#timshep

Amelia looked around until she spotted the source of the voice. A man was coming alongside her from her left. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. He wasn't wearing an Alliance uniform but hadn't been amongst the politicians present. "Who are you?" she asked.

He smiled slightly. "No one you really need to know," he said.

Amelia halted. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "Then why should I continue this conversation at all?"

He eyed her appraisingly. The corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk.

His eyes were unreadable though. They looked like they must be implants, but she'd never seen their like before: an unnatural shade of blue that swallowed every emotion he felt.

A frisson of nerves ran up her spine.

"Because, Lieutenant Shepard, you're curious. And—" He paused. "—you're looking for an excuse to continue to avoid the reception you just ran away from."

Amelia tilted her head curiously and hated him for being right.

He smirked when he saw her yield and continued walking, fully expecting her to come with him.

She did.

"You have a promising career ahead of you, Lieutenant," he said after a moment.

"That's what everyone tells me," Amelia replied neutrally. She glanced at him, but he was looking ahead of them and not at her. She was forced to admit that there was something intriguing about him though—a fact she found very annoying.

"So you, a total stranger, are watching my career. That's… reassuring," she commented, the sarcasm light in her tone.

He shot her an amused glance. "It should be," he said.

"Oh. That's very comforting. I've always wanted to have that kind of attention on my career," Amelia replied. The sarcasm was deepening. "I've been around the Alliance long enough to know that strange men approaching you in a park to tell you that you have a promising looking career is a sign that some black op or another is involved."

She stopped abruptly.

It took him two steps or so to realize she had, but he turned to look at her. Amelia was standing there scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. His eyes roamed over her, taking in her body language and expression. And, she thought, something more.

Within a moment he was uncomfortably near. "A little too smart for your own good, Lieutenant," he said.

Amelia refused to be cowed. She lifted her head defiantly. "If I can hold an untold number of pirates at bay—alone, for hours—I certainly can't be intimidated by you," she snapped.

It was surreal watching someone whose eyes didn't show emotion. But she caught the micro-expressions on his face: amusement, respect, and annoyance.

She felt vindicated in standing her ground.

He remained where he was, though, and finally his lips turned up into a small smirk. "I like you, Lieutenant," he said softly.

Instinctively, she leaned nearer to hear him better and his smirk grew in response. "I strongly suspect this won't be the last time we cross paths," he added.

"Let's hope for both our sakes that you're wrong about that," Amelia retorted.

He looked over her again and Amelia continued standing her ground under his scrutiny. "You'll have to forgive me for disagreeing," he replied.

And then he left.

Amelia watched him walk off feeling unsettled by the encounter—particularly since, unless she missed her guess entirely, he seemed to have been as intrigued by her as she'd been by him.

Nine Years Later:

"Commander Shepard."

Apparently, not even dying could wipe the memory of his voice from her mind. Amelia's eyes widened in surprise.

"I see I was right about that not being the last time we'd cross paths," the Illusive Man said smugly.

Amelia crossed her arms. "And yet we're not meeting face to face," she replied in a challenge.

The smile he gave her was too knowing to be comforting. "A necessary precaution," he replied dismissively. "Not unusual for people like you and me who know the things we do."

Amelia scoffed, unimpressed and unafraid to let him know it. "Not willing to meet in person, not willing to give a name… I think I'm still unwilling to trust you," she replied.

The Illusive Man shrugged. "I don't need your trust," he replied. "I'm not looking for a dance partner here, Shepard. Simply your cooperation—in the interests of humanity."

Amelia eyed his holographic image carefully. "I'm listening," she finally said.

The Illusive Man likes what he sees.

Same face, same freckles, same hair—the clone looks like a lifelike wax figure, a careful copy, one that is actually alive and breathing. He fights the urge to reach out and touch her lying on the slab just to make sure she’s real.

One may think it is a miracle. For him, it is only a start.

"Yes, Wilson,” he says, “the physical prototype is outstanding. Appearance is not everything, though. Let's make sure we can make even more than that where it matters."

“We will,” Wilson dryly agrees. 

-*-

She is standing exactly like Shepard, but it’s the look in her eyes, exactly like Shepard’s, that gives her away. He feels a slight disappointment even while he totally knows he shouldn’t.

It’s yet a prototype. A body fast-grown from DNA samples in advance of the main project, to ensure that everything is going to be implemented smoothly. An experimental test subject. And he probably should have just left it all for the scientist team, but it is about Shepard, so he can’t stay away.

“Talk to me,” he demands, taking a drag on his cigarette. The clone looks confused, then crosses her arms, and he can still painfully see it in her eyes that it’s not the real her.

“Who are you?” she asks, and that’s another point the real Shepard wouldn’t miss. He chuckles; her voice, though, precisely captures her tone. 

“I am known as the Illusive Man,” he says, watching her reaction, and she just nods, taking it for granted. There’s no surprise on her face, and no extra questions follow. Behavior programmed at the very basics. He sure hopes the main project can pull through what he’s planned. That the actual body will be restored not just in flesh, but in what makes her her.

