I heard what happened between you and Rasa. Unfortunate, but not surprising. Perhaps I was wrong about you. There's an opening in Cerberus's Phantom Initiative. I suggest you take it.

The address is, of course, unlisted, so the Clone can't send Kai Leng a picture of herself flipping him off. She settles for ignoring his message, instead, reading up on what little news she can find on Earth-then hacking into Alliance communications to find more current information. Her trip to Earth seems to only last seconds. There's never enough time. Paying the pilot extra to keep his mouth shut, the Clone exits the shuttle and steps foot into Vancouver Intergalactic Spaceport.

The streets of Vancouver look a lot different than the sunny tourism photos in her imprints. Walking aimlessly through the streets, the Clone finds more rubble than she does anything else. She tries to decide where to go next, but her implants keep finding one threat after another. With the sounds of Reapers blaring and the roar of heavy weapons, and the grind of tanks on the street-it's all she can do to keep walking.

She's maneuvering past the remains of Gastown-the Steam Clock is the only thing still standing- when a cold, rotting hand grabs her shoulder and yanks her back. Husk. The Clone growls, throwing it over her shoulder and pummeling it into the ground. It's no longer human, but the Clone can't make herself stare at its corpse for very long-especially with the other groans drawing closer.

She needs armor. Now.

Fortunately…or unfortunately, the edges of No Man's Land have plenty of armor sets to choose from. Even though their owners still wear them, they don't protest when the Clone kneels down. Tearing off one of her sleeves, the Clone covers her mouth and nose, and gets to work. She takes a helmet from a soldier lanced by a banshee, a chest plate from a vanguard shot in the head by a Marauder, and greaves and boots from...well, a sniper who was torn in half. Probably a brute, but the Clone tries not to think about it.

Guns and thermal clips are even easier to find, almost as easy as finding mother-fucking monsters to fight.

The Clone moves almost automatically, taking down one Reaperfied abomination after another. Those resistance fighters don't say anything if she keeps her gun focused on the enemy. Even the Alliance soldiers don't question it if she follows orders. No one can be picky in this fight. And how would they know who she resembles with her helmet on? It's refreshing to be anonymous.

She loses track of time. Eating. Sleeping. Fighting. Time is relative when the world's dying at the hands of a dispassionate god.

And then it's over.

The Clone has just wrapped around the neck of a husk-she didn't have time to fetch more thermal clips-when it suddenly flops in her arms, and nearly pulls her to the ground with it. One by one the Reapers topple over, taking down even more buildings and human lives in their fall. Around her the sounds of guns firing are replaced with cheers. And yet-

Something feels off. The Clone turns around, heading back to the ruins of the city, pulling off her helmet. She listens for something that's not there. At first the Clone explains it by the quiet of a city no longer at war, but that's not it. Only when she nearly falls into a sink hole, does she realize what's missing.

Her implants have stopped working.

The Clone leans against the pillar of some abandoned building, sinking to the rubble at her feet. She isn't sure what to make of this. Until now, she never imagined what it would be like to be alone with her own thoughts. Is this what it feels like to be human?

No. The Clone has always been human-she knows this now. This? This is what feels like to be free.

When the sun starts to rise over the mountains, so does she, and she walks in the direction of the sun.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, and the Clone passes building after broken building, reading signs and billboards, even graffiti without registering what they say. Why would she? Most of these advertisements market products which probably don't exist after the end of the world. Well, maybe the gangs might still be here. Sometimes she touches one, running her fingers down the painted bricks and dusty window panes, reminding herself again and again what it's like to experience life without the commentary of a neural implant.

There's one tag that stops the Clone in her tracks. She sweeps her palm over the red paint over and over, back and forth, trying to place why it looks so familiar. The Clone sorts through her memories like she's flipping through a book, and then it hits her.

She's looking at the symbol of the Tenth Street Reds. She's standing in their territory.

Maybe it's the remains of her training. Maybe it's in her genes-but the Clone finds herself following the signs deeper and deeper into the rundown streets of Vancouver. A red bandanna here. A car clipping a corner too fast there. Two people speaking softly at an abandoned bus stop, and trading off cash and a small zip lock bag. The Clone follows the woman with the cash at a distance, until she comes up on a house.

This house has two satellite dishes, multiple security cameras, and an electric trip wire gracing the top of its fence.

The Clone waits five minutes and then she marches through the front door.

The Reds greet her with multiple gun barrels pointed at her person. Three men and two women, of various ages and skin colors have draped themselves across the couch, the recliner, and the chairs at the kitchen table. Candlelight flickers across their sour expressions.

"That's one way to say hello." The Clone lifts her hands slowly, both terrified and thrilled that she doesn't immediately know how to resolve the situation.

"I see your gun, bitch. Now put it-" The man on the couch starts to say, before the woman next to him slaps his shoulder.

"Shut up, Ralph. Don't you see who that is?"

"No-" Ralph starts to say, and then one of the men at the at the table jumps out of his seat.

"Holy shit. It's her!" He also lowers his gun. The others follow, save for their boss.

The Clone has no idea who the startled man is. Records of Jane Shepard's time with Reds are nonexistent, aside from brief mentions in profiles and rumors in Extranet tabloids. But she can tell in his soft expression that Shepard mattered to him in one way or another. "Miss me?"

Before the startled man can answer, the boss on the couch interrupts him.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Call me Jane."

"Jane…?" The boss glances at her, waiting.

Jane smiles, using her biotics to lift his mug off the coffee table, and pulling it into her hand. "Just Jane."