The Woman with the Raven Hair

Editorial Note:

The arrest of Commander Shepard in 2186 had a rippling effect that affected thousands, if not millions or billions, of lives to varying degrees. One of the individuals who was most affected was his girlfriend, Miranda Lawson.

Readers will understand that this was a difficult and painful period of time in Miranda's life. So imagine my surprise when Miranda forwarded me a series of log entries written immediately after Shepard was brought into custody. When asked, she stated that she had 'gotten what she needed out of the exercise,' and that other individuals might find it useful at some point.

While the circumstances she found herself in had little to do with the events and developments of the previous year, readers may be interested in the thoughts and observations that Miranda made at the time. It may also be clear that, no matter how much Miranda may have welcomed the distraction that presented itself, Shepard's absence was never far from her thoughts. The 'exercise' that she referred to may very well have been the beginning of how Miranda began to understand how profoundly Shepard had influenced her in such a short period of time.

It was relatively easy to convert these logs into chapters, along with any explanatory footnotes that might be required. I suspect determining who would have the appropriate security clearance to read them might prove a greater challenge. Regardless, I trust readers will find this informative and enlightening. Any errors or failures to make the material clear or understandable fall on me and me alone.

Sincerely,

Dr. Liara T'Soni

Chapter 1: Miranda Versus the Innuendo

I stood at one of my preferred vantage points. From there, I could monitor the comings and goings of one of the busiest starports on the Citadel.

In the past, I had used such areas to complete Cerberus operations. Tracking any starships, whether civilian or military. Acquiring visual confirmation of key shipments as they arrived or departed. Following the movements of any persons of interests.

Of course, in the past I didn't trust the Alliance to stand up for humans or champion humanity's best interests. I thought the other races would either be openly hostile or settle for keeping us 'in our place' as bit players on the galactic stage. I believed Cerberus could do better.

Don't get me wrong: I still had a healthy skepticism for the various governing bodies of the Citadel races. But I was also thoroughly disillusioned with Cerberus and the way the Illusive Man ran things. With the way they sacrificed human lives when expedient, while paying lip-service to the ideal of serving humanity. The way they cavalierly made compromises, up to and beyond the ones made by governments bogged down in political and bureaucratic red tape. The way they allowed problems to escalate and metastasize into a disaster, without any meaningful effort to prevent or contain such situations, until someone else had to step in and clean up the mess.

That someone being the man I had brought back from the dead. The one I had worked with for the last year. Fought alongside in more fights and battles than I would have ever believed possible.

The man I fell in love with.

The man who, as I watched from my vantage point, was turning himself in.

Shepard had saved the galaxy—again. From the Reapers—again. This time, though, there as a price: the Bahak system had been destroyed and approximately 305,000 had been killed. Shepard had decided to own up to the way things had played out by turning himself in and answering for the staggering loss of life, along with any crimes he may or may not have committed.

I couldn't be there with him, as much as I wanted to. If I was thinking logically, I wouldn't be here at all. I should have been far, far away from here. But, despite the numerous tactical reasons that discouraged my presence here, I just had to see him one last time.

As I watched, Shepard walked out from the Normandy's airlock to greet the company of soldiers assigned to take him into custody. Garrus and Tali accompanied him, both for moral support and because the Alliance had no authority over them. I knew there were an additional four people onboard who were also waiting to be arrested. But for now, this was all about Shepard.

To my surprise, Admiral Anderson—Shepard's mentor and former CO—stepped forward. (1) He shook hands with Shepard. Then they indulged in small talk for thirty-eight seconds. One of the soldiers approached them, probably to put handcuffs on Shepard from his body posture. Anderson stopped him with a hand, clearly indicating that such measures were not necessary. I think that was the final piece of evidence in support of his character. Though really that was nit-picking: Shepard's high opinion of him had more or less clinched the deal.

Shepard talked to Anderson for another minute or so before making a gesture towards the Normandy. I believe that was the point where he and his squadmates went aboard, followed by Anderson and the other soldiers.

It's hard to be precise about such observations when your eyes are welling up with tears.