The concern remains running in the background of his mind. The project will be a total waste if they fail to restore Shepard exactly as she was. But he would've never come this far if he didn't always have a backup plan.

“Wilson,” he says on the intercom some time later. “Can we provide the prototype with some memories?”

“Uh, memories cannot be injected like some serum,” there comes the immediate reply, and he is not content. He'd rather bet on those who felt challenged by the impossible; and Wilson was sometimes too quick to admit defeat of giving up without even trying.

“Find a way to add some more personality to the prototype,” he says dryly, making sure it sounds not like a request, but like an order. “I need to assess the potential of our possibilities. That's the second priority after the Lazarus.”

“I’ll think of something,” Wilson promises on the other side with a sigh.

-*-

When he sees her again after a while, he takes note of how... advanced she seems now. The clone has the same posture and even the same stare, and she’s almost as real as he can fool himself into believing.

“Time for a little check-up,” he announces with a cold chuckle. “Do you know who I am?”

“Illusive Man, the head of Cerberus,” she says with a hint of disapproval. Oh. That’s more like he could imagine the real Shepard talking to him. What would she say in her place? And how will their meeting actually go when it's time?

“What’s with your tone?” He just needs to know it. Hear it. Understand what’s going on in her pretty cloned head.

“You’re a terrorist,” she blurts out. “How else am I supposed to talk to you?”

Aw. Sounds just to the point. He allows a small smile to tuck the corners of his lips.

“And who do you think you are to judge me?”

“I am Jean Shepard, Commander of the Alliance.”

“No.”

Whatever Wilson came up with for this one was risky. The clone stares at him intensely, and he can feel the thrill running down his spine. She's got an edge to her now. This does look much more like Shepard than he'd expect.

“No, you’re not," he says in a low tone, finding bizarre delight in the way she looks at him. "Just a prototype. Merely a physical replica.”

"That's just absurd," she snaps back at him. Interesting. Now she’s got teeth. This is new.

He puts down a glass of whiskey and pulls his lit cigarette closer instead.

"It doesn’t really matter what you think.”

But in some way, it does. It makes a great difference for the Lazarus project, which has just gotten more chances to become a success. It makes an even bigger difference for him personally. He should not fool himself, though, beforehand, as this clone is not her, and never intended to be her, and is only here (only needed) for demo purposes.

But what a temptation.

He steps in closer, too close for her comfort, and she holds her ground. Good. He lifts her head by the chin, and she winces at him. In his arms, she feels like a tense spring.

“Step back,” she hisses.

“Or what?” he asks, amused.

“Or I will tear you apart.”

He lets out a short laugh. Her skin feels soft under his fingers.

“Hardly." He tells her almost gently. "You have an implant blocking your biotics while you’re here."

Her eyes, really, sparkle so furiously that he makes a mental note to ask Wilson to test her biotic powers later. And possibly, add an extra fuse just in case.

"Try me," non-Shepard growls, and he is tempted. He thinks of so many ways to test her, almost wanting her to be real enough, here and now.

"I will," he promises, calmly, evenly, not hurrying up. "For now, I am content with what I'm seeing." 

He watches her narrow her eyes and lets out a quiet, delightful hum. 

“What exactly did you do about my last request?” he asks Wilson later during the call.

“I’ve made the clone watch the vids featuring Shepard.”

And that's... somehow disappointing.

“Smart.” But not smart enough; all this testifies to is that the clone is a good little copycat. Still, they should remember that the prototype is just a body. They don't need it to think too much about itself. “Don’t do this anymore, though. We don’t need to make the clone too… self-aware for our own good.”

-*-

For some time, he leaves it all up to Wilson to run additional tests and reports. The clone shows good results on her own.

Still, it's not enough for a true backup plan. The whole project still depends on the real Shepard alone, and without her, the resources invested would all go to waste.

He doesn't ask to see the clone in a while. He can't wait to see the real her come back to life.

According to their initial estimates, this moment gets closer by the day.

-*-

...Until it doesn't.

Money is of no concern to him, but when he’s already spending a fortune bringing Shepard back to life, news that it will cost him twice as much and take twice as long is not exactly good news.

“Do whatever it takes, Wilson,” he commands, and he is not pleased. “But I need Shepard alive. No matter the cost.”

“Understood,” Wilson nods on the holo.

But the irritation is still boiling under his skin, dark, nasty, like a festering wound. He wants to see results, now. But the only real success he's got at the moment is the Shepard's clone. He shakes the ash off his cigarette, taking his time. Wilson has to really take in his discontent.

The pause lasts for another few seconds. His frustration just won't go away.

“Dismissed. And... send the clone into my quarters.”

He has to cherish the success he has. Wilson pauses for an uneasy second.

“Anything specific you’re going to test?”

“I’ll let you know afterwards if there’s anything worth noting,” he says with a cold voice. “Send her over to me, now. I’m waiting.”

