Another Life
He realizes something's different almost immediately. It's the sound. Most of the time, when John shows up at the battery, the cadence of his boots unmistakably commands get your ass in gear. And Garrus' ears know that message so well that the moment they hear it, his hands reflexively reach for his helmet and rifle. By the time the footsteps reach the door, he's checking the seals on his armor, and when the door opens, he's ready. A curt nod exchanged, two steps forward to John's side, matching his stride back down the corridor, listening intently to the few terse words that will tell him exactly what needs killing, groundside. It's all in the sound of the walk... But this isn't that walk.
Lately, there's been another: a slow, quiet rhythm that murmurs I'm going to stand behind you and describe, in graphic detail, exactly what I want to do to you, until you give up pretending to work. That one makes his hands reflexively lock down the console, to prevent a repeat of that incident two weeks ago when several seconds of no-longer-pretending-to-work audio were transmitted down an open channel to Engineering. Mostly incoherent moaning; he doesn't think he called out John's name or anything, but it's not like he can control himself when he's being—
He grits his teeth and pushes away the thoughts crowding into his mind, because, sadly, this isn't that walk, either. This is something he's never heard before. The footsteps have stopped. Complete stillness outside. Hesitation? He glances at the lock indicator just to be sure—the light's green, it's unlocked. He's almost decided to go and see what's happening when the door hisses open.
"Garrus. I need to take care of something. Personal. Could use your help, if you've got the time."
"Of course." He searches John's expression for clues, but there's nothing there, or at least nothing he understands. "Whatever you need."
"Thanks, I'll hold you to that." There's a trace of humor in his eyes. "We're not far from Demeter. Should be there in a half an hour. " He turns to leave. "I'm going to go see who else is free."
Garrus folds his arms. "You're not going to tell me what this is about?"
"Don't really know," John says. "Could be a rescue mission. Could be nothing. Could be an interesting little side trip. Or could just be a pain in the ass."
"You're a pain—"
"Maybe later, Garrus."
John,
I know we've had our differences, but I don't know where else to turn. Daniel's disappeared. I need help. No one believes me. Please. For old times' sake.
Ariane Morel
"Not a whole lot to go on," Garrus says. He and Taylor are reading the message off John's omnitool as the Normandy docks.
"Yeah." John shuts down the display and leads the way along the ramp, into the spaceport.
"Let me guess," Taylor says. "An ex."
John glances at him. "Ex what?"
Taylor rolls his eyes. "C'mon man." Seeing John's blank expression, he continues, "You know, ex, as in former, girlfriend?"
"Good guess."
"Who's Daniel?"
"I assume she means her husband. It better not be her dog." A grimace. "There she is."
"John!" A woman runs towards them—with surprising grace, considering her high heels—and flings her arms around John's neck. "Thank god you're here."
"Hello, Ariane." He pushes her hair out of his face and catches Garrus' gaze. His eyes flick towards her and back again. Watch.
She's tall, even without the heels, and her hair falls down to the middle of her back in barely-tamed waves. It's glossy dark brown with red highlights, in constant motion, and makes Garrus think, uncharitably, of a roiling mass of insects. At the moment, he can only see the back of her dress, but from the brief interval before the front was pressed so urgently against John, he remembers it as looking good on her, emphasizing her supple curves. Expensive, most likely. The color is... a sort of... orangish pink. There's probably a name for it.
He clears his throat.
"Allow me to introduce my colleagues," John says. He disentangles her from his person. "Garrus Vakarian, former Citadel Security, and Jacob Taylor, former Alliance Navy."
She turns to face them. "Ariane Morel. A pleasure." She doesn't offer to shake hands, but stands with one hand on her smooth white skin, just below her throat, perfectly framing the flawless red jewel that hangs there on a thin gold chain. There's a companion to that gem on her finger, catching the light streaming in from the high windows. Brilliant gray eyes. Strong cheekbones. Delicate lines. She's... beautiful. She's had a lot of practice at it.
John's eyes catch his again. You see?
Garrus nods, barely moving his head. He observes dispassionately that her other hand is still on John's arm. But a moment later, John takes a step back to let a crowd of tourists, overloaded with bags from the gift shop, get to the row of seats behind them. The hand falls away.
"What's the situation, Ariane?"
