Jane Shepard

I stare defiantly at the woman facing me through the lens of the mirror. That girl, Jane Shepard, she can cry. She can admit to being torn apart inside. She can shy away from the responsibility of saving the galaxy. She can wallow in all the loss of life she'd witnessed. Comander Shepard couldn't. If I did, then I wouldn't be the strong leader that I needed to.

I hadn't realized just how sharp the divide between Jane, my reflection that only I can see, and Shepard, the outward persona of strength I had. Perhaps the divide had never been so pronounced before. Perhaps instead, it had really started at Vermire.

Tactically I knew that getting Ash had been the right call. If the geth managed to jury rig even one AA tower, the Normandy might never have made it out. It tore me up inside, tore Jane up completely to do that. To abandon Kaidan, the man Jane could have loved. The man I did love. But Shepard couldn't risk the rest of the crew for that one, small possibility. The possibility of a happy life, even in my state of turmoil.

Maybe the divide had started earlier, on Akuze. Seeing the jaws of that monster rip through my entire unit, the people I was supposed to protect, that damn near killed me. Shepard came out of that, but Jane practically died then and there. It could have left anyone a mess. It didn't help that when I was finally reunited with corporal Toombs much later everything I'd done to console myself ripped away. I'd thought everyone was dead, and that there was nothing I could do but run. And instead I'm face to face with a ghost, a man I could have saved, but left for dead. Only he didn't die. It was worse than death. He got toyed with and experimented on by Cerberus for years on end with no hope of recovery or rescue. I condemned him to that. Once again, Shepard told him to put down the gun, while Jane begged that he would turn it on me. And it's worse than that, now that I find myself betraying Toombs' trust by working for the devils who held him captive for so long. I hope he can forgive me. Shepard doesn't care. But I do. Jane does.

Maybe it was even earlier, on Mindoir as I watched my entire life; my family, friends, town, school, all torn to pieces before my eyes. I silently watched the girl who sat next to me in science class get raped by Batarian slavers, then beaten until she was subservient, then implanted with a control device. The word implant doesn't do justice to the horror of the action it's to clinical and clean. They bore a hole into her skull and drove wires into her brains. The whole time Jane watched in horror, Shepard was watching for an opportunity to escape unnoticed. That probably broke me in ways I can't even begin to fathom.

Then again, maybe my duality was always there, and each event had made it worse and worse until I had all but disconnected myself from Jane, the weaker me. The me who would have died time and time again if Shepard had given her the opportunity. Somewhere along the line, I had pretty much become Shepard full time, and the only place I saw Jane was in the mirror. The one place I could never escape from her.

The Illusive Man's words, as Miranda's, still rung in my head. The whispering of my life literally passing me by was now at a full roar in my mind. I had lost two years. The destruction of the Normandy wasn't a dream, it wasn't an illusion of any kind. It happened, and I died. Then I have been wrestled from death's clutches by some freak show Cerberus scientists because I was so fucking special. This was one of the few times I found myself still agreeing with Jane instead of Shepard they should have just let me die. I was used up, torn to shreds, and exhausted. The only reason I kept going was because Shepard didn't know how to stop. She had made sure never to learn that.

If I hadn't let myself be Shepard, then I never would have made it off Mindoir. I would have stayed there and watched Jessie be violated then die, never finding Zabaleta in time to get the hell off the planet. If Jane had her way, I would have curled up and cried until they found me, and either died or worse.

If I hadn't let myself be Shepard, then I never would have survived Akuze when everyone else around me was dying, and my skin burned with acids that could melt the armor off a mako. Jane would have embraced dying with her brethren; it would have been fitting. Shepard couldn't stand the thought, and once she saw that everyone else was dead, she got the hell out of dodge.

If I hadn't let myself be Shepard, the Normandy might have been blown to smithereens. Joker, Garrus, Liara, Tali, Ash, everyone, even Kaidan, might well have died. Shepard knew that those deaths would have cost so much more than just Kaidan's, but Jane wanted nothing more than to have died in his embrace, screw the rest of the galaxy and its right to survive.

