A/N: Well, hello ME fans! Hi! Thanks to theherocomplex and Hotmilkytea (TeawithMilk) I have discovered and fallen in love with Mass Effect. I have not really 'gamed' before but I am learning as I go and loving every minute of it. I am currently 1/2 way through ME 2 and can't get enough of ALL the characters. This is my first attempt at a ME fanfiction and I only hope I got it right. Feel free to let me know if I misspelled anything or messed anything up. I take writing ff very seriously and want to bring my readers quality material.

With all that being said, let me get out of your way!

Color Blind

It was here that he would make his last stand. And he was fine with it. It was ironic, after all he was on Omega, which meant the absolute limit of a set, the end, the finale. Garrus always thought that in another life, he could have been a poet. Oh, his father would have loved that, he thought with sour humor.

The wind howled around the broken shutters hanging diagonally across the large opaque windows behind him. The metal jangled and creaked. Echoing an almost lonely sentiment that left him unsettled. He'd been pacing. Never stand stationary for too long, just in case you were being targeted by a sniper. He of all Turians understood that simple fact. But it wasn't self-preservation that kept his legs, thrumming with nervous tension, moving. If anything, he would have welcomed the shot, if anyone was even out there. With the latest body count in mind, he doubted it. No, he was pacing because he was expecting someone. And they were late.

It had only been a matter of time before he reached this point. He knew this. He never anticipated for it to take as long as it did. It seemed a part of him was not so willing to be as suicidal as he first thought. But now. Now he was ready. And if he were to be completely honest with himself, he was relieved. The manic pace of his life, if you could even call how he'd spent his days these past two years a life, had left him hollowed out and simply put, exhausted.

Ever since the Normandy fell, when he'd been informed that Shepard hadn't . . . that she had gone back to save Joker. That she had succeeded in that final endeavor, only to lose her life in the process. He chuckled bitterly. How like her. The reluctant hero, ever racing from one comrade to the next, putting her life in danger at every turn if only to spare another's life. Always so cavalier when he'd bring it up to her. That she was getting closer and closer to sacrificing herself for some lost pyjak. That had made her laugh. The memory was painful. Like a blade slicing finely, precisely through his outer plates and directly into his heart.

Garrus shook his head. He had to stop thinking about her. She was gone. Forever. He huffed as his chest constricted. Stop, Vakarian. She's gone. Stop. Might as well ask his heart to stop beating for the good that command would do.

Ever since the ceremony honoring her life's achievements, which he'd nearly skipped and desperately wished he had, something inside of him had come undone. No matter how he tried, he could not pin point exactly what it was; so it remained within him, damaged and broken, hanging precariously by one thin strand of material, much like the metal shutters on the window before him. Teetering and buffeted by the invisible winds of the pain he endured and continued to sustain; hanging on, though. Despite it all. Tenacious, his father called him once. Garrus huffed again. His father knew his boy.

But since then, he'd been driven towards something, converging towards this desperate point with no regard to his honor or discipline, his rigid upbringing and his once precious ideals. None of that mattered anymore. Nothing mattered. Not now. Not since that moment when his world came to a stop. When everything shriveled and collapsed. And all the color drained away from him and he truly was left with nothing but the grey. No more black and no more white. The worlds around him awash in grey and greyer; the palette of despair.

It had brought him to this point. And he was done. He'd given back what he could for the life he had enjoyed. For the moments he had stolen and secreted away in the deepest corners of his mind. The hidden glances. Thief that his heart was, he had taken from her, what he could. For it was a coward as well, when it came to love. And she never knew. Damn his bashful nature. What a fool he'd been. A fool to ever even consider it, if truth be told. And why not be truthful in this, his final moment? He never had a chance. Not with someone like her. She would never even consider him. For one thing, she was human and he was Turian. That alone would have probably made her skin crawl.

Garrus shook his head. No. He pinched his eyes tightly and found them to be watering. Fool. Dammit, how would he be able to sight properly with his eyes blurry? He had to stop. What difference did it make, now? He spun around. The sound of guns being fired reached him and he slid the chamber back on his rifle, checked that it was loaded and ready. He moved to the low wall and positioned himself.

"Bring it on," he murmured, feeling better to be able to concentrate on the reality of what was before him.

He was ready now. He just wanted it to end. His mandibles twitched and clenched. He wouldn't go down without a last stand, though. He would take as many of these scum with him as he could. If he could make the universe a slightly better place on the way to his glorious finale, then so be it. The name Archangel may not resound across the universe as her name did; it would barely stand in the shadow of her, but greatness and legacy were not what he was after.

Death was running late, but it had finally arrived. And though he hoped for a quick rendezvous with the dark mistress, he knew it wouldn't be so easy. His warrior's spirit, exhausted though it was, would not give in without a fight. Garrus understood this about himself, and grimly, he accepted it. So his demise would no doubt be drawn-out and painful.

If the Eclipse got him, maybe they'd make it quick. A few rounds into his limbs to make him appreciate the trouble he caused him in diminishing their numbers. If he didn't mouth off to Jaroth, their leader, that is. And he had a few choice words for the Salarian in mind. Garrus' eyes crinkled in dark merriment.

If he knew Tarak, he'd probably want to play for a bit, but then give him a merciful send-off. Probably cut his throat. Garm, the leader of the Blood Pack, was another story. The Krogan Battlemaster wanted him skinned alive and made into a cloak.

Garrus smiled grimly. Never thinking of himself as a particularly fine specimen of the Turian race, Garrus could only appreciate the irony of the situation. What an ugly cloak he would make. At least it would be a final insult to the bulky bastard.

"Heh," he chuckled.

The doors erupted below and Garrus took aim as three figures entered. His barrel raised and he sighted the first coming through. With a start he dropped the rifle away only to pick it back up again to his eye. He zeroed in once more. His vision blurred and cleared.

"It . . . can't be. I'm seeing things," he murmured. But his heart knew, even as it skipped and raced, thundering in his ears, he knew. Her face blazed in a phosphorescent eruption in his mind's eye.

Shepard. She was alive. And suddenly, the world was filled with color once again.

A/N: Reviews are GREATLY appreciated and devoured by me :D Thanks for reading!