Chapter Six: Project Osiris

June 2177, Six Years Prior

Lieutenant Shepard sat back in the armchair and lit a cigarette. Outside the office window, the wind was picking up. Great billows of rusting dust clouded the air. Life under the Hellas Dome rarely included dust storms, but they had their own weather, all the same- their own strange convection currents, their own flat still days, even their own scattered rain once a Martian year or so. Humans released a lot of water.

"You know the rules," said Dr. Chan, mock-chiding.

Shepard passed her the pack of cigarettes, along with her lighter. The doctor tapped one out. Smoking on base was strictly prohibited, but having discovered they shared a mutual disdain for that particular regulation and that they could easily blame each other if discovered, indulgence had become a regular feature of their weekly sessions.

That didn't mean Shepard had forgotten Chan was an obstacle, if not an enemy outright. A challenge she was forced to navigate to get on with her life.

Chan lit up and exhaled. "You bring out the worst in me."

Shepard raised the cigarette in salute. "Glad to be of service."

"It's been six weeks now." Chan took another drag. "How are you feeling? How's the knee?"

Shepard managed to twist her leg badly climbing- or more accurately, falling- down from the tree where she'd hid through the wet night. "Fine. I only sprained it."

"Not keeping you up any more?"

The knee wasn't, anyway. "Not at all."

"Congratulations, by the way. On the promotion." Chan likewise sat back, though she kept her attention on Shepard rather than the brewing storm.

Shepard watched the wind shift, sand scouring the glass in a brief gust. "Thank you."

"From enlisted to Staff Lieutenant in five years. That's quite the feat." When Shepard made no response, Chan filled the silence. "I understand you're getting married in November as well. That's some impressive work-life balance, with such a meteoritic career."

Todd spent last night in a hotel. He'd never done that before. Shepard's gut twisted, but she put on a bright smile, bordering on sarcastic. "I try to eat right."

"Of course, you've been through an awful lot as well. Some might say you've had more bad luck than good."

Shepard took a drag, and tapped off the cigarette into Chan's #1 Mom coffee mug, which in her experience had never held anything but ash. "I don't see it that way."

The mug matched the rest of the office in its tired, predictable kitchiness. They sat in a pair of beige chairs plump enough to look inviting, hard and tough enough to be easily cleaned. The art was catalogue with the wine-is-spectacular vibe common to middle-aged women like Chan. She even had a mock-window mirror on the wall with muntins crossed in a diamond pattern like this was fucking Tuscany instead of a medical outbuilding on Hellas Naval Base. Shepard had thought, more than once, if her patients weren't depressed when they arrived, they sure as hell would be by the time they left.

Chan consulted the thick folder of records on her lap. "You weren't even out of training when you experienced your first batarian attack."

That was her second round of zero gee training, at a station in the Verge. "The patrol came out of FTL practically on top of my squad. They attempted to gain access to the station via EVA to the maintenance hatches."

"You killed one of the assailants."

"Yes." Shepard smashed his face plate against a girder. Blood was still bubbling from the gash on his forehead when she confirmed him dead and left him there. "We kept them from breaching the civilian quarters, and I got recommended to N1 for it. Not such a bad outcome."

"Then there was Aonia. Batarian rogues held you captive for six days."

"Disgruntled officers, pissed that a corporal turned their tactics against them. It was a tantrum." But her right hand still strayed to the fingers of her left, running her thumb over the place where they'd been broken. Not even a sign of a scar, now.

"A tantrum that put you in a dreadnought sick bay for a week."

"Today, Aonia's a thriving human colony. That feint wasn't everything, but it was the beginning of the end. I'd call that a victory."

"And recent events on Akuze…?" Chan let the question dangle.

Shepard took a drag. Blew out smoke. Sat for a moment as it spiraled between them, feeling the shallow cuts across her arms smart beneath the foundation concealing them. Remembering Todd's face when he came home and saw the mess she'd made of their kitchen with the crockery scattered over the floor.

Put a disarming smile on her face. "Maybe that one was just plain bad luck."

"You've chafed at this process," Chan said, understandingly, a little too much so for Shepard's comfort. "But you know that trauma doesn't always express itself immediately. It's not unusual to experience an outburst weeks or months after the fact, even if you were unaffected at the time."

"I'm not unaffected." That was crucial. Pure stoicism would be read as very heavy trauma. She had to be upset- but just the right amount, no more, no less. And it had to be expressed in the right ways.

Breaking every dish in her house because damn it, she needed to be back at work, needed something to keep her head clear and her hands busy and the navy had stuck her with desk duty for six weeks, was not the right way. So she covered up the places their sharp edges cut her skin, let her fiancé storm out, and pretended everything was fine for another day. A day which, thank god, was almost over. She just had to get through this appointment.