After they disappeared, I turned away. Originally, I had intended to stay until they left the Normandy and went to wherever they were going, but I couldn't take it anymore. I just… had to get away. Once, such a change of plans—without any obvious justification or the establishment of contingency scenarios to fall back on—would have irritated me. Now, I was more open to the idea. Particularly where Shepard was concerned. Even when he wasn't with me, even when he was being arrested, he managed to find some way to turn my expectations upside-down.

I missed him so much.

My route led me to an elevator, which took me to the Presidium. I always found it pleasant up here. The architecture appealed to modern aesthetics with the sleek monochromatic colour scheme while evoking elements of Gothic architecture with the way it stretched up and up as far as the eye could see. And yet, the really fascinating thing was that this area of the Citadel—the Citadel itself—was far older than that. The galactic community once thought it was at least fifty thousand years old. Now we knew it was countless millennia old. Regardless of the age, it was amazing that something so old could be so appealing and attractive to us now. Even those of us without an education or appreciation in architecture could enjoy it.

I also enjoyed the people up here. The clientele tended to be far more intelligent, learned and sophisticated. When they weren't being obnoxious, pompous, arrogant, egotistical or completely oblivious to the way the galaxy actually ran and operated. All right, maybe I didn't completely enjoy the people, but I suppose I was never a 'people person.' I wouldn't say that had changed, really. More like my tolerance and understanding had… increased. Or expanded. But my overall enjoyment of this area remained relatively high. Certainly I enjoyed it more than the Wards. I definitely enjoyed it more than Omega, though that wasn't a difficult achievement by any means.

As I walked along, I remembered the last time I was on the Presidium. Shepard was here to meet Anderson, who was hoping to enlist his services on a mission, while I was here to meet Oriana. (2) We had… we had played a game, identifying individuals who were trying on other targets and laughing at the flaws or mistakes that exposed their true purpose. I found myself doing the same, partly out of habit, partly in remembrance of that day.

That was when I realized I was being followed.

I couldn't quite make out any details, considering he—or she—was dressed in a grey jumpsuit from head to toe, including a dark blue helmet with a polarized visor. Blue stripes of a similar hue ran along each sleeve and each leg. Whoever my follower was, it was clear that he or she was bipedal, with bilateral symmetry, which eliminated hanar and elcor. Keepers too, for the sake of thoroughness.

Over the next few minutes, I made a few random stops. An advertisement from a passing vid-screen. Some random item of clothing displayed in a nearby shop. A kiosk whose merchandise supposedly caught my eye. Each time, my stalker gradually drifted to a halt. Definite signs of training in counter-surveillance. And the ease at which my stalker found some plausible excuse to stop and hover nearby suggested a certain amount of experience.

Furthermore, I could gauge her height: approximately 1.78 metres, which ruled out volus. And yes, I said 'she': while the jumpsuit didn't exactly cling to her body, I could make out the presence of breasts. The mere fact that I could identify a gender eliminated geth. I still remembered the pathetic failure of Citadel Security, who was fully capable of preventing a pair of asari from travelling on the ludicrous grounds that they might be geth infiltrators, but hilariously incompetent at identifying an actual geth platform standing in front of them.

But I digress.

While the locations where I stopped may have been random, my route was not: I was purposely moving towards an area that was secluded and had virtually no surveillance—thanks to the ongoing reconstruction efforts from the Battle of the Citadel. My stalker must have realized that as well, considering that her pace increased by an average of 0.18 metres per second. I carefully brought up my HUD to confirm the status of my shields and my omni-tool, continued walking and waited for an opportunity to present itself.

Predictably, my stalker made the first move, attempting to get me into a chokehold. I grabbed the arm, shifted my stance and pulled my assailant over my shoulder. Judging by the weight, it was immediately apparent that this was not a severely malnourished krogan or a yahg. (3) Before she could do anything, I launched an EMP. My sensors indicated that the pulse detonated on impact, but it only reduced her shields to 49%, indicating a very strong shield generator that was portable enough to wear underneath civilian garb. Interesting.

Now that I was facing my assailant, I could get a good look at her features. The style of the clothes didn't provide any clear links to a particular race. The helmet she was wearing obscured any identifying features I would normally use, but the overall shape definitely ruled out geth. Furthermore, the lack of obvious filters or breathing apparatus eliminated quarians.

