A/N: A chapter that's a bit calmer and offers a chance to get to know some characters better, after all that drama on Therum. I've actually been sitting on some portions of this chapter since January, and finally finished stitching all the pieces together. Enjoy!

"Commander Shepard. We received word that your mission on Therum was a success." The asari councilor said, her holographic form flickering intermittently from the effects of light lag.

"Though we could hardly be sure for ourselves." Sparatus interjected, his figure similarly distorted. "We were expecting your report a full day ago."

The Normandy was still in the outer fringes of the Artemis Tau Cluster, far enough from the mass relay that it was barely possible to access the secure, real-time channel that the Council used for communication beyond the reaches of core Citadel space.

The unplanned maneuvers Joker had executed to pluck them from the surface of Therum had necessitated an additional stop to dissipate heat, complicating their original flight plan and stretching what should have been a thirty-six hour burn back to the relay into a two-and-a-half-day trek.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Councilors." Jane replied in as diplomatic a tone as she could muster, fighting the urge to grimace. "You should have all of the details in my written report."

She hadn't exactly been in a rush to report back to the Council after the first debriefing had left her seriously considering breaking into the small private reserve Anderson had left her, but at least this time at least she had a plausible excuse.

When they'd returned to the Normandy, Vandas had put some fresh stitches in her head and made good on his threat to place her on restricted duty, more or less confining her to the crew deck for a day on account of the head injury she'd sustained in the mine. The corpsman, aware of her tendency to wander the decks at all hours, had threatened to confine her in the medbay for observation if he caught her sneaking off to the CIC or hangar, adamant that she got some rest. Chakwas had signed off on the order with a chuckle, agreeing with his assessment and no doubt amused to see the commander ordered around on her own ship. Technically, Jane could haveoverruled them both to file her report, but even she found the idea of confronting the Council with a splitting headache to be a harrowing notion.

"Indeed." The salarian councilor added, his tone neutral as ever. "If accurate, Doctor T'Soni's theory on the purpose of the ruins would mark a significant step forward in our understanding of Prothean technology. That you discovered functional Prothean artifacts on Therum at all is startling."

"Discovered and destroyed." The turian councilor sneered. "You should lose this habit of trampling across every scrap of ancient history you come across, Shepard."

Jane couldn't entirely hide her frown-if the turian thought she was capable of summoning volcanic eruptions at will, then perhaps he should watch his tone. "As I noted in my report, the site was destroyed by a seismic event, Councilor."

"Regardless," Tevos cut in quickly, "Doctor T'Soni may be able to offer greater insight into Benezia's involvement in Saren and the geth... if she can be trusted."

"I concur. Neither the Matriarch nor her daughter are to be taken lightly—take due precautions when contending with them." The salarian agreed solemnly. "There also remains the geth presence on Noveria to investigate. Given your discoveries on Feros, putting an end to their activity there takes on renewed urgency."

"I'll get to the bottom of it, Councilors." Jane stated firmly. "Shepard out."

The trio of holographic figures winked out, and the commander found herself standing in the dim light of the comm room. She let out a tired huff, deflating slightly like someone had let a bit of air out of her. Somehow, the politics managed to be more exhausting than the fighting.

While a small, hopelessly optimistic part of her wanted to believe that the extra scrutiny from the Council was a response to having been blindsided by Saren's betrayal, the jaded realist in her knew better.

The Alliance had been pushing hard for a human spectre for a long time, and the attack on Eden Prime by an agent of the Council had given them enough political leverage to finally get one. Credit where credit was due, clever maneuvering by Udina had left the Council little other choice—an investigation led by a nonhuman would have been painted as a cover-up, and the Alliance had made rumblings about sending forces into the Traverse to hunt down Saren, with or without the Council's sanction. So, despite all the public grandstanding about duty and worthiness, the Council had only appointed a human spectre to maintain control of the mission against Saren. Of course, with Alliance Command whispering in Jane's ear all the while, it was debatable how true that actually was, but that was beside the point.