"Oh, I know." Chan waved the declaration away, beyond frustrated. A PhD in psychology did nothing to prepare her for something like Shepard. "We preach compartmentalization and I'll commend you on taking the lessons to heart. But to be frank, any other patient would be an outright mess by now."

"Have you had many patients from special operations?" Shepard inquired. She was leaning on the N-school mystique perhaps a bit too heavily, but then, Chan was being a bit too candid. Like she wasn't really a patient. That was a trap if ever she saw one.

Chan acknowledged that with a shrug. "No. I suppose you've been better prepared than most- by temperament and training. Still."

"I don't know what you want me to say." Shepard let a little of her frustration show. "I don't understand how my perception of my own experiences can be right or wrong. I can't force myself to be other people."

Chan was taken aback. For the most part, Shepard had maintained a veneer of congeniality throughout their sessions, if an impatient one. "It's not a test. I just doubt-"

"Well, don't." Shepard stubbed out her cigarette in the mug, slouched back, and crossed her arms. "Look, I want to get back to my job. I'm going stir-crazy. So let's cut the twenty-questions bullshit. Tell me what magic words I need to say, what hoop you're waiting for me to jump, and I'll do it."

Chan stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment. Shepard held her gaze, to all appearances an open book, her desire to resume her duties sincere enough to hide the genuine crazy.

The doctor looked away first. "I met with the DMHS board yesterday. They've approved your return to active duty status."

Shepard blinked. That was the last thing she expected to hear. Her mouth started to form the word "finally", but she caught it in time. "Well, shit. That's great to hear."

"I know you think you're doing well. But if you ever change your mind about that…" Chan appeared frustrated herself, that this puzzle was slipping from her grasp before she solved it. "We're always happy to lend an ear."

"Thanks." She rose.

Chan likewise got to her feet, and held out her hand. "Good luck, Lieutenant. Tell your fiancé he's fortunate to have such a level-headed bride."

When she arrived home after Akuze, they had an explosive argument that started with his failure to visit her in the hospital aboard Arcturus Station, and ended with his accusation that Shepard only cared about her mission, and never considered him in her decisions. As if what happened was somehow her fault- that if she loved him more, she would have foreseen the thresher maw attack and stayed home. Or maybe implying that even if she had such precognition, she still would have gone.

Neither of them had yet apologized.

She shook Chan's hand and forced a chuckle that sounded almost completely natural. She was getting good at that. "Oh, I think he knows."

Shepard made her way to her Fire Starter. It was a hot day, for Mars under the Hellas tent and orbital mirror, the skycar's canopy not-quite burning to the touch. It made her want a cold beer. And hell, she deserved a celebration for passing this gauntlet.

She could message Todd from the bar and break the news. Maybe stay at her dad's place for a few days until they both cooled off, and start over again. Maybe finally find the words to make him understand why she needed this- that it wasn't pointless danger. That if she didn't give the adrenaline a way out it just pooled up inside and made her do something truly insane. It had always been like that, even before she enlisted. Since she was a kid.

Shepard climbed into the driver's seat and patted her pocket, searching for her pack of cigarettes. Then she frowned and checked her other pocket. Then remembered it sitting with her lighter on the little end table between their chairs in Chan's office, sighed, and walked back inside.

As she approached the office, however, she heard Chan speaking, her voice raised loud enough to penetrate the hatch. "I played your hand. She didn't bite. I have no excuse to keep her here."

A man answered, quieter, though not especially less irritated. "You could have pushed harder, provoked her. Just like you could have tried harder to sway the board."

Chan answered stiffly. "I have an ethical obligation to present the truth. And the truth is, Shepard appears to have absorbed the incident on Akuze without lasting psychological harm. The board was correct to return her to active duty."

A fury rose in Shepard. She raised her hand, to slide the hatch aside and storm in, but then thought of something else. Instead, she moved to the next room and found it unlocked.

The technician jumped out of his seat and turned so fast he almost tripped over his own chair. "You can't be in here!"

Shepard's eyes scanned the room. Electronic recording equipment filled a small bench- including a monitor frozen on an image of her shaking Chan's hand. And over the bench was a large gray window, crisscrossed by a diamond pattern, with a view into Chan's office. The transparent back of a two-way mirror.

Her nuclear glare turned to the technician and pinned him to the air. "Were you recording my sessions?"

"Orders-" he started.

"I don't give a rat's ass about-" Then she stopped short, because the man in Chan's office had turned towards the mirror, giving her a clear view of his face. Her blood ran cold- and then erupted in fire.