Four fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand. That in addition with the shape of the helmet ruled out turians.

That left me with asari, drell, human, salarian and batarian as the race of my mysterious assailant. Normally I'd include vorcha, but who ever heard of a vorcha wearing formless black garb from neck to toe and a helmet that completely obscured their face? Furthermore, where was the snarling and pidgin grasp of the English language? Actually, all those facts put together ruled out vorcha.

I thrust out a hand, fingers stiffened like a blade, towards her throat. She crouched slightly and leaned to the left to avoid my attack. My next attack was a feinted leg kick to her midriff. The real attack was when I retracted my leg, deliberately dropping it so it didn't brush against her kneecap so much as stomp on it. A slight cry came out from my attacker, despite her best efforts. The high pitch made it unlikely that she was batarian or drell.

Then my stalker attacked with a flurry of kicks, which I easily avoided. She overextended herself with her last kick, which allowed me to grab her and throw her against a nearby wall. I tried to use that opportunity to grab my pistol, but she recovered faster than I expected. A sweeping kick—far more professional than her previous attacks might have suggested—knocked it out of my hand. We then exchanged a series of punches and strikes, none of which landed. In fact, while I couldn't pin down the fighting style exactly, the predominant influence seemed to be karate—

—ugh! I stumbled back, thanks to another kick. One that had been expertly timed to break through my defences and landed squarely on my stomach. Again, reminiscent of karate. That strongly suggested that she was human, though I did know of some asari or drell that studied human martial arts. I launched another EMP, which completely drained her shields, before pulling my submachine gun and opening fire.

Rather than freezing, the mysterious woman lunged forward. Thanks to my superior reflexes and muscle control, I was able to graze her with two bullets before she tackled me. The submachine gun flew from my fingers as we landed on the floor and rolled around. Part of me was grateful that this was a—relatively—clean floor on the Presidium on the Citadel, not some mud pit in some godforsaken part of the galaxy. Part of me was also grateful for the lack of surveillance. Two women? Rolling around and fighting? Even with clothes, this situation would be a wet dream for countless sapients with too much extranet access and time on their hands. Or talons or claws or tentacles.

I let my attacker clamber on top of me before elbowing her in the helmet. It hurt me more than her, but the surprise was enough for me to throw her off, grab her helmet, detach the seals and pull. Blue eyes flashed at me amidst a storm of auburn hair, previously tucked up neatly within the confines of her helmet.

A very familiar set of eyes and hair. "Carina?" I panted. "Or are you going by another legend these days?" (4)

"Nope, still Carina," she replied. "Carina Miller. And you?"

"Still Sarah," I lied. "Sarah Walker."

"What brings Sarah Walker out of deep cover and onto the Citadel?" Carina asked.

I should explain.

I'd met Carina on four occasions. Each time, I used the legend 'Sarah Walker,' an Alliance Intelligence agent on a long-term, deep-cover assignment. The kind that meant I could go anywhere without popping up on any official list of intelligence agents. Seemed better than saying I was Miranda Lawson, former scion to the Lawson business empire and high-ranking operative of the pro-human terrorist organization known as Cerberus.

Unlike me, Carina actually was with Alliance Intelligence. She tended to change her last name, but her given name was usually the same. Once in a while, she used Karen or Caroline, but, more often than not, she stuck with Carina. She was fairly predictable where her cover name was concerned.

She was also fairly predictable in her banter—more specifically, the unrelenting innuendo. Frankly, I was slightly surprised that she hadn't tried to flirt with me yet. That would pass, I was sure. For now, I decided to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Meanwhile, I had a question to answer. "Following an asset," I improvised. "Trail led me here. You?"

"Looking for money."

"Money," I repeated. "Don't tell me you're settling down and looking for an honest job."

Carina gave a very unladylike snort. "Don't be silly. Me? Honest? You do know me, right?"

"I do. What was I thinking?"

"I'm here to steal some money," Carina elaborated as she got up. "And you're going to help me."

"I am, huh?" I said with mild amusement, taking the hand she offered and letting her pull to me to my feet. "Couldn't you just have called?" (5)

"Now where would the fun be in that?" Carina laughed.