The end result was the same. Shepard's status as a spectre was, at best, a convenient political gesture to placate the Alliance, and at worst it was an unwanted reminder of humanity's disregard for the status quo. Tevos and Valern at least seemed to pay lip service to her title, though Sparatus clearly felt no such compunction, and all three were content to watch from the sidelines as she scurried back and forth across the Traverse. Maybe when she caught Saren, the two spectres could commiserate.

"Well, I see we shouldn't expect the Council to roll out the red carpet the next time we make port." Ouder observed dryly from his spot near the door, the round end of a white peppermint stick jutting out of the corner of his mouth.

"Says you." Jane replied, wearing a wane smile. "I think I'm starting to grow on them."

"Like a fine moss, ma'am." The sergeant major deadpanned, holding up a datapad. "I reviewed the information the Council sent us on Benezia. Their intelligence doesn't believe she's been in contact with her daughter for several years, which corroborates Doctor T'Soni's story, but these are the same guys that didn't know one of their own had gone rogue until he'd burned Eden Prime to the ground." The old marine gave a shrug. "Make of it what you will."

The sergeant major wore a variety of hats on the Normandy. While Alenko was nominally in charge of the ship's marine details, Ouder commanded Rough Rider squad while ashore and oversaw onboard security. Unofficially, he also helped the department chiefs with disciplinary matters and served as an advisor to the Normandy's commanding officer. As capable a squad leader and security chief as Ouder was, Shepard suspected the last task was the primary purpose Anderson had brought him aboard for—the sergeant major had a sharp mind, a keen eye, and decades of experience fighting humanity's enemies across the galaxy. Despite a few differences in thier styles of command, Jane considered herself lucky to have his insight.

"Anything useful from the Alliance?"

Lately, she'd had him addressing their intelligence situation, to hopefully transform a mess of vague leads and unconfirmed rumors into actionable intelligence, though she couldn't say she envied him the task. Neither the Alliance nor the Council races wanted to give the other side sensitive information, so the Normandy was being drip-fed through backchannels.

"Not really." Ouder grunted. "Before we left the Citadel, I touched base with an old acquaintance who's with Diplomatic Intelligence and, truth be told, it sounds like they're out of their depth. I did find out a few things, but asari politics are famously impenetrable to outsiders. Benezia is influential, but she's kept out of the public eye since mankind took its first steps on the Moon, so there's no telling what kind of resources she's accumulated in the meantime. She's also a significant figure among the Athamean religious community, and a matriarch of her standing would typically maintain a small household guard of sorts—say, ten to twenty personnel. Add to that a thousand years spent honing her biotic abilities and building a network of connections that spans most of settled space and you've got yourself a dangerous combination. As far as collaborators go, Saren definitely picked well." He scrubbed at his salt and pepper beard thoughtfully. "If she's involved herself in this so directly, figure whatever Saren has gotten into has to be something big or else she's playing an angle we haven't seen yet. An asari of her status didn't reach her position by being reckless."

"Is that the Alliance's analysis or yours?" Jane asked, surprised by the sergeant major. For a man who insisted he was nothing more than an old ground pounder, he never ceased to impress.

Pat shrugged casually. "Mostly mine, but I'm just speaking in generalities. Back when the Alliance was trying to make friends after the First Contact War, I spent a year embedded with asari security forces out on the frontier as part of a cultural liaison team, so I picked up a few things."

"A cultural liaison among the asari, huh?" Shepard probed, a teasing note in her voice. "I take it your reception was warm?"

"That'll teach me to share stories with you." Ouder chided lightheartedly, the barest hint of a smirk dancing across his lips for the briefest of moments. "But I had a point to all of this. Benezia's serious trouble and her daughter could prove equally dangerous if the two are working together. Given the potential security risk of having Doctor T'Soni aboard, I'd like your permission to post a watch outside her quarters until you decide what to do with her. I think Doctor Chakwas has had enough excitement down on deck two for a while."