And now Jane had gotten her wish. I'd died, I'd been allowed to leave the galaxy after saving it. It was a pretty good run, and I was more ready than most people. What was it Liara had always said? Oh, yeah. I embraced eternity. And I went out spectacularly.

But it didn't end there. Now I'm awake, being told in the biggest rush I've ever heard a story that they need my help again. Shepard tells me that our job isn't done. Jane tells me that we've been robbed our reward for last time. Frankly, I don't know which me to side with. They both have valid points, and I'm just so tired that I don't want to deal with either fear, or determination. I just want to sleep for another two years. Maybe more.

I focus my attention back onto the mirror. It's the first moment I've gotten by myself since waking up. The shuttle isn't big, and I'll find no piece once we land on Freedom's Progress, and even though the tiny bathroom isn't ideal, I need to collect my thoughts a little. If Miranda and Jacob decide they need the bathroom, they can damn well wait a few minutes.

I recognize most of the scars on my face. The one on my lip is from when my mother shoved me down so that I wouldn't be seen by the Batarians. She had pushed so violently that my face had impacted with the glass coffee table. I had always hated that thing, and as if some lite motif had come true, I was the one to break it.

The scar that bisected my eyebrow had been from my first weeks in basic. I had joined the Alliance more because I wanted to get away than because I wanted to help prevent that from happening again. I think that was my first experience with my own dual nature. Part of me, the part I now know as Shepard, was all about the military training. She wanted to protect, she wanted to kill bad guys. She was ruthless, efficient, cold, and calculating. But she was tempered with the other part of me, Jane, who never stopped being a frightened little girl. Jane stayed in the military only because she got to be on board a ship, and never had to stay on a planet waiting for another ambush like that. I got the scar when I had been trying to help another kid from being bullied, because I so saw myself in him. Shepard stepped in front of the bullies and knocked them away, but I didn't realize that he'd had a switchblade. The kid I'd helped ran away, and everyone involved got disciplined for disorderly conduct. Even the kid who got bullied. He killed himself three weeks later.

It was then that I knew I needed some way to deal with this. I had started wearing dark makeup black eyeshadow, more liner than was necessary, black lipstick it was my way of telling people that I would always be in mourning. And it was Shepards way of intimating people further. It didn't, at first, incite the reaction I'd hoped for. It looked like I was seeking attention, and the men in basic were a bit too eager to oblige. Jane would have stopped then and there and gone back to a quiet, reserved appearance. Shepard loved the attention, and was firm in her dealings with anyone who was too pushy. Not one of the men in the infirmary had told anyone that they were there because of me. Not one of the men outside the infirmary said anything either.

At first I thought I would stop once I got my foothold, but it sort of became a trademark for me. People would look up the barrel of my gun, Shepard's gun, and they'd be all the more terrified of the agent of death standing above them, black hair, black eye sockets, black lips, high contrast pale skin and piercing blue eyes was how I was described by some of my practice mates. Shepard could wear that face with a grin that would put the fear of God in you, whereas Jane viewed it more as a form of Turian face painting symbolizing just how damaged we, as a trio, are. Once I was known for it, though, it stuck, and like a bad nick name, it was easier just to get used to it than to change it.

The rest of the scars, though, are new, with orange glowing underneath them. I hate the way it looks. It makes me feel more like Shepard, and even though I thought I already was her, I hate that I can't see Jane underneath any more.

The shuttle's about to enter atmo, according to the little lights blinking above the door. Either this is a short shuttle ride, or I've been in here longer than I thought. Either way, things are about to get interesting.

End chapter one.

I know that this chapter is a little on the short side, and I also know that it was an entire chapter without any interaction, but I promise it will get better, and more interesting. I've taken a little license with the time line and the dialog, etc., because it will flow better for the story I'm telling, but I think it should still fit in pretty well, all things considered.

And, no, this will not be just Shepard pitying herself through the entire story, although because this is dealing with Shepard's mental instability, there will be a lot of that.

Hope you enjoyed, thanks.

-M.