Carina told me to meet her that evening at Purgatory. At first, I thought she meant the maximum security prison ship. That one formerly owned and run by the Blue Suns over in the Osun system, before Shepard, myself and several other men and women attempted to recruit an ex-convict. Since Shepard was involved, what should have been a simple exchange turned into a running gunfight that tore the entire station apart, killed several prisoners and most of the mercenaries and gave us a volatile, loud-mouthed and crass biotic. But no, Carina meant the Purgatory Bar, a nightclub that had recently been opened. While it was still fairly new, it had become quite popular amongst the various races that visited or lived on the Citadel.

It took me a while to find it—the Citadel VI Avina was of no use whatsoever, insisting there was no such place. However, it was actually located on the Presidium, several floors above the Presidium Commons. (6) In fact, it was fairly close to the area where Carina and I 'met.'

Purgatory was just like every nightclub I'd ever visited: filled with bright strobing neon lights, lots of shadows and music so loud you could feel the vibrations reverberate through your bones. And that's for a normal human. For someone like me, whose senses were genetically enhanced to a near-unprecedented degree, it was borderline torture.

The clientele was also what you'd expect: young, stupid, drunk, high or all of the above. Most of them were sweating profusely, either from all the dancing they had done or a reaction to whatever pharmaceuticals they'd drank, snorted or injected. And yes, I could smell it all too. Along with the inevitable vomit. Fun.

With a practised effort, I locked that sensory cacophony in a corner of my mind and started looking for Carina. All I had to do was keep my eyes open for a tall human woman with red hair and supermodel-good looks who was shamelessly flirting with, well, anyone.

While the interior of Purgatory was fairly large and fairly dark, I was confident I could find her. Red hair is a genetically recessive trait, after all. It would be harder to distinguish natural colouring from the dyed equivalent. If I was a betting woman, I'd say it would take me at least ten minutes to find her.

I found her in six minutes, forty-nine seconds. Which was why I was not a betting woman.

She was busy flirting with a human about half her height, with a haircut and beard that was definitely longer than military regulations allowed—which wouldn't have mattered were it not for the Alliance uniform he was wearing. The look of utter rapture and delight on his face told me he still couldn't believe his luck. Carina had that effect on people. She'd probably picked him specifically because she'd sensed that she would get that very response from him. That was one of the things that amused her to no end, along with dropping her mind into the gutter on a moment's whim and wreaking havoc just for the hell of it.

Repressing a sigh—not that it would have been heard over the noise—I reached over and tapped her on the shoulder.

"There you are! 'Bout time you showed up," Carina cheered. "This is Sarah," she said, turning to her thrall. "Like I said, she's never on time."

Excuse me? This from the woman who forced us to delay that job on Bekenstein because she got held up trying on lingerie?

Carina's companion looked disappointed. Evidently he'd been told that once I showed up, Carina would leave and his magical evening would come to a sudden and abrupt end. Even she saw that. "Oh don't worry," she soothed. "If we finish clubbing early enough, I'll give you a call. Okay?"

He cheered up again. How predictable.

"That was a bit cruel, don't you think?" I murmured as we walked away. "Leading him on like that?"

"Please," Carina dismissed. "I just gave Martin more thrills and excitements in the last half hour than he's had in his entire boring little life. You call it cruel? I call it charity."

"Martin," I repeated. "That's his name? People still name their kids 'Martin'?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "Or was it Morton? Can't remember. Not important any—ooh! Seats!"

I silently approved of Carina's choice: against the wall, relatively secluded considering the claustrophobic confines of the nightclub and located close enough to one of the speakers to frustrate any eavesdroppers without that speaker drowning out our own conversation. Not that I would ever say so to Carina. Her ego was large enough already. (7)

We had just sat down when a very attentive waiter approached us. "Welcome to Purgatory," he greeted us. "Would you like something to start off with? Or do you need some time to look at the menu?"

What I needed was a drink. Preferably a drink that would take some time to make, time I could spend finding out what Carina was up to. "One 'Perfection', please," I requested.

"I'll have a 'Red Headed Slut'," Carina ordered, giving the waiter a lascivious wink. I resisted the urge to add several more alcoholic beverages to my original order.

