Marcus stared at Martinez across the desk. Thompson shifted behind him, close enough that Marcus could hear his breathing.
The walls seemed to press inward.
"Well?" Martinez waited.
Marcus made his choice.
"You're right, ma'am. I lied."
The admission hung in the air like smoke. Thompson stepped closer.
"About what, specifically?"
"The memorial service. There wasn't one." Marcus kept his voice steady. "I went to Mindoir, but not for any ceremony."
Martinez leaned back in her chair. "Then why?"
"Personal reasons, ma'am. Related to my parents' deaths."
"Elaborate."
Marcus had seconds to construct a believable lie. His mind raced through possibilities, discarding options that could be verified.
He settled on something harder to disprove.
"I've been having... problems. Dreams. About the raid. About not being there to help them."
He let genuine tension creep into his voice. "I thought visiting the place might help me deal with it."
"Why lie about it?" Thompson asked. "Marine Corps has counseling services."
"Because I didn't want it on my record, Master Chief. Didn't want to be flagged as having psychological issues."
Martinez and Thompson exchanged glances. Marcus pressed his advantage.
"I know it was stupid, ma'am. I should have been honest. But I was worried about my security clearance, my career prospects. I thought I could handle it on my own."
"And did you? Handle it?"
Marcus shrugged. "Still working on it, ma'am."
Martinez made a note in his file. "Tell me about these dreams."
"Fire. Screaming. My parents calling for help that never came."
The details felt real as he spoke them, borrowed from every war movie he'd ever seen.
"Sometimes I'm there but I can't move. Can't help. Just watch them die."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Since I was a kid. But it's gotten worse lately. More frequent."
Thompson circled around to face him. "Is that why you've been acting different? Why your shooting style changed?"
The question caught Marcus off guard. "Master Chief?"
"Your marksmanship instructor from Luna Station contacted me last week. Said you used to be a spray-and-pray shooter. Good, but not exceptional. Now you're surgical."
Thompson's eyes narrowed. "Different stance, different breathing pattern, different grip."
Marcus felt sweat building under his collar. "Training improvements, Master Chief."
"In six months? Most Marines take years to make that kind of change."
"Maybe the psychological pressure made me focus harder. Channel the stress into performance."
Martinez closed his file. "Here's what's going to happen, Marine. You're going to report to Dr. Vasquez for psychological evaluation. Full workup."
She leaned forward. "She'll determine if you're fit for continued duty."
"Ma'am—"
"This isn't a request. You lied to your superior officers about your whereabouts during official leave. You're displaying signs of psychological distress."
Her voice was steel. "Either you get professional help, or you get a discharge. Your choice."
Marcus felt the walls closing in. "I understand, ma'am."
"Good. Dr. Vasquez will see you at 1400 hours today. Don't be late."
"Yes, ma'am."
"One more thing." Martinez fixed him with a stare. "No more lies. Whatever's going on with you, we'll figure it out. But I won't tolerate dishonesty in my unit. Clear?"
"Crystal clear, ma'am."
"Dismissed."
Marcus stood, saluted, and walked toward the door. Thompson's voice stopped him at the threshold.
"Thorne."
"Master Chief?"
"I've been training Marines for fifteen years. Seen all kinds of problems—PTSD, family issues, combat stress."
Thompson paused. "Know what they all have in common?"
Marcus waited.
"They make Marines worse at their jobs, not better. Whatever's happening with you, it's making you more effective, not less."
The words felt like a trap. "That's... unusual."
"I'll keep that in mind, Master Chief."
Marcus left the office and walked across the courtyard in a daze.
Psychological evaluation. Dr. Vasquez would probe his mind, looking for the trauma he'd fabricated.
What would she find instead? What happened when a trained psychologist tried to analyze someone who was literally living someone else's life?
"Thorne!"
Garcia jogged up behind him. "Jesus, man. You look like death. What happened in there?"
Marcus kept walking. "Nothing good."
"Come on. Talk to me."
They reached the barracks. Garcia grabbed Marcus's arm, pulled him aside.
"Look, whatever they think you did, whatever trouble you're in—I got your back. We've been through too much together for me to bail on you now."
The loyalty hit Marcus like a physical blow. This man was offering to lie for him, to risk his own career, based on a friendship Marcus couldn't remember.
"Garcia—"
"Remember after Luna? When that asshole lieutenant tried to write you up for insubordination? I backed your story about the equipment malfunction."
Garcia's expression was earnest. "Didn't matter that we both knew it was bullshit."
Another gap. Another piece of Marcus Thorne's history that Marcus Chen couldn't access.
"That was different," Marcus said.
"How?"
"This is bigger. More complicated."
Garcia studied his face. "What aren't you telling me?"
The question hung between them. Marcus could see the concern in Garcia's eyes, the genuine friendship that belonged to someone else.
"I can't explain right now. But I need you to trust me."
"I always trust you. Question is whether you trust me."
Before Marcus could answer, a woman approached across the courtyard.
Late thirties, professional bearing, wearing a civilian contractor's badge. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun.
"Private Thorne?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Dr. Elena Vasquez. I understand you have an appointment with me this afternoon."
She extended her hand. Marcus shook it, noting the firm grip, the appraising look in her eyes.
"Yes, ma'am. 1400 hours."
"I prefer to meet my patients before our sessions. Gets some of the nervousness out of the way."
Her smile seemed genuine but calculated. "Walk with me?"
It wasn't really a request. Marcus glanced at Garcia.
"Go ahead," Garcia said. "I'll catch up with you later."
Dr. Vasquez led Marcus toward a quieter section of the base. Her pace was unhurried, professional.
"Colonel Martinez tells me you've been having some difficulties adjusting since your leave."
"Some personal issues, ma'am. Nothing that affects my duty performance."
"Please, call me Dr. Vasquez. And from what I hear, your duty performance has been exceptional."
She paused. "Almost impossibly so."
The phrasing set off warning bells. "I do my best, ma'am."
"I'm sure you do. Tell me, have you experienced any memory problems lately? Confusion about past events? Feeling disconnected from your own experiences?"
Marcus felt his pulse quicken. "What kind of question is that?"
"A diagnostic one. Sometimes trauma can affect memory formation and retrieval. Create gaps or inconsistencies in how we remember our own lives."
They stopped walking. Dr. Vasquez turned to face him, her expression professionally neutral.
"I've reviewed your service record, Private. Spoken with your previous instructors."
Her eyes never left his face. "There are some... interesting discrepancies between your past performance and your current capabilities."
"People improve with training."
"They do. But not usually this dramatically, and not usually in ways that suggest fundamental changes in personality and skill set."
Marcus met her stare. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm observing. And this afternoon, we're going to explore those observations together."
She turned to walk away, then paused.
"One piece of advice, Private. Our session will go much better if you're honest with me."
Dr. Vasquez's smile was cold. "I'm very good at detecting deception."
Dr. Vasquez walked away, leaving Marcus alone with the growing certainty that his problems had just gotten much worse.
He'd avoided immediate exposure by admitting to one lie, but he'd walked straight into another trap.
Dr. Vasquez wasn't just looking for trauma or psychological issues.
She was looking for the truth.