Both Chan and her guest turned as the hatch slid open. Shepard moved into the room like a tidal wave. Farrell had just started to step back when her fist swung up and connected with his face. She felt something crunch.

Chan's hands flew to her mouth. Farrell drooled blood into his palm, and spat out a tooth. He stared at it with more shock than pain.

Shepard advanced on him. "You!"

Chan found her voice. "Lieutenant Shepard!"

"He filmed our sessions!" She rounded on Chan. "And you knew about it?"

Chan held her hands in front of her chest, a feeble defense. "He had authorization. I never liked it-"

"You could have told me."

Farrell laughed. It was so unexpected that it silenced the room and sent a shiver down her spine. He wiped his mouth. "The act of observation spoils the experiment."

Her hand balled into a fist once more. Her voice went low and cold. "I am not an experiment."

"You're a valuable collection of data." Farrell didn't have an ounce of shame. "Unique and highly coveted data. Data that could revolutionize combat- with a proper understanding of its… limitations."

"He wanted to record reactions at the emotional extremes," Chan cut in. "Something about boundary conditions. He ordered me to push you."

Farrell let out a snarl of betrayal. Shepard stepped between them. "Don't even think about it."

"You have no conception of how special you are." He dabbed at his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "All of you are, of course, all my very special subjects, but you've always had a particularly intriguing neurology."

She shoved up against him. "Stay the hell out of my life."

"With all due respect, no." He edged away, and attempted a pacifying smile, his teeth still spattered red. "The work I'm doing is critical to the future of the human race. To our security and survival. You of all people should understand-"

Two marines burst into the office, side arms drawn. Shepard saw the nervous face of the tech bobbing behind them in the hall. Security.

She immediately stepped away put her hands up to show she had no weapons. The guys on base security tended to combine a lack of intelligence and a high level of anxiety with respect to their personal safety. One of them aimed at her anyway, while the other addressed Farrell. "Are you alright, sir?"

He wiped at his mouth one last time. "She didn't do much damage… thanks to your timely arrival."

Chan's mouth thinned. "He started it."

The marines exchanged a glance- one that said this was above their paygrade. Shepard groaned.

Sure enough, the second marine gestured towards the door. "We'll need you to both come down to the guard post and sort this out. This way."

As she was marched from the room, Shepard realized she still didn't have her cigarettes, and this was certain to take a while. Shit.

/\/\/\/\/\

October 2183

Aboard the Citadel, in a heavily secured conference room, Councilor David Anderson stirred his coffee. The screen displayed an old vid recording of Shepard giving an oral account of the assault on Dr. Farrell to the Hellas Base security supervisor. Anderson found himself staring at her more than hearing her report. She couldn't have been more than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. Impossibly young.

Same insouciance, though. She'd had that since she was born as far as Anderson could tell. It brought a smile to his face.

Captain Rahimi stopped mid-sentence and furrowed her brow. "Sir?"

Anderson glanced away from the projection. Rahimi stood beside it with an aura of impatience. "I don't quite feel I have your attention."

He took a sip of coffee. Cleared his throat. "My mind wandered for a moment. Please, continue."

Across the table, Admiral Hackett frowned. They'd worked together long enough for him to guess what had Anderson distracted.

"As I was saying," Rahimi went on with just the slightest edge to her voice, "While investigating the incident involving Commander Shepard's mandatory counseling sessions, the navy discovered the Ministry of Intelligence was exploiting a joint program in order to exercise improper oversight of naval personnel, particularly the group of special operations officers central to the study."

"Project Osiris," Hackett said.

"Precisely." Rahimi froze the playback and turned towards the two men. "The navy withdrew its support for the program and, officially, Osiris was terminated."

Anderson frowned. "Officially?"

Hackett folded his hands and leaned forward. "Captain, I don't believe I requested any speculation in this report."

"Sixty-seven percent of SAMI Special Project Division's budget is black, sir," she answered, not backing down. "And we know Farrell continued as a SPD employee, with no accessible record of his activities, until he vanished several years ago- presumably recruited by Cerberus."

"If he wasn't recruited earlier." Hackett sighed.

Anderson glanced at Hackett. "And we know he's still obsessed with Shepard, if not his other subjects."

Hackett nodded, not without reluctance. "It may be that Cerberus proved more interested in his research than SAMI or the navy. To be fair, the work itself was incredibly advanced stuff. Farrell was onto something."

Anderson looked again at Shepard's face, a picture of disgust at how Farrell's actions had violated what should have been a private space. She'd been ordered into therapy following Akuze, over her strong objections. It was standard procedure. "She never trusted DMHS again, you know. I sometimes think if she had, maybe…"

Hackett grimaced. Rahimi was merely confused. "Maybe what, sir?"

