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For the first time in recent memory, she was comfortable. Lost halfway between waking and sleeping, she dreamed of a simpler, happier time. Warm, secure, and…
Warmth? Comfort? No… this was wrong. She struggled to remember what had happened, but came up with very little. An attack on the compound, fighting with every ounce of strength and ferocity she had. And that was considerable; they didn’t call her Killer for nothing. Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open, and found herself in… a hospital room? No, no, no. She didn’t do hospitals, didn’t need them. Crude battlefield med in the barracks, and she’d be good to go. This was wrong. Wrong!
Omni-cuffs glowed bright orange, linking one wrist to the bed’s railing… but the Killer was a biotic. This would not hold her. She bared her teeth, calling on some of her biotic power… but there wasn’t enough! They must have removed her amp, crippled her power. A frightened whimper escaped her, but she immediately slapped her own face. Fear had no place in a killer. She could still do this.
But why? a quiet voice in the back of her mind asked. Am I not safe?
Safety is a lie. This is a test. It must be.
She’d broken omni-cuffs without her biotics before. After that, it was just a matter of arming herself. Not hard. Where there were omni-cuffs, there were security guards…
Lt. Girard’s eyes widened. “She what?”
The young man he spoke to looked shaken, but answered promptly. “Two guards down, their pistols are now in her possession, and we’re not sure where she went. Somewhere defensible, presumably.”
Girard ran a hand over his face. “And we’re sure of the Mindoir connection?”
“Yes sir. She was from there, no question.”
“Good.” For the first time since the young woman had been placed under his supervision, Girard smiled. “I’ve received word that Commander Shepard is here today. If anyone can get through to her, I think it’s him. See if you can’t track her down while I bring him in.”
Ari Shepard was on a high. His first real operation as a Spectre was a success; granted, the Council had found reason to complain, the destruction of the prothean ruin on Therum. But Liara confessed to him that anything noteworthy at the site had already been found, documented, and moved if possible. What was left was of little interest to anyone but someone like her, who wanted to understand what had become of the protheans.
“Still a waste,” he countered. “I could have been more careful with the laser.”
And yet, he was in a good mood as they returned to the Citadel for a few errands. They’d successfully kept Liara from being captured or killed by Saren’s men, and she was committed to the mission for the long term. No doubt, it was the right idea; she would be safer on the move with the Normandy. He scheduled a brief shore leave for his crew; they’d been running hard ever since he’d been made a Spectre, and deserved a little break. He was just finishing up another errand when the call came in.
“Commander Shepard, Lt. Girard, Alliance liaison to C-Sec. We have a… delicate situation I believe you might be able to help with.”
Ari nodded. “I’d be happy to help, LT. What’s the situation?”
“It is my understanding you were raised on Mindoir, yes?” Girard asked. “Recently, an Alliance team successfully raided a batarian slaver compound. One young woman fought them, killed one, severely wounded four. It wasn’t until they took her down that they discovered she was one of those captured in…”
Unwelcome memories flashed through his mind. Mindoir burning, people rounded up. He rubbed his head absently. “In the raid that killed my parents,” he said quietly.
Girard nodded. “I’m afraid so. Once they realized she was one of the lost of Mindoir, they endeavored to save her life, brought her here to the Citadel for medical treatment. She has since escaped, taken weapons, and barricaded herself in a private office on the Presidium.”
“And you’re hoping I can talk her down,” Ari said.
“The ideal solution,” Girard agreed. “Or if not, give our sniper a clean shot.”
Ari’s head spun. To think of someone not simply surviving the raid, but going on to fight for the slavers was not something he could comprehend. What had they done to this poor girl that she would serve them so faithfully as to continue fighting even after her rescue? He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Can you send me her location? And her name, if you have it.”
Girard nodded. “Location forwarded to your omni-tool. DNA taken from her matches the records of a… Kira McMillan.”
Ari’s heart stopped. “That name. Say again?”
“Kira McMillan. Did you know her?”
Swallowing hard, Ari nodded slowly. “She… she’s my sister.”
The desk was weak. A single shot from even a basic sniper rifle would penetrate its surface. The Killer had moved it as best she could, given her injuries, tipped it over and turned it so the desktop faced the front of the office. The Masters would not be happy she’d been so hurt. She couldn’t let it show, had to pretend she was still at her best. Would have been easier with an amp to work with, but what good was she if she couldn’t adapt to any disadvantages the test would throw at her?