She bites her lip. "I don't want to talk about it here. Let's go to the house, and you can see for yourself. My car's outside."
"Fine. Lead the way." He walks beside her, but far enough away that she can't cling onto him.
"Well, she's sure as hell not his sister," Taylor says. He hasn't taken his eyes off her the whole time, and there's a note of admiration in his voice.
"Probably not," Garrus agrees. "No family resemblance. And I'm fairly sure he doesn't have a sister, anyway."
Taylor looks sideways at him. "Don't suppose you know what the story is."
"No. But whatever it is, it'll be good."
When the car begins to descend over rows of blooming fruit trees tended by advancing ranks of ag-mechs with sprayers, it becomes apparent that houseis a poor sort of word for the Morel residence. There's a sweeping circular driveway, paved in white stone, surrounding a fountain the size of a small city block. Manicured lawns, trimmed hedges. The main building, looming in front of them, could comfortably accommodate two battalions. And their artillery support.
Garrus sniffs the air as he gets out of the car. The faint acrid overtone must be whatever the mechs were spraying. Mostly, it's a mixture of cut grass and the heavy scent of pale pink flowers. The promise of nectar and summer fruit. Pleasant. Sweet. A little cloying.
"This way," Morel says. She leads them up a short flight of elegantly shallow stone steps, into the house. The entryway is dominated by a pair of conjoined spiral staircases, flanked by massive crystal chandeliers. Gilt-framed landscape paintings hang on the walls, and the windows are three stories tall. "It's upstairs," she says. Her voice echoes through the cavernous space.
Halfway up the stairs, they're met by a domestic mech holding a tray of wineglasses filled with a clear, pale red liquid.
"Drinks, gentlemen?" Morel takes a glass by its stem and sips from it. "Redfruit wine, last year's vintage. We're trying to develop a market for it. Quite similar to peaches." She glances at Garrus. "If you know what those are."
John frowns. "Cut the crap, Ariane. What happened to Daniel?"
She bites her lip, puts the glass back on the tray and continues up the stairs, then leads them through a hallway that runs towards the back of the house.
"He was working here in his study, before I left to meet with a new distributor, and when I came home—" She unlocks the door and gestures for them to enter.
Floor to ceiling windows. In the distance, a purple mountain range disappearing into the clouds. On the walls, banks of display cabinets. The desk, which looks like it weighs several tons, runs the length of the windows. The chairs arranged around the coffee table are large and covered in real leather. Everything, even the floor, is dark wood.
John says, "Very nice, Ariane. Why are we here?"
"Damn you, John, look! Everything's gone!" There's anger and helpless frustration in her voice. "This room used to be full of his things. And him, too!"
Garrus steps to the cabinets on the left wall and examines them. Most of the shelves look like they're built to hold something about the size of a rifle, and there's close to sixty shelves on this one wall. There's nothing in them now but a thin layer of dust, perhaps a couple of weeks old. But on a few, there's a faint impression, a darker color in the wood where an object would have blocked the light. He turns to look at Taylor, who's gone to the other side of the room, and is standing by the other bank of cabinets. Taylor shakes his head.
John has circled round the back of the desk, and is opening drawers, apparently at random. Garrus can't see into them, but it's not difficult to guess that they're all empty.
"I assume you reported this," John says.
"Of course." She's leaning in the doorway, one hand on her forehead. "There were dozens of police here, taking pictures and scanning for DNA—" she waves vaguely—"or whatever it is they do."
"And?"
"And they said there was no evidence of foul play, and Daniel probably took everything with him when he left me!"
Garrus stares at the woman for a second, then quickly looks at John. With the light coming in from the window behind him, it's hard to see his eyes. But for a moment it almost seems like he's... amused.
Maybe not. When he speaks, there's no trace of emotion in his voice. "So he said he was leaving you?"
"Of course not!" She turns away. "God. Don't you dare enjoy this, you bastard."
John rolls his eyes. He makes his way towards Taylor, leans back against the cabinet next to him, and folds his arms.
"Ariane," he says, "Detective Vakarian has a great deal of experience in these types of cases." He smirks at Garrus and whirls one finger in the air. Start your engines.
Garrus stiffens his mandibles vehemently, but only gets a pointed look in return. Whatever you need, remember? He closes his eyes and sighs. Well, fuck.Dredging up his best C-Sec manner, he approaches the complainant.