The waiter took our order in stride, much to Carina's disappointment. "Oh stop pouting," I told her. "Did you really think you'd get a reaction from him? He's probably numb to orders like that by now."

"I suppose," she sighed. "So what've you been doing?"

"Hiding. Listening. Waiting. The usual," I shrugged. "And you?"

"Living a life of danger and excitement. Flying around with a license to thrill, meeting new lovers in every port."

This was how Carina and I often began our... encounters. I'd sidestep her inquiries with some vague platitudes while she would offer some ridiculous boast. In the past, I'd often marveled at how we could manage to work with each other, given our different personalities. After the last year, though, I think I had a better appreciation of the synergistic potential that could arise from pairing such disparate elements.

As a result, instead of resisting the urge to strangle her, I surprised myself by humouring her. "Really? You did all that? Hard to imagine. It must be difficult, being the centre of the galaxy for so many sapients."

"You have no idea," she sighed, raising a hand to her forehead in a dramatic gesture. "My great burden to bear, along with my devastating good looks."

I yawned.

To my surprise, Carina got down to business instead of reacting to my feigned boredom as an affront. She brought up an image of a human male, Caucasian, in his mid-sixties. "Recognize him, Sarah?"

"René Benoit. Also known as 'La Grenouille.' Intergalactic arms dealer. Rose to power as the primary supplier of guns and weapon mods for the criminals, pirates, slavers and mercenaries of the Skyllian Verge, mostly by buying out or muscling out most of the competition. The long-term contract he signed with the Blue Suns is still the talk of the galactic community."

I paused before delivering the punch line: "Which is good for Alliance Intelligence, considering we've been trying to make him the biggest arms dealer in the galaxy, one who we'd be in a position to control and influence, for the last twenty-odd years."

"That basically sums it up," Carina approved. "Though I don't think you're cleared to know some of that intel."

"Like you're one to judge," I reminded her.

"Touché," she conceded.

"So this is about La Grenouille?"

"Indirectly."

"Are we indirectly helping him or hurting him?"

"Helping. Ever heard of Alexei Volkoff?"

"As in Volkoff Industries?" When Carina nodded, I continued. "He's been around longer than La Grenouille, though no one's ever been able to put a face to his name. But I haven't heard of him or Volkoff Industries for years."

"That's because he lost a lot of business and men, thanks to several missions from the Alliance, the Salarian Union and the Asari Republics," Carina told me. "Apparently the level of tech in some of the weapons he was selling made a lot of people wet their pants. Or panties. Anyway, he managed to go underground before anyone could catch him or get a vid-pic of his face. We lost track of him... until now.

Carina pulled up another image on her omni-tool. Red glove holding a silver hammer in front of a red gear. I would've identified it as the logo of Volkoff Industries even without the name spelled out along the rim of the gear. "Volkoff Industries is back in business. We're not sure whether Alexei is still in charge or whether there's a new player using the old name. All we know for sure is that they resurfaced in the Terminus Systems and have been very busy mediating all sorts of deals. We weren't too concerned until we got a report from one of our other deep-cover operatives. Seems that Volkoff Industries is currently in negotiations with some high-level representatives from Eclipse."

"Impressive," I admitted. "Even a single deal from that exchange would increase their respect and reputation considerably."

"Which is why we want to stop them," Carina said. "Especially if Alexei Volkoff is still running things. He didn't have La Grenouille's... restraint. Kind of a loose cannon, to be honest."

"Sounds familiar," I said dryly.

"People keep saying that," Carina frowned. "Wonder why?"

I didn't think she was serious. Contrary to the airs she liked to put on, she was quite aware of the rumours that circulated about her. Mostly because she was the one who put them out in the first place. "What exactly is the mission?" I asked.

"As proof of Volkoff Industries' capabilities, Eclipse has asked them to acquire a shipment of M-560 Hydras. New class of missile launchers. Just came out. (8) So Volkoff has sent one of his sales reps to acquire the Hydras from an intermediary and deliver them to Eclipse.

"The trick is that there's a very tight timeline, imposed by Eclipse to see how Volkoff Industries can fare under pressure. Any delay, no matter how small, could derail the whole exchange, in which case any deal with Eclipse would go up in smoke."

