It's been quite a while since it all happened… A lot has gone sideways. To think of it, others are celebrating a well-fought battle, they see it as a job well done, but I admit, I can hardly bring myself to feel the sense of victory. After all she had done, I should value her sacrifice, but my hands fall limp. Sometimes I remember my resolve that took upon the form of unwavering need for justice at all costs, all those times I shot one merc after another adding them to my kill count under the name they gave me – Archangel. Yes, it gave me power over my own fate – I felt strong, able to will my thoughts to comply… A dark skinned human male, one of those that bothered to talk to a Turian without as much as a sneer, once told me that angels were looked upon as protectors, and archangels were of a higher hierarchy. Now, after the war, when galaxy is in shambles, it does not matter what they call me anymore. I could stand to lose my honour, but to be consumed with this bitter feeling of failure…
Months have passed since we, she, killed the Reapers. At first, it came as a sense of numbness, a silent nod and acceptance that in certain circumstances you cannot wish for more. But time has started to slow down, reducing itself to a crawl of one of those almost dead husks that weakly reached for us before receiving a shot in the head. I felt trapped with my own thoughts, no longer being able to divert them, having no control of them as they nipped at my brain, replaying memories and, worst of all, pulling me out of my silent acceptance. It did not rush at me as a psyched varren (I wished it did – I might have had a chance to stop it, shake it off), but it was slow – it seeped into me, drip by drip, until I was practically banging my fingers on the console during the calibrations in a futile attempt to scatter the thoughts. The tedious job used to take my mind off of things, but now I could feel my attention being pulled from it more and more often.
I can't exactly tell when it began, although the breaking point is clearly marked in my mind. More than six weeks have passed since we held a memorial for Shepard. The life in the Normandy has not fallen back into the usual routine just yet, as we all, I am sure of it, have felt a gaping emptiness. She had been that string that tied us together; I have found out how true that was after the original Normandy has been destroyed and we all fell apart. But now, even though we all were still here, there was more silence than words that accompanied the breakfasts, lunches and suppers at the mess hall.
And one day, during the usual few-words-in-between breakfast, with Vega and Tali skipping it as had become the usual, Liara has brought up a real conversation.
"I think we ought to search for a new captain."
A dead silence fell on the group, and I joined into it, paralyzed mid sip of the dextro coffee.
"Why would we need a new…" Joker trailed off. Shepard was never really only a captain. There was more to it than a title, a job, a leading position. "I mean, it's not like we have assignments right now with all this mess."
Looking back, it was clear that it wasn't simply a denial of practicality of having a captain. A cruiser like the Normandy did need a captain. But what he didn't voice out was how blasphemous it would be to have someone else other than Shepard stand over the galaxy map.
Liara carefully chose her words as she began. "I know how this sounds, Joker, but this needs stability. It's not like I am not asking to throw Shepard's things out. What I am saying is that right now, we lack a goal."
She was right, I knew she was. But as others contemplated what she had said, I slammed my cup down, and bit out. "If that's the case, why don't we look for her?"
Where did my acceptance of her death go? I was plagued with abstract feelings that I couldn't put down into real and meaningful words for what seemed like ages. But now, I did.
I do not know what it was, but after the war, we fell into a drift. All that mattered now was to acquire supplies, and figure out a way to get from system to system. A persistent question of 'now what?' plagued our minds.
"Garrus," Liara met my gaze "what I meant to say is that it is best we began to move on."
"Dammit, people! In what point of time did we give up on her?!" I growled, mandibles flaring. What the hell is wrong with me? I felt like I was woken up from a coma, world twirling…
A hand softly landed on my shoulder, but my mind was still reeling. Kaidan. A confused look on his face, and something sad, understanding in his features. Did he feel the same way, all those years back, when the blackness of space took Shepard from him?
I looked at Joker, but he avoided eye contact. Traynor opened her mouth so say something, but apparently, the words died in her mouth.
"You can't be serious."
Liara sighed and hung her head. Something about that gesture filled me with bubbling hot emotion.
"To hell with moving on! It's Shepard we are talking about! No one has confirmed her death-" I stood up, palms pressing down on the table.
"Garrus, no one, even Shepard, could have survived the blast. The Citadel has been searched through and through. We must let go." Kaidan stressed the last two words.
I "tch'ed" - a sound that was more appropriate for indignation, rather than helplessness. Yes, I began to let go, but somehow, the process came to a stop and then slowly turned into denial. I was not fit for mourning.