in the back.  

Another me- well that’s just freakin great. So we dealing with a shapeshifter too?

It would be so easy to say yes but he needs to know what he’s up against. Silver won’t work on a demon. Incubus

It wasn’t long before Sam was able to walk the succubus out of the building. Getting her to the Impala was easier than expected and Sam had been able to get her to walk right into a devils trap. 

Before she’d realized she was even trapped, you’d started the incantation and the excorcism went without a hitch. It would seem that the problem here was the incubus. 

“Where’s Dean?” Sam demands of you once the bitch is gone.

“Told him to kill the one in the back. We gotta go,” you reply as you take off running. 

Sams not far behind you when the two of you catch up to Dean and the Incubus. The problem is the Incubus is still showing as Dean and they’re on the floor so you can’t exactly be sure which ones dean and which ones not. 

“Dean!” Sam calls but they both ignore him. 

It occurs to you that there is a way to figure out which one’s which but you’re going to hear it from the hunter later.

“Damn it Y/N! I almost put a knife in you! Do you realize what you did?!”

You’re back in the room and, as expected, Deans pretty pissed off. You knew before you’d ran after them that this was how it was going to end and so you sat there and let him scream and shout. 

Sam gives you a look like he’s sorry and you shake your head. 

Deans mid-rant when you decide to put Sammy out of his misery, “Sammy, do me a favor and give me and your brother a couple minutes.”

“Sammy don’t you dare!”

The taller hunter looks between the two of you before shaking his head and grabbing his jacket heading out, “You two need therapy.”

The door closes behind Sam and you turn to look at Dean, crossing your arms you raise an eyebrow at him in question. 

“Oh don’t you do that.”

“Dean,” you sigh, “Let's be completely honest here, what’s actually going on?”

“You were being reckless!” 

Stepping towards him, you get in his personal space and stab his chest with a pointer finger, “I was not being reckless and you know it! I had the utmost faith in you that you wouldn’t stab me.”

“And what if he’d had a blade?”

“Then I could have gotten hurt Dean,” you acquiesce as you take a step back. He looks like he’s won as his features turn from worried to smug and you shake your head. “It's part of the job Dean. Just like each time you go out there, there’s no guarantee that you’re coming back.”

He remains silent as he looks at you and you wait for an answer. When he doesn’t say anything you scoff, “Dean why do you think I check in with you guys? It’s not for my health. Hell if I go out on a hunt, that’s fine. I know what this life means. I check in because…” you trail off not sure if it’s appropriate to go down that path. 

You could remember exactly when you’d fallen for Dean Winchester. It had been in the middle of a hunt and he’d managed to free the young girl that was tied up to become vamp food. She’d been terrified but Dean had been able to calm her down. It was, normally, something Sam did but you’d seen Dean do it a couple of times. 

This time, though, there was something about the way that he calmed the young girl and the way that the light hit him that 

“I need you…”

“Dean-”

“No Y/N, I need you. I know you’re a perfectly capable hunter. Hell I’ve seen the way that you move but... “ he trails off and there’s a silence between the two of you. 

The silence is filled with a thousand words unsaid. A thousand things all different variations of I love you. Dean had been brave, he’d said it in the only way he knew how and maybe, just maybe you could be brave too.

“Do you wish things were different?” you asked instead. 

“What?” Dean asked but you continued. 

“Because I do. I have wished a thousand times to be able to just do this,” you pulled him towards you and pressed your lips to his. 

You must have taken him by surprise because he didn’t respond for a moment and you thought, perhaps, you had misunderstood the signals between the two of you over the years but then he cupped your face and deepened the kiss. 

His hand went to your waist, slipping under your shirt and you gasped at the feel of his skin on yours. He took the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth. 

Moving your arms around his neck you felt him move forward and the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. Moving to kiss your neck and nip at the exposed flesh, Dean laid you down on the bed.

“So why’d that Incubus look like me?” he asked and you could feel him smirking against the shell of your ear. 

Pushing against his chest, you flipped him over and straddled him and smirked at him before leaning forward, “What can I say, green-eyed hunters with brunette hair and leather jackets just happen to be my own wet dream.”

You could hear Deans groan as his hips involuntarily bucked upwards to meet you. Dean's hands came under the back of your shirt and started to lift the fabric. Leaning up you helped him pull the shirt over your head when the sound of someone clearing their throat distracted the both of you. 

“Really guys?”

-

Masterlist || Supernatural Masterlist

-

tags: @nicole-lynne @stiles-o-dylan24 @waiting4inspiration

#dean x reader #reader insert #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean imagine #dean imagines #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester imagines

[elliebartlets]

1.10 In Excelsis Deo

Episode:

• I think I watched this one on Christmas so I don’t think I’m gonna forget certain scenes or be surprised by certain thing, but we’ll see

• this one is a tearjerker tho RIP

• holy crap this show is so dark sometimes

• “flamingo is on her way”

“what did you call - what did he call me?!”