Maybe she wouldn't have stayed aboard a burning ship until it exploded around her. Maybe she would have valued her own life more than that. He looked down into his coffee. Took another sip.

Hackett changed the subject. "What I don't understand is why we're focusing on this. Project Osiris is six years in the past. That's an eternity even in the white world."

She slid her hands behind her back and lifted her chin. "Farrell curated an extensive collection of sensitive data on some of our best marines, data he certainly shared with SAMI and likely with Cerberus as well, for a project SAMI may or may not have continued after the navy withdrew. We've found highly encrypted files on his omni-tool."

"Have we deciphered these files?"

She shook her head. "No, sir. We don't have the key. Farrell says he doesn't have it either, and I believe him. Keeping it on the same storage system as the encrypted files would be ridiculously naïve for the average citizen, to say nothing of an expert."

Anderson still didn't see her point. "What's your concern, Captain? Speak plainly."

"SAMI's clamoring for us to release him into their custody. And they've got more sway with the committee members in Parliament. What will they do with these files? For that matter, what will they do with Farrell himself?"

"You have some thoughts on the matter?" Hackett asked, dryly.

"I don't know what they'll do." Rahimi held her ground. "Nobody in the navy does. And it's our people at risk, sir. That's my point."

Anderson didn't either, but he could imagine some possibilities. "SAMI's more a fiefdom than an agency. They've never been good at respecting our common enemies, not if they see something they can co-opt. They may try to make a double agent out of him."

Hackett sat back, troubled. He stroked his chin and spoke slowly. "If nothing else, by raiding the lab on Nepheron, Shepard proved Cerberus absolutely cannot be trusted. It's playing with fire."

"Speaking of that, there's another issue, sir." Rahimi coughed. "Between publicly revealing Cerberus' role in the attack on Akuze, and the loss of the Normandy to the 'geth', opinion of the navy in the human space is on the decline."

The quotes clanged around geth with heavy irony. Though nearly everyone else believed that story, nobody inside this room was under the illusion that the geth could suddenly outsmart the Normandy's advanced stealth technology.

Anderson massaged his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "Not to mention outcry over so much loss of life and assets defending the Citadel from Saren's fleet after the Council refused to lift a finger to help our colonies in the war."

Though their alien allies continued to express their gratitude, in Alliance space, the battle had become much more controversial. Anderson sometimes felt like he was fighting Council politics with one hand and human politics with the other. Former ambassador Udina, who had stayed on as his attaché, found it deeply amusing.

"So we can't afford to leak another major failure," Hackett said. "Such as might happen if Farrell's put on a leash."

Rahimi nodded. "Particularly not concerning Shepard."

"The media frenzy surrounding Shepard's death died soon after the funeral." Anderson was confused.

Rahimi and Hackett exchanged a glance. Hackett addressed her. "Thank you for your presentation, Captain. We'll do our best to block or delay Farrell's transfer. Good work. Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." She gave Anderson a nod, and departed the room.

Once the door had shut behind her, Hackett sagged into his chair, and rubbed his face.

Dread rose in Anderson. "What?"

"We might be looking at a small resurgence in Shepard's profile." He set his shoulders and leaned forward on the desk. Folded his hands. Steeling himself. "We're closing out the Normandy investigation. The report should be released in the next several weeks."

Anderson felt like the wind had gone out of him. He slumped in the chair.

"All of the personnel not rescued at Alchera will be officially moved from MIA to KIA status. Shepard included." It was a formality only- they'd already held the funerals- but one that re-opened old wounds. "I'm expecting at least one media outlet to pick it up. If it hits a slow news cycle…" Hackett shrugged. The media were beyond any of their control. "You might get questions on it."

Anderson felt a hundred years old. "Thanks for the heads-up."

His old friend hesitated. "I know what she meant to you, but David, it's been three months. You can't even talk about her?"

The look he shot was a warning- a pointed one.

Hackett sat back and gestured at the still-active screen, at the video of Shepard. "Can't watch an old, crappy vid without sinking into grief?"

"How long would it take you to get over losing Margaret or Susan?" he asked sharply, naming Hackett's daughters.

Hackett shook his head.

Anderson wouldn't let it go. "More than three months? Or less?"

"Maybe you should pay a visit to DMHS yourself," Hackett said, getting up. "Couldn't hurt."

Anderson didn't dignify that with a reply, as Hackett left the room. He gave the screen one last glance. It didn't seem possible she could be perfectly alive in there, and dead out here. Not possible and definitely not fair.