She had an omni-tool now, but it had minimal functions, mostly revolving around memory aids. Politicians. On the bright side, it had a basic kinetic barrier, and this, she’d activated promptly. It also had a cloaking feature, but it was short-lived, and didn’t work well with her hospital gown. She wondered briefly how long she was supposed to survive this hellish test, and then the front door to the office slid open. It was fast becoming evident to the Killer that she had absolutely no luck whatsoever. She’d hoped anyone who entered would not look further than the receptionist’s desk, which she’d also tipped on its side. But slow, measured footsteps came down the hall toward her and the office she’d claimed.
“Kira?” The voice was at once familiar and foreign. Almost against her will, she rose to see who it was, and her training brought her gun up, trained on him. He was tall, solid, all lean muscle, just like her. Sandy blonde hair, cut military-short, warm brown eyes… that unforgettable scarring on his left cheekbone, three knife slashes, forming a triangle. Ari. But no, Ari was dead. She’d seen him fall. The Masters had confirmed it. It was a trick, a test, all to see if she was still soft. She squeezed off a single shot from her pistol, and it shattered off his armor’s kinetic barrier. She allowed herself a small smile; if that didn’t prove her loyalty to her masters, nothing would.
“Your Killer stands ready, Masters,” she called out as the imposter ducked out of sight in anticipation of further weapons fire. “What are my orders?”
The imposter looked in through the doorway again, and the Killer almost shot him again, but then she saw his eyes, and she hesitated. Had she known hurt could be communicated like that? Looking at him now, she could believe she’d cut him deeply, in a way no weapon she’d trained with could.
“Kira,” he said, almost pleading. “Kir, it… it’s me.”
And just like that, she failed. Exhausted from her injuries, off guard from the miraculous appearance of her twin brother, the Killer lowered her weapon. But her conditioning fought the move. “Kira McMillan is dead,” she said sharply. “Ari McMillan is dead. The Killer remains. A weapon needs a target. Name my target.”
“No targets,” he answered quickly. “No targets, not ever again. The batarians are dead, and aren’t coming back. Kira, you’re safe.”
“N… nnno…” she muttered. Then louder, “No. Safety is a lie. This is a test. It must be. I have succeeded in freeing myself. I have confronted a ghost of the past with a bullet. I…” She slammed a fist into the side of the desk, and nearly fell over it, just barely able to hold herself upright. “I have proved my loyalty. Assign me a target.”
He stepped fully into the doorway, hands held well away from his sides even though he was visibly, blatantly unarmed. Instinctively, she raised her gun again. Who does that? The Killer could not understand. She’d proved she was lethal, that even without biotics, she was a threat. “Adv… adversaries are never unarmed. Are you… are you a biotic?” It was a dumb question, and she scowled. “Of course you’re a biotic. You had to be as much like… him as possible. The lie holds water.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to test you. I’m here because I’m your brother, and I want to help.”
She fired a second shot; again, his barrier held. “Ari McMillan is dead!” she screamed. Her hands shook, and she dropped the pistol, braced herself heavily against the overturned desk. Defeated, betrayed by both body and mind, she slumped to her knees, still clinging to the desk.
“This is it, then,” she said softly between heavy breaths. “I have failed too completely, and am of no further use. I accept it.” She closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable, wondering what it would feel like. For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a slight thump, and a hand touched her head. Instinctively, she jerked away, falling away from the desk onto her right arm. She winced as pain exploded through her side, and her head spun. What is happening? She stared up at the imposter, confused, terrified.
“Why did you do that?” she asked sharply. “Touch is not kind. Touch is punishment. This…” She touched her own fingers to the crown of her head. “… no.”
“I should have known better,” he said, his voice suddenly uneven. Is he crying? She stared at him, uncertain as he slowly dropped to his knees beside her. “I’m sorry, Kir. I should have done more to save you. This… should never have been your life.”
“Poor little brother,” she quipped. His eyes locked onto hers, and they exchanged expressions of disbelief. She hadn’t called him “little brother” since he was dead and she was lost.
“By four minutes,” he protested, suddenly grinning.
With considerable effort, she pulled herself into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall behind her, still staring at him warily. “That’s… public record. How… how do I know?” How do I know it’s really you?
For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Tomato,” he said simply. She tensed, realizing instantly what he was getting at. It was from an argument they’d had in their early school years. Having just learned that a tomato was technically a fruit, Kira had suggested its inclusion in a fruit salad. Ari had scoffed at the idea, spinning some “proverb” he’d once heard: Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. But ever after that day, first to annoy one another, and then simply as their own little inside joke, they’d both referred to any common garden salad that included tomatoes as a fruit salad.
But to know it was truly him, she could not give the answer.
“Tell me,” she pleaded.
“Fruit salad,” he answered.
For the first time in thirteen years, Kira McMillan cried.