"Ms. Morel. I realize this is a very difficult time for you, and I appreciate your patience. If I may ask you a few questions? The answers could help our investigation."
"Yes," she whispers.
"Who was the officer in charge of your case?"
"Detective Sergeant Gabriel Lambert, at the central police station, downtown." She taps her omnitool. "Here, this is his card."
"Thank you. That will be very helpful." He clears his throat. "Um. Do you have any idea how Sergeant Lambert was led to believe your husband left you?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she walks over to the windows, and leans her forehead against the glass. For lack of a better idea, Garrus goes to stand beside her.
Just outside, almost up against the house, is a small garden dotted with stone sculptures. Slender conifers, reaching for the sky through beds of tall, lush ornamental grasses. In the middle, a pond shaded by a gnarled old tree, its new green leaves just now unfurling. Ripples on the water, a flash of orange and silver just below the surface.
"Peaceful," he says.
"He made that himself, last year. Planted everything, dug the pond, moved the rocks. With his own hands. It's small, but... he's so proud of it. Whenever we have visitors, he drags them out there to show them." She smiles, but there are tears in her eyes. "It's the only part of the gardens that he really took an interest in. With all the rest, he just told me to do whatever I wanted. Same thing with the house. When we redecorated, this is the only space he wanted to have for himself. He picked out all the furniture, and filled the room with things he enjoyed. Keepsakes, art, his old weapons."
"Old weapons?"
"Yes, he collects them. It's a hobby, I suppose it started when he was in the Marines. Some of them are centuries old. I don't pretend to know anything about it."
"He was a Marine?"
"Yes. There's a picture of his unit over on that wall—" She turns to point, then sighs. "There wasa picture of his unit on that wall. And pictures of his family, going back generations. And there was one of him and John, from when they served together."
Garrus narrows his eyes. "Oh."
She looks at him. "Didn't John tell you they met in the service?"
"No." Must have slipped his mind.
"Well, it's not really important." She glances at John, who's having a quiet conversation with Taylor. Judging from the hand gestures, grenades are the topic of discussion. "Though—" she stops.
Feeling like he's on the edge of something important, Garrus says, "What?"
"Your colleague was in the service too, wasn't he? What was his name again? Taylor?"
Garrus blinks. "Taylor, yes. He was."
"How long have he and John been seeing each other?"
"What? Uh. Oh. Um... not long at all?"
"Well, he's John's type, alright. Maybe a little more muscular than I'd have thought, but he does like the soldierlysort of man. I suppose that's one of the reasons he's stayed in the service all this time."
Garrus considers and rejects a number of possible responses to this. Finally, he goes with, "You never answered my question."
She sighs. "Sergeant Lambert said that Daniel took a flight to Bekenstein, alone. The ticket was paid for out of his account, and one of the attendants remembers seeing him. There was a manifest for a container of 'personal effects' that was shipped port-to-port. The clerk at the receiving depot said he remembered someone looking like Daniel signing for it. And... there was some vid, taken at a club in Milgrom. Supposedly of Daniel drinking and laughing, having a good time with his new lover." She tosses her head.
"Have you tried to get in touch with him?"
"Of course. He wouldn't reply to any of my messages or take my calls. Sergeant Lambert asked the Milgrom police to track him down. According to them, he said that he was fine, he didn't want to talk to me, and I could have everything he left behind on Demeter."
"And you still don't think he left you."
She turns to face him. "I know my husband, and I know he wouldn't do this."
"Ms. Morel, I understand the depth of your feeling—"
"No, you don't understand. I'm not saying he wouldn't leave me. I'm saying he wouldn't leave without saying a wordto me beforehand. He's not like that." She looks over her shoulder again. "Ask John. He knows him."
Garrus nods. Apparently so.
"I did think of just going there and looking for him, but... I don't know what I could do even if I did find him. And if—if he really did intend to leave me—I don't know what I could possibly say." She bites her lip, and the tears sparkle in her eyes.
"Of course. I understand your position, Ms. Morel." Like hell I do. If you care about it, fucking fight for it.
"Here," she says, "If you're going to see Sergeant Lambert, you'll need a car." She passes him a key fob.
"Thank you, Ms. Morel. One final thing. Do you have a picture of your husband?"