• I wonder if Lowell Lydell, the gay teenager who was attacked and later died, was based on Matthew Shepard...

• the scene with Bartlet and the kids is just the cutest thing. Joking around with them and pretending he’s the president of different countries.

• I love how Sam was so against using Laurie to divulge information until Josh told him it was about Leo

• Hugsy the penguin from Friends on Mrs Landingham’s desk!

• ok I didn’t think I’d cry at Mrs Landingham’s monologue but I actually teared up when she said “They had to be so scared. It’s hard not to think that right then, they needed their mother.”

• christ Mandy, shut up! If Bartlet doesn’t want any press there, then let it go!

• oh my god Leo rolling his eyes in Charlie’s direction while Bartlet tells Charlie he’s gonna get Zoey some Latin poem book is pure gold. and when Charlie’s like “I think she’ll like that better than a new stereo sir” and Leo starts laughing and has to walk away? So good 😂😂

• “I have to feed my fish.” 😂

• I mean... if the note Josh wrote Donna in the notebook he gave her and that look Donna gives him after he walks away isn’t proof enough that they are in love....and we have to wait 7 seasons!!!

• never knew or understood who that little boy was supposed to be

• ahh the ending 😭

Podcast:

• guest star: Richard Schiff!

• I’m super excited to listen to this. I think he’ll be a great guest.

• “How did you get the role of Toby Ziegler?”

“I slept with a lot of people.”

2 min in and he’s already making me laugh 😂

• “We used to get awards before you joined the show.”

• Richard Schiff has known Brad since college. Brad Whitford was Richard Schiff s brother’s roommate

• Eugene Levy almost got the role of Toby!

• The original storyline was the polar opposite of what the episode ended up being. Based on a writer’s real experience with his dad or something, the original plot involved Toby reluctanly showing up to the crime scene and cracking jokes. Richard was very offended by it, because he felt it wasn’t in Toby’s character to do those things, so much so that he started crying when Tommy Schlamme brought up that he heard he didn’t like it. (He even choked up while talking about it y’all I can’t! 😭)

• the plot was originally written for Sam

• holy crap he forgot Rob Lowe’s name too! Did this whole cast just block him out of their conscious? I’m freaking screaming rn this is the most hilarious thing

• the cast would travel to DC 3-4 times a year and would shoot 3-4 episodes worth of exteriors

• They weren’t allowed to shoot on the Korean War Memorial, but they did anyway. This is called a guerrilla shot, where they shoot on real locations without any warnings/permits.

• oh my god he’s tearing up again!

• I can’t take this!

• the actor who played Tom Noonan, the guy Toby talks to about where he could find someone who knew Walter, is a veteran

• there was a lot of rehearsal on the set, more than an average TV show. They created a culture where they would “rehearse for us, then rehearse for the camera.”

• I never even thought about if Toby would know why Mrs Landingham would want to go to the funeral, but I’m glad Richard played it as if he knew her story and remembered why she would want to.

• love Richard’s point about how great writers plant seeds and bring them up later instead of just randomly incorporating them at last minute

“If you don’t plant the seeds, the reveal isn’t impactful.”

Too many tv shows don’t do this, which is why they fail (in my book.)

• there is a lot of death in this episode. How did I never notice that?

• so Lowell Lydell was modeled after Matthew Shepard.

• I love how Josh keeps teasing Richard by saying “Rob Lowe?” everytime he forgets the name of something.

• “The Mets didn’t exist in ‘61.”

“Neither did I.”

“That’s fucked up.”

oh my god that was great

• “I was thinking ‘What would it be like to have sex with Allison Janney?’” honestly I already knew that story but still. amazing.

• Lisa Edelstein (Laurie) and Richard were on a show together called Relativity. She played the lesbian daughter of Richard’s character.

• honestly Richard is dropping some truth bombs. I would like to think this episode would win an Emmy today, but it would have a less chance with how overacted, dramatic and loud scenes/shows have to be nowadays.

“How people have to wave two hands, jump up and down, getting naked and then slit someone’s throat just to get people to look at you.”

• love hearing him talk about how great John Spencer was

• “You’ll do this with other episodes right?”

“Uh yeah.”

“That sounded tentative.”

“It’s not tentative. I just don’t know if I’m gonna be alive by Thursday. All doubt comes from the fact that I could be dead, soon.”

“Is there something we don’t know or is that just your take on life?”

“No I just think it’s the nature of existential strife.”

lmao

• holy crap there’s a part 2 to this??

• oh my god this was so long. This was probably the best one next to Dulè Hill’s. I’m gonna be really surprised if anyone reads all of this but I really enjoy doing them. I like typing out summaries/thoughts/favorite things so I can look back on them.

#the west wing #the west wing weekly #tww #in excelsis deo #richard schiff #i love doing these