"And that's where we come in," I deduced.

"And that's where we come in," Carina nodded. "We've received intel that the Volkoff rep is coming to the Citadel for a brief stopover before meeting with the guy who's got the Hydras. To buy the Hydras, he's been given access to one of Volkoff Industries' accounts. If we can find out the details to that account, we can drain it dry. Without any funds, the rep can't buy the Hydras, which means he can't sell them to Eclipse, which means any working relationship with Eclipse falls apart before it can ever begin."

"All right," I said. "Who's the representative?"

...

"Carina? You do know who the representative is, don't you?"

"We're working on it."

"Working on it. Meaning what, exactly?"

Before Carina could reply, the waiter came back with our drinks. I waited until he left before leaning forward. "You were saying?"

Carina took a sip first. Deliberately to stall for time and piss me off, no doubt. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing my displeasure, so I followed suit. We managed to get halfway through our drinks before Carina gave up and started talking again. "We have a few ideas on who the rep is. All we know for sure is that he—or she is arriving on an inbound transport tonight. We have an agent following along to keep us updated. Don't ask me who—he's some new guy I never met before."

"You mean you never slept with him before," I smirked.

"That too," Carina admitted.

"Let me see if I got things straight," I said, leaning forward. "You want to sabotage a relationship between Volkoff Industries and Eclipse before it can begin by thwarting one of the formers' weapons purchases. The sales rep making that purchase is coming here and is being tailed by an Alliance Intelligence agent."

"Who I've never slept with," Carina added.

I sighed. "Who you've never slept with," I dutifully, albeit reluctantly, repeated. "This agent will presumably tell us when they've docked."

"Yep. Then we can intercept the rep and sweat the intel out of him. Or her."

"By that you mean interrogation."

Carina put in an air of innocence. "Of course. What did you think I meant?"

She knew very well that I thought she meant a foursome in some dark, dingy alley. But if she wasn't going to say it aloud, I certainly wouldn't. She hadn't made nearly as many unwanted and painfully blatant advances as I might have expected, and it was in my sanity's best interest to encourage that line of behaviour. I took another sip of my beverage. Not bad, I thought. Too much strawberry liqueur, but otherwise fairly decent.

A beep sounded from Carina's omni-tool, somehow making itself heard amongst the surrounding din. "Showtime," Carina declared after a quick check. "Docking Bay B19. ETA: ten minutes."

I ran some mental calculations. "It'll be tight, but we should be able to make it," I decided.

"Then let's get going." Carina chugged down the last of her drink—probably in a deliberate attempt to show off her long, pale neck to, well, anyone who was watching—before slapping down a few credit chits on the table and hopping to her feet. I looked at my drink; decided it wasn't worth finishing and followed suit.

"Did I mention how I love your new hair colour? Or perhaps I should say your old hair colour?"

We were flying towards Docking Bay B19 in a skycar. Carina had rented it. Which meant that she flirted with the salesperson the entire time. And the manager. And obtained both of their contact information. Just for practise, she said.

But back to Carina's question. The last three times we'd met, I'd dyed my hair blonde. The first time, however, was not planned. Much like the circumstances I currently found myself in. Which meant I had my normal hair colour. "You didn't mention it," I replied. "But thank you."

"It suits you," Carina offered. "And they say blondes have all the fun."

"There's no statistical proof to back up that statement."

"True. I mean, just look at me."

I didn't.

"Nothing? Really? You really need to loosen up, Sarah. Get out, relax, drive some guy wild before kicking his sorry ass out the nearest—oh, here's the parking spot. There's a maintenance ladder about a hundred metres to our left that'll take us to a good vantage point. Clean sight lines. You can see all of B19 from there..."

Carina might have a plethora of irritating qualities but I'll give her this much: she could buckle down to business as soon as the situation required it. "Understood."

"Also makes for a great view while you're doing it—"

Of course, she was just as quick to revert to innuendo if the opportunity, however small or indirect, presented itself. "Carina," I snapped, hoping to head her off.

"You're right. Work now, orgasms later."

Dix... neuf... huit... sept... (9)

Mercifully, she brought the skycar down without any more intimations. "How are you doing on thermal clips?" she asked.