As ever, the sergeant major was playing pessimist, and had turned a skeptical eye on the Normandy's most recent acquisition. While his concern was understandable, baseless suspicion wasn't going to get them very far. "It's a small ship. We don't exactly have the facilities to keep her prisoner here."

While she knew Ouder might disagree with the sentiment, as far as the commander was concerned the asari they'd brought aboard wasn't a prisoner. Jane obviously couldn't speak to the archeologist's relationship with her mother, she was holding out hope that Liara might prove a valuable addition to the team.

For the time being, Shepard had set the doctor up in her old quarters and moved her things—which amounted to all of a laptop and a single seabag full of stuff—into the captain's quarters, and Doctor T'Soni had busied herself reviewing everything she'd collected during her expedition on Therum. While the revelation of Benezia's involvement with Saren had been met with dismay, the asari had happily volunteered when the commander had explained the Normandy's mission—for a mix of reasons, Jane suspected. Gratitude and concern for her mother likely played no small part, but when Shepard had explained her encounter with the beacon on Eden Prime, the doctor had looked prepared to strap the spectre down to a table for study, which was... not an entirely unappealing concept.

Regardless of the doctor's true motivations, Shepard hoped she might know something that they could use to glean Saren's intentions. While she may have been young by asari standards, she could still boast more experience studying and working with Prothean technology than any human alive, and since this had all started with the beacon being unearthed on Eden Prime, it seemed like a good idea that they figure out what exactly they were dealing with.

"Whatever Saren is planning, he's obviously been planning for years, and we're scrambling to catch up." The commander observed bluntly. "If we're going to have any chance of getting out ahead of him, it's going to involve taking some risks, and right now that means we take a gamble on Doctor T'Soni."

Ouder grumbled unhappily as he considered this, not liking the commander's decision but obviously finding it difficult to disagree with her assessment of the situation. He gave a small, reluctant bob of his head. "Understood, ma'am."

Frankly, the Normandy team needed all the help they could get. If the hunt for Saren had been a purely Alliance operation, it would've been headed by an admiral with a flotilla of ships, an army of analysts, and the resources of the navy's entire intelligence apparatus at their disposal—as it stood, Shepard had sixty-odd crew, a krogan, and whatever rumors the Council felt like passing along. If anyone ever looked back on this mission years from now, Jane could only hope they'd know how criminally underfunded it all was.

The spectre huffed in frustration, deciding a change of subject was in order. "When does the marine detachment assemble for drills today? About hour from now? "A nod from the sergeant major. "Good—we're sparring today. I need to hit something."

...

The chime of the intercom pulled Nick's attention from his computer, the medic quickly spinning in his chair to stab the flashing yellow button on the console. "Medbay. Vandas speaking."

"It's Ouder. There's been a change of plans for the exercise today. I need you to grab a medbag and head down to the hangar for combatives."

"Aye, Sergeant Major." The medic replied, stealing a glance at the time as the intercom cut. With a few minutes until drills were supposed to start, he had time to stop by the mess for a fresh cup of coffee before he reported to the hangar. Though, the sudden change of plans did leave a few things he needed to attend to.

"Lieutenant Pressly, sir, I'm needed in the hangar. Is there anything I can get you before I go?"

On the other side of the clear plastic quarantine curtain, the officer gave a grumble, pulling his dark blue blanket a little tighter around himself. He was, the medic thought, a rather pitiful sight, looking more like a sick, grumpy old man than the ship's fit and capable executive officer.

"I'm fine." The lieutenant grumbled with a sniffle.

"Okay, sir. I'll send someone to check on you later, but if you need anything, just buzz." The corpsman continued politely as he grabbed the black medbag that was hanging on the back of his chair and slung it over his shoulder. Collecting his empty coffee cup from beside his workstation, the medic started for the door.

