Work Text:
The last and cruelest gift of genetic perfection: time.
Miranda’s hair has turned from black to white and doctors claim that her bones are brittle. Nonetheless, she is alive. Shepard, now, is not.
This state of affairs is familiar, but the state of helplessness is strange. She had confronted Shepard’s first death with cybernetics and organ transplants and detailed simulations; she trails after Shepard’s second death with headstone polish and zinnia bouquets and conversations forever fractured.
Each day, she watches the other gravesite visitors as intently as she had once watched her medical staff.
And she waits. Someday, Shepard. Soon.