She could have asked earlier, I thought. "I could use an extra clip," I said instead.

"You did use up most of one trying to tag you earlier," Carina conceded, passing a clip over.

"Trying? I hit you. Twice."

"Flesh wound," she dismissed.

"Still counts."

"Thank God for medi-gel. Come on."

The elevator was 97.6 metres from where we parked. Close enough to Carina's estimate, I decided. We made our way up to the vantage point she'd mentioned... where we ran into what Shepard would call a little snag. "When was the last time you used this spot?" I asked Carina.

"Five months, maybe six," Carina frowned. "That spotlight was definitely not there before."

Said spotlight created a huge blind spot that cut off 47.1% of our field of view. The only way to compensate was either to hang from the rail and stretch outwards or... "One of us will have to stay here, the other one has to watch from the other side," I decided.

"You go," Carina said. "I just did my nails and I don't want to chip on climbing over that big-ass spotlight. Which has nothing to do with the fact that I wanna take another look at yours."

I gave Carina a look. "One, did you just say I had a big ass? Two, didn't you already check it out nine times so far?"

"One, no because I just said they were not related," Carina retorted. "Two, it was ten and you know it."

Actually, it was eleven. She knew it. I knew it. Rather than belabour the point, I climbed over, giving Carina her twelfth opportunity to ogle one of my many genetically perfected assets.

Then we waited. "Bay's clear from my end," I reported. "Just three dock workers."

"I think I can see one of them, plus two more over here," Carina replied. "Hey, did you do something with your hair?"

"What's the name of the transport? What's the ETA? And shouldn't you know the answer to that? Blondes, fun, and so on and so forth?"

"MSV Mighty Mouse, two minutes and counting, yes I remember but something's different about you."

"Good to know and 'mighty mouse'? As opposed to the regular mice?"

"Beats me. I'm as confused as you are. (10) By the way, you're dodging the question."

"I'm not dodging the question. I already answered it: I changed it from blonde to black. Other than that, no, my hair's the same. One minute to go."

"Huh. Thought it was the hair. Forty seconds. Ah, there it is."

"Well it's not the hair. You're losing your touch, Carina. Okay, I see the transport too."

"Don't worry, Sarah: whatever's going on, I'll figure it out. Even if I have to kiss it out of you. Mark my words—ooh! Just got a message from our agent."

"And?"

"Sales rep is Peyman Figgins. Human. Black hair, though he's balding a bit. East Asian descent. Sending his profile to you now.

I received the data stream, quickly scanned it, then resumed my surveillance. Fourteen seconds later, a man matching Carina's description exited the airlock. "Okay, I see him."

"Ditto."

I watched him and extrapolated the most likely paths he would take based on his body posture and the angle of his walk. "He's probably heading out the north exit, right outside the lot where we parked the skycar. You'll be able to monitor him longer, so I'll head down the ladder first and wait next to the parking lot."

"Got it. I'll follow once I lose sight of him. Meanwhile, I'll contact the other agent and tell him we have three people following Figgins."

After a quick glance to double-check my extrapolations, I climbed back over the spotlight. To my relief, Carina was actually focusing on the task at hand. How did I know this? Because she didn't make a suggestive remark or check me out. "What's the comm frequency you're using?" I asked as I passed her.

"Charlie-nine-two."

It didn't take me long to get to the ladder, climb down and make my way back to the parking lot. That was easy. The hard part was the waiting. Just sitting there and doing nothing. In the past, at least I had something to do in the meantime. Review my many lists of pending items while scanning the crowds for my target. Remind myself of the remaining maintenance reports to finish while noting any unusual activity that might denote the presence of hostiles. Wait for a certain commanding officer to finish digging for random items in obscure locations while wondering what arbitrary comestible he might select to pair with jasmine tea...

God I miss Shepard.

"OK guys, I'm going to lose eyes on Figgins in three... two... one... yeah, I got nothing. Heading down now."

"I got him, Ms. Miller," an unfamiliar male voice replied. Clearly the voice of the other Alliance agent. Clearly a rookie if he was using such a formal tone of address. (11) Carina must have sensed that, because she didn't try to correct him or turn on the flirtations for fear of throwing him off his game.

"Uh... hang on."