The navigator had come down with chickenpox, of all things—most likely from one of the colonists who had come aboard for treatment on Feros, if Nick had to guess. The sterilization cycle in the airlock and the ship's other systems could usually be relied upon to prevent anything nasty from finding its way aboard, but it was unavoidable that someone would get sick once in a while. With something contagious like chickenpox, the infected crewmember had to be isolated while the virus ran its course. So, while Vandas didn't enjoy being cooped up in the infirmary much more than Pressly did, allowing him to roam the ship was absolutely out of the question—Chakwas would have nailed the corpsman to the wall for even entertaining the thought.

Aboard a ship as small as the Normandy, with so many people living and working in such close confines, there was the very real potential that illnesses could rapidly spread among the crew, even with the battery of standard inoculations and booster shots that every Alliance servicemember received. Many had come aboard only a few weeks ago, and their bodies were still adjusting to the stresses of a new environment and changes in their diets and routines, weakening their immune systems to a degree. There were safeguards and protocols in place, of course, but medical concerns on the ship were taken extremely seriously—the last thing the crew needed was some flesh-eating, alien disease crawling out of the primordial soup on some garden world and finding its way aboard stuck to the bottom of someone's boot.

As a result, the news of Pressly's diagnosis had caused something of a stir—though Nickeli suspected it was more out of boredom than genuine fear of a pandemic. In addition to a "get well soon" card written on the back of a blank maintenance form and signed by most of the crew, a betting pool had quietly sprung up as scuttlebutt speculated on who would be the next to get sick, much to Chakwas' exasperation. From what he'd heard, Nick and the doctor were naturally top picks, along with a handful of CIC personnel and—bizarrely—Garrus.

Fortunately, the prospect of more members of the crew falling sick seemed unlikely. When Pressly had reported to the infirmary for sick call, Chakwas had quickly set up the sealed, floor-to-ceiling divider designed to allow the back half of the medbay to be converted into a sterile operating theatre, effectively sealing the navigator inside of his own little bubble from which he would be infecting no one. In the meantime, Nick had been sent running around the ship distributing disinfectant strong enough to practically peel paint. The sight of him scurrying between decks with an armful of spray bottles had earned a few raised eyebrows, but otherwise it was business as usual.

And in a way, his duties aboard the Normandy had begun to feel like business as usual. There were prescriptions to be filled, daily sick calls to be managed, and the constant flow of forms to complete and reports to file away—all the day-to-day tasks of any military infirmary or aid station he'd ever been assigned to. The sense of wonder and disbelief remained every time he glanced out a view port at the endless cosmos beyond or spotted Wrex or any of the other non-human team members in the mess, but he was falling into a routine and getting used to life aboard a warship. True, he didn't love everything that came with living out of a shoebox—cramped berthing and hot bunking included—but it did breed a certain familiarity amongst the crew, and the Normandy definitely had better amenities than any of the FOBs or outposts he'd seen during his first tour.

Hot showers. Good food. Comfortable beds. By an infantry marine's standards, he was living the high life.

Nick stepped out of the medbay to find a handful of the crew lounging around deck two's sitting area, returning a nod from Lowe, a serviceman from Communications. With the mess hall constantly bustling with activity as the different watches hurried to eat before reporting to their stations or enjoyed a hot meal after being relieved, the sitting area on deck two was the closest thing the ship had to a lounge and was one of the few places aboard one could find some peace and quiet.

Staff Sergeant Khang sat alone at a table in the far corner with his nose buried in a datapad, glancing up only momentarily to watch Nick walk by before returning to his paperwork. The corpsman had spoken to the man—a quiet, serious Thai with his black hair shorn all the way down to his scalp—all of three times in almost a month aboard, and the only time Nick had seen the man's round face express anything beyond boredom or mild impatience was when he'd reported his lost rifle after the mission on Feros. That had earned a frown.

Beyond that, however, Vandas saw comparatively little of the man. He was nominally Rough Rider's communication specialist, but with the squad usually operating so close to the Normandy that their armor's radios were sufficient, he usually stayed on the ship and handled logistics. Not that Khang seemed to mind—he seemed content to be left alone with his paperwork and tea, and the squad generally gave him his space. The marines were always fed, well-supplied, and paid on time, so nobody dared bother him while he sat at his table and practiced his strange form of black magic that made the military logistics system work smoothly.