"Yes, of course." She taps her omnitool. "There, this is a holo taken at the beach last summer. It's the same one I gave the police."
"Excellent. We'll see what we can do, Ms. Morel."
"So?" John asks as they escape the house and walk down the steps towards the car. A light drizzle has begun to fall, washing the sweet floral scents out of the air. With the sun now high in the sky, it's unpleasantly warm and humid. Garrus shifts uncomfortably. His suit is sticking to him inside his armor. He hates that.
"There's quite a bit of evidence supporting the theory that he left on his own. She doesn't believe any of it, of course. But since Detective Vakarian is taking over the case—" Garrus shoots a disgusted look at John—"I propose that we go talk to the actual detective in charge of the original investigation, and examine the evidence for ourselves."
"Good. Anything else?"
"Yeah. She thinks you're hot for Taylor."
"Whoa, what?" Taylor says.
John laughs. "Exactly when did that come up?"
Garrus opens the driver's side door and gets in. "While we were discussing the nature of your relationship with her husband."
"Former relationship," John says, getting into the front passenger seat.
"What?" Taylor repeats.
John turns around. "You know, Jacob. Former, as in ex."
"Yeah, I got that, thanks. Goddamn, Vakarian. You didn't tell her there's nothing between us?"
Garrus looks at Taylor in the rearview. "Well, you are his type. He likes the soldierly sort of man."
"Well hell, Shepard," Taylor says. "That narrows it down to about thirty million of the Alliance's finest. You think that'll keep you busy for a while?"
John shakes his head in mock disapproval. "Don't be bitter, Jacob. It's unattractive. Just take a number and wait your turn like everyone else."
Taylor tries to think of a comeback, fails, and settles for flipping John off. Garrus reaches into the back and slaps him across the side of his head.
"Ow. What was that for?"
"Insubordination."
Garrus pulls up the detective's card and sets the car's nav system for the police station. As the car takes off, he says to John, "You might want to let Sergeant Lambert know we're coming. I doubt a request from a former C-Sec investigator is going to open too many doors at the local PD, but one from the first human Spectre might. Try being a little more charming than you were with her, if that's possible."
John nods and begins to compose a message. Garrus brings up the holo of Daniel Morel. John's type or not, he looks nothing at all like Taylor. Angular. Sinewy. Mid-length brown hair, blue eyes. There's a scar running down the left side of his face. The skin of his hands is stained, rough with use. His fingernails are uneven, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
"That our guy?" Taylor leans forward for a better look. "Combat engineer, huh."
"How can you tell?"
"That tattoo on his right arm. Thing that looks like a castle." He glances at John, who's still doing something on his omnitool. "Shepard. How'd you two meet?"
"It was during the Theshaca raids," John says, not looking up. "His unit was assigned to open some doors for mine."
Taylor laughs. "Yeah, they do that very well. I used to know a couple sappers. You know, they're all—"
"—batshit insane," John finishes, with a smile. "Yeah. We got along pretty well."
"What happened?" Garrus says softly, his eyes on the sky ahead.
"He met Ariane."
There's silence in the car for several moments.
"He left you for her?" Garrus asks. "Why?"
"You've seen her, right?" Taylor says. "Sorry, Shepard. I mean, you're pretty and all, but she's way better looking."
John snorts. "It wasn't just that." He sighs. "Batarian pirates rammed a bridge his platoon was rigging to blow. Most of them were killed. He barely made it. Six-ton crossbeam crushed his leg. The jagged edge peeled his face wide open. After he got out of the hospital, he went back to Earth on shore leave. That's where they met. She was principal dancer for the Paris Opera Ballet, youngest ever. Still dances for them, three months out of the year. Her father was an artist, her mother a fifteenth-generation winemaker. They had nothing to do with the Alliance, blowing things up, or killing people... He said that when he watched her dance, it took him to a better place." He looks out the window. "A different kind of life."
"Shit," Taylor says. He sits back. "Nothing you can say to that."
"Yeah."
There's silence again. After a while, Garrus says, "He's got that huge estate. And the only part of it that he cares about is his study, and the little garden under the window." He corrects himself. "Allegedly. But if you believe that, it's got to say something about his state of mind."
"It does," John says. His fingers tap the armrest three, four times, then stop.