“As you wish.”

-*-

He's not sure what he's about to do, but just seeing her brings him back a feeling of total control.

It's not quite what he wants from Shepard he hopes to bring back. He wants her strong, and independent, and fierce, and following him because it's her own choice. He wants her unwavering like steel, yet moldable by his hands alone. He wants her sharp, even if it means she'll bite him, too, while she stays on his leash.

He wants Commander Shepard, the real her, just as she was. And he wants her, the real her, just as she was, under control. The clone is good enough to give him the desired illusion.

She looks at him heavily as she enters the lounge. 

"For today's meeting, I insist that you do whatever you want. Still no biotics, though."

He pats the leather sofa next to him, yet she remains standing. Right. This is starting good, now.

"Why?" She's cautious. Her gaze flickers with disbelief.

"I want to see the real you."

He stands up and approaches her. She doesn't flinch and crosses her arms, eyes intense. Just like the last time. But there's something new in her stare—not fear, not obedience. A kind of quiet loathing.

But in her loose lab robe, she doesn't look intimidating at all. Acting on impulse, he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

She catches him by his wrist before he can touch her, and her grasp is tight.

"Don't... touch me." There's a warning in her eyes, but he knows this look all too well. Previously, that was all she could put against him. That was never enough to stop him.

He chuckles, soft and dry.

“That’s not your choice to make, really.”

He sees it in her eyes first—a spark of anger, a quiet fury—and then she tries to push him away. If she were the real Shepard, she would've managed to do so, even without her biotics. But the clone's not strong enough; her muscles never knew proper training.

He uses the fuss to his advantage; in a few moments, he has her pressed against him, back to chest, his hand resting flat on her throat. He feels her heart flutter wildly, almost scared, almost too vulnerable. And he wants to take it out on her—for daring to pretend to be like the real one, but falling short when it came to action.

She's still too submissive. She's still too weak. Too naïve.

The clone is almost good enough to give him the desired illusion. But almost is still too much of a miss.

Yet, he has to cherish the success he has.

And so he does.

-*-

Her skin bears no scars. This doesn't come as a surprise, yet still, he hates it as a subtle reminder that he's only dealing with a substitute, not the original.

In fact, there are many reminders of this kind.

"The real Shepard would have never allowed this," he says with disappointment, absentmindedly caressing her cheek. “But let’s not forget you’re not the real one, shall we?”

He quickly grows bored with her. There is no complex personality that makes him respect Shepard; there is no tension, excitement, or real pleasure.

"And you could never become her. Shepard is irreplaceable," he says slowly, no emotion showing through. "While you are... expendable."

His fingers caress her neck, fiddling with her hair lazily. The last bits of the desired illusion, stripped bare, broken, slipping between his fingers.

"You're a control freak," she says under her breath.

"I am."

There's no denying that.

Yet this helps him realize that the real Shepard has to be the closest thing to an uncontrollable factor he can ever allow near him.

"Miranda," he says later, when she's reporting on the current stage of the Lazarus project. "I want Shepard exactly as she was. No mind-controlling chips. No augmentations. Nothing that could influence her thinking or personality."

Lawson looks like she's having second thoughts about that. She's voiced her opinion before, all too concerned about any unpredictable factors that could ruin the whole project. But that, actually, has been the project's all-time ultimate goal all along.

"Are you su—"

"Do I make myself clear?" he interrupts in a tone that allows no objections.

"Yes," Lawson says on the holo, and the call ends.

Finally, the moment the real Shepard awakes is back on the foreseeable timeline.

-*-

He almost loses her. Almost—fucking—does.

Wilson, the sleazy worm. Much better a traitor than he was a scientist. He came too close to landing the most expensive strike to his investments and ambitions ever.

Seems like he had planned it very carefully, quite meticulously, having accounted for every little detail to make it work. That is, every little detail except for one particular uncontrollable factor.

He sits still, casually dragging on his cigarette as if nothing's happened, while Miranda is briefing him on the attack. He shows no anger, no shiver; he would've never come this far if he could not hide what he felt.

Yet his blood's actually boiling with anticipation. Shepard's finally awake, at her own timing, despite all their estimates. Shepard's finally up, and he just can't wait to see her.

His patience has never ever given him sweeter rewards.

"Alright," he speaks up only after Miranda has finished. "Now, I'd like to talk to Commander Shepard."

And when Miranda disappears from the holo, he finds himself counting seconds.

-*-

As the transmitter comes alive again, projecting her holo from toes to head, his breath catches. He masks it by taking another drag of his cigarette.

"Commander Shepard." And there she is, indeed. Her posture, her stare, her hair, and her freckles. And a glowing net of scars on her cheek where they didn't have enough time to heal.

"Illusive Man." And her voice reeks of enmity towards his persona. "I thought we'd be meeting face-to-face."

His spacious panoramic office is already brimming with charged tension, and he can't look away. He's been imagining this for so long.

Ah, and that's the real her, at last. Standing right where he wanted her.