Stepping into the lift and hitting the holographic button for the crew deck, the elevator came to life and began its pondering descent, giving Nickeli a moment to fire off a message to the watch officer requesting someone check on Pressly while he was preoccupied, and leaving him ample time to boredly contemplate the dull shine of the ceiling.

There was a lot he didn't like the interior of the Normandy. Not that there was anything wrong with it, he just didn't like it. The uniform feel of non-slip deck plating under his feet. The luster of the featureless gray panels that lined every wall, and the acrid reek of plastic and cleaning agent that hung in the air.

Nick was accustomed to open space and open sky—the endless farm fields of his home in the Midwest, the vast mountains and green valleys of Afghanistan that stretched to the horizon and beyond. The interior of the ship was sterile. Colorless. The Normandy may have been a prototype, but would it have killed them to splash some paint around?

The ship's galley, at least, was a sanctuary of sorts. It was halfway through the morning watch, and while the dining area was mostly empty, the galley bustled with the metallic clamor of cookware and the sizzle of stoves as the ship's cooks prepared lunch on an industrial scale. The rich smell of fresh bread hung in the air as Vandas emerged from the elevator, and he savored the pleasant aroma as headed for the coffee machine.

Owing to the lack of amenities aboard such cramped ships, the food aboard Alliance frigates was reputedly some of the best in the Navy, and Nick couldn't help but heartily agree. Chili, fresh-made pasta, omelets—it was all far, far better fare than he'd gotten on base, let alone the packaged rations he'd subsisted on for almost the entirety of his first deployment. Scarpasky and Tolo liked to rib him about his eating habits, but the corpsman had learned early in his career to treat every hot meal put in front of him like it was the last he'd see for a couple of weeks—because it occasionally had. Moreover, the extra calories and the workout regime Amy was subjecting him to were doing him some good, and he was slowly beginning to regain some of the muscle mass he'd lost during his hospitalization and the months afterwards he'd spent doing nothing more strenuous than pushing papers at an aid station.

Nick walked to the far side of the galley near the empty serving line, where a compact, automated coffee kiosk stood tucked in the corner. Jabbing a finger at the holographic image of a cup of coffee, the medic placed his mug in the indent in the front of the kiosk and the machine spent a few moments huffing and sputtering before a stream of dark, steaming coffee erupted from the silver nozzle and began to fill his cup.

Previously, Shepard had kept her personal coffee maker in the lounge, where the curious medic had discovered it carefully concealed among some storage containers after spotting the commander frequenting the spot as she made her rounds.

He'd secretly used it for all of three days, before Shepard had caught him red-handed refilling it with a bag of coffee he'd traded with one of the ship's cooks for, and the two had come to an arrangement. Nick suspected Alenko might have known as well, but it otherwise remained a closely guarded secret.

Unfortunately, Jane had moved into the far more spacious captain's quarters when Doctor T'Soni came aboard and had taken her coffee machine with her, leaving Nick with only the coffee in the galley. The next time they made port, the medic was planning to do some shopping—he could almost certainly persuade Chakwas to let him set up a coffee machine in the medbay, if he could find one that was handy for making tea.

Taking a tentative sip, the medic gave a frown before hastily dumping a healthy portion of cream and sugar into his mug. The ship's coffee was cheap and the recycled water gave it an odd taste, but it was still an improvement over the awful, freeze-dried instant-brew stuff he'd survived on in Afghanistan. Back then, he'd take his coffee strictly black because, as bad as it tasted, the stuff was strong enough to practically raise the dead, and the corpsman was usually substituting sleep for alarming quantities of caffeine.

Steaming cup of coffee in hand, Nick was starting back for the elevator when a meaty hand rose from one of the galley's tables and waved for his attention. "Hey Doc! Come over here for a second."

