Miranda: Sculpted Will by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Miranda-Sculpted-Will-1220429841#image-1

Miranda: Sculpted Will ANIMATION

Calculus of the Void

Calculus failed her. For thirty-five years, Miranda Lawson had measured existence through the flawless geometry of her own genetics, but the cerulean fire pooling in her palms refused to obey the equation.

She stood in the center of her Normandy quarters, breath hitching in her chest as the biotic energy—usually a symphony of disciplined dark matter—bled from her fingertips like cracked glass. The light was jagged, erratic, casting violent blue shadows against the sleek titanium walls. It smelled of ozone and withered orchids, an impossible scent that made the back of her throat ache.

It was the artifact. The crystalline monolith they had pulled from the dead rock of the Moros system three days ago. It had been singing, a frequency that bypassed audio receptors and vibrated directly against the cerebral cortex. Since she had touched it, Miranda’s perfect mind felt entirely unsymmetric. Her biotics, the physical manifestation of her engineered will, were unraveling.

The door chime hummed, a sharp contrast to the chaotic buzzing in her own skull.

"You always knock when I am most inclined to ignore you, Commander," Miranda said. She forced her hands down, pressing her palms against the cool surface of her desk, willing the stray arcs of biotic lightning to ground themselves into the metal.

The door swished open, revealing Commander Shepard. He leaned against the frame, his posture casual, but his eyes were sharp, calculating the tension in her shoulders.

"It is a rare gift," Shepard replied, stepping inside and letting the door seal behind him. "Though given the sudden drop in ambient temperature out in the corridor, I assumed you were either building a mass relay in your quarters or finally losing your temper."

"I never lose my temper," Miranda said, turning to face him. She smoothed the pristine fabric of her uniform, though the effort felt hollow. "I misplace it, strategically. What do you want, Shepard?"

"Your left eye is glowing, Miranda. And not in the charming, enigmatic way." He stepped closer, the playful banter fading into something heavy and assessing. "You’ve been isolated since we brought the Moros relic aboard. Chakwas says your neurological scans look like a supernova in a jar. You are bleeding hard light."

"A temporary fluctuation," she lied smoothly, lifting her chin. "The relic emits a dark energy resonance that interferes with localized biotic fields. Nothing a dermal regenerator and ten minutes of meditation won’t solve."

"It scorched the bulkhead outside your door," Shepard noted, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register that commanded absolute attention. "That is not a fluctuation. That is a detonation waiting to happen. You are losing control."

"Control is my defining feature, Commander. I do not lose it."

"Everyone drops the ball eventually, Miranda. It is what makes us human." He reached out, his fingers stopping an inch from her shoulder. The air between them crackled with rogue static. "Let me help you."

For a fraction of a second, the overwhelming urge to lean into his touch almost conquered her. The exhaustion of being perfect, of constantly holding the seams of her own brilliant mind together, was a crushing weight. But pride was a stubborn anchor.

"I have work to do, Shepard. If my biotics become a threat to the ship, I will confine myself to the shielding in the armory. Until then, I require silence."

Shepard held her gaze for a long moment, the unsaid words vibrating in the space between them. "Don't let pride be the thing that eats you alive," he said softly. He withdrew his hand, turned, and exited the room.

The moment the door sealed, the temperature in the room plummeted entirely.

Miranda exhaled, and her breath plumed into a cloud of white frost. The blue glow emanating from her skin shifted, darkening into an aggressive, bruising violet. The silence Shepard had left behind did not remain empty. It began to thicken, curdling into a heavy, oppressive texture that felt like velvet pressing against her eardrums.

*He is right, you know.*

The voice did not come from the room. It blossomed in the hollow space behind her eyes, smooth and cold, echoing with the exact timbre of the Moros relic’s song.

Miranda spun around, her hands instinctively coming up, biotic fields flaring into violent, jagged discs of dark energy. "Show yourself."

*We are already here, beautiful construct,* the voice purred. It slipped down her spine like a drop of ice wat
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