Of course there was a complication.

"Problem?" Carina asked.

"Figgins just took a hard left. He's cutting through the duty-free shop."

It didn't take long for me to mentally pull up a map of the area, visualize Figgins' path and assess traffic patterns, surveillance coverage and other variables to determine the various intercept points available. Carina did the same thing. "If he doesn't pull any more sudden turns, he should leave the shop and pass by a couple food kiosks. After that, he'll either enter a turian restaurant or walk into an alley. I'll cover the other end of the restaurant. Sarah; watch the alley."

"Got it," the agent replied.

"Understood," I said.

I made it to the alley in fifty-seven seconds. This time, I didn't mind the wait so much. Running calculations on all the possible permutations and choices Figgins could take from his last known location was a great way to pass the time.

"Looks like he's heading for the alley."

That was fast. Figgins must have been speedwalking.

"Okay. He's in the alley. I'm in pursu—eeeeeeekaaaaaaadcarhhhssssgggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!"

I barely managed to stifle my wince as the feedback squealed into my ear. Yet another thing had gone awry. What I wouldn't give for Shepard to be here. Or, at least, his knack for adapting to unforeseen and usually unfortunate developments.

"Sarah!" Carina called out. I turned towards her as she jogged towards me. "You heard that too, I guess."

"Yes," I replied. We pulled out our heavy pistols in unison. "Shall we?"

"Let's do it."

We entered the alley slowly, guns raised. Step by step. The darkness of the alley enveloped us like a smothering fog. At first, all I could see was black. All I could hear were the sounds of our footsteps and our quiet, measured breathing.

Then everything began to change.

Amongst my many genetic enhancements is the ability to quickly adjust to varying levels of illumination. So my eyes were the first to pierce the gloom of the alley and make out a body. "I think our agent friend is dead."

"You're sure?" Carina asked, squinting into the dark.

"Nondescript haircut, nondescript clothes. Lack of dishevelment rules out a long-term Citadel resident who's fallen on hard times. I also smell blood. Fresh."

"What're you, a vampire?"

Ignoring her, I concentrated on what lay before me. What I picked up next made me tense. Not much, but enough that Carina noticed. "Sarah?" she prompted.

"I hear beeping."

"Beeping? Normal kind or bad kind?"

I strained my ears and listened. What I heard... "The frequency's increasing."

"Bad kind. We gotta run."

For once, I agreed with her. We turned in unison and broke into a run.

The bomb exploded three seconds later...

(1): Alliance shorthand for 'commanding officer.' I should add that, despite Miranda's genetically enhanced vision, she could not have made out all this detail without mechanical assistance. In addition, Anderson insisted on being the senior officer assigned to bring Shepard into custody, a move that irritated many Internal Affairs officers, various senior officers and politicians within the Alliance.

(2): This mission would be to intercept a handoff of data between Cerberus operatives on Illium. This mission is covered in another set of Shepard's logs and need not concern us further at this time.

(3): The latter would be highly unlikely, considering they had yet to achieve spaceflight capability by that period, but not completely impossible.

(4): Also known as an alias or a false identity, this term is often used in the intelligence community.

(5): That would imply that Carina had been given the clearance—probably codeword protected—to know how to contact the deep-cover Alliance Intelligence operative known as Sarah Walker.

(6): A bureaucratic error that was not be corrected until well after the Reaper War, resulting in much confusion as to whether it was in the Wards or on the Presidium. In fact, it was situated several floors above the Presidium Commons.

(7): A potentially hypocritical remark, given Miranda's pride in her abilities and accomplishments.

(8): Produced by the Alliance, the M-560 Hydra launched a barrage of miniature missiles, each with an independent targeting system for locating enemies and a series of shaped, sequential charges that could penetrate through kinetic barriers and armour plating to hit the target. While just entering Alliance use at the time of this mission, they would become fairly widespread throughout the galaxy by the end of the Reaper War.

(9): Ten to seven in the human language of French, for any readers who are curious.

(10): A human vid-series in the mid-twentieth century about an anthropomorphic murine superhero of the same name. And I was as confused and bewildered as they were.

(11): Not necessarily. Not all agents call each other by their familiar name. Miranda may not have been aware of this.