Brice reclined in a booth on the far side of the galley, a laptop and empty cup of tea on the table in front of him. Seeing the corpsman starting in his direction, the gunner grinned, turning to murmur to the screen. "Hang on, there's someone I want you to meet."

Nearing the sergeant's table, Vandas greeted him a nod, gulping down some coffee. "What's up?"

"Grab a seat." Brice ordered, sitting up to open a narrow space beside him on the bench.

"I really can't right now." Nick answered with a shrug, gesturing towards the elevator with his mug. "Shepard needs me in—Hey!"

The sergeant lunged forward abruptly, swiping the drink from his hand and placing it on the table without spilling a drop in a surprising display of agility. Brice slid the coffee towards the wall and well beyond the medic's reach, looking pleased with himself.

Before Vandas could protest, he found himself yanked him headfirst into the booth by his collar as a beefy forearm locked around his neck, the massive Pole having little trouble hauling the considerably smaller marine across the bench regardless of how much he cursed and struggled.

Sprawled awkwardly across the bench and unable to extract himself, Nickeli could do little more than punch feebly at the meat of Brice's shoulder as he found his head pulled beneath the enormous man's arm, the sergeant enduring the storm of blows and curses with a rumbling chuckle.

"Who is this?" Asked a woman's voice, the question surprising the medic enough to quit struggling for a moment and look around.

A woman on Brice's laptop observed the situation with a mix of alarm and amusement, a few strings of platinum blonde hair escaping her tidy bun and falling across her face as she leaned forward to get a better look. She held a small child tucked into the crook of her hip, who also watched with wide, intrigued eyes.

The sergeant leaned to the right, pulling his captive's face farther into frame. "Celine, this is Nick Vandas, the squad's medic I told you about. Nick, this is my wife Celine and daughter Abella."

"It is very nice to meet you, Nick." Celine greeted with a warm smile, speaking with a smooth, pleasing French accent that came through clearly despite the distortion of the laptop's speakers. "So, you keep my husband out of trouble, then?"

"As best I can." Nick managed with something between a grimace and a dry laugh, making a show of vainly trying to free himself.

A gentle giggle from the screen. "Let him go, mon doudou."

"Yeah, 'doo-doo,'" Vandas grinned. "Let me go."

Brice regarded him with a smirk, obviously enjoying himself far too much. "Eh, he's fine." The gunner gave the man a playful shake, like a large, satisfied dog with a stuffed toy in its clutches. "Aren't you, Nick?"

"Uh," There was a pronounced squeeze from the large arm coiled around his neck. "Yeah!"

"No fighting in the mess, you two." Someone interrupted.

"Patrick!" Came an excited gasp from the screen as Ouder stepped into view, sliding into the booth behind them and leaning across the divider so he could see the screen.

The small, warm smile that crossed his lips almost looked out of place, as if the sergeant major had borrowed it from someone else. Even his voice lacked its usual command and gruffness. "Hello Celine. How've you been?"

"Well! And your goddaughter, too." The child in her arms gave a squeak, as if realizing she'd been mentioned. "But so needy! Brice told me you quit smoking? That's wonderful!"

"Thank you." Thumping Brice lightly on the shoulder, the sergeant major indicated to Nick with a sideways jerk of his head. "The commander needs him down in the hangar, head and all."

Nick was released and quickly scrambled backwards out of the booth, grumbling as he got to his feet. Adjusting his bag and brushing at his now hopelessly wrinkled uniform, he retrieved his cup of coffee and turned for the elevator, sparing a glance back towards Brice's laptop. "It was nice to meet you, ma'am."

Stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the hangar, Nick checked the time and scowled. What should've been a thirty-second detour for fresh coffee now meant he'd be cutting it awfully close reporting to the hangar for drills. Still, unless Wrex was waiting outside the elevator to pin the medic to the deck so he could flip through the krogan's family photo album with him, he'd make it in time.

The ship shuddered beneath Nick's feet, and an unfamiliar alarm sounded as Joker's voice came across the public address system.

"All hands, brace for loss of gravity."