Timo Lindholm ran the back of his hand across his forehead and let out a frustrated sigh. The kid was hardly older than 14 and Timo didn't recognise his face as one of the regulars. He wondered how long this one had managed to slip through the net so far.

He knew better than to ask the kid if he worked at the docks. The urchin would undoubtedly deny it, but the way he leaned against a stack of crates, absent-mindedly chewing on a toothpick, spoke volumes. He was clad in rags that remotely resembled the brown overall of the local dockworkers and Timo had been around long enough to smell child labour three miles against the wind. Any other day he would have taken him into custody until one of the older dockworkers would show up at the station, claiming to be the kid's father and fervently denying that the child had ever worked the docks. 'It's me old clothes, y'know,' they would say. 'Can't afford nothin' else, what with the prices 'n all.'

Timo had heard it all before. He still remembered the first kid he had brought in nearly seventeen years ago. He'd held him almost a full day, demanding papers until his boss had quietly motioned him out of the room and explained to him that Citadel Port Authority had a habit of not digging too deep into the family affairs of the dockworkers. 'If someone shows up and claims a kid as their own, we leave them be,' he'd said. Keeps them working. It had never sat quite right with Timo, but over time he had gotten used to bringing the kids in only to satisfy protocol. But today, illegal workers were the least of his problems.

"So you're saying you found her like that at 4 o'clock in the fucking afternoon. Just sitting there behind these crates," he said, probably for the fourth time in thirty minutes.

The urchin nodded. "Yes sir," he drawled with a toothy grin and shoved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

He made a show of drawing the word sir out long enough to make Timo grind his teeth, but he swallowed the obvious attempt at mockery wordlessly. The dockworkers had been exceptionally unhelpful today. Especially the non-humans, who had suddenly all lost their translator along with any proficiency in the common trade language. Not that he was used to anything else, but his inquiries typically involved 'lost' cargo in the form of valuable materials, not bodies.

Timo made a sweeping gesture with his left arm. "A port this busy and you're telling me nobody checked behind those crates until now."

"Yes sir."

They were going in circles.

"All right," he sighed and brought up the holographic interface of his omni-tool. "You got an ID on you?" he asked for the sake of protocol, although he already knew the answer.

"Got nicked," came the reply. "Sir," the kid added with an innocent smile.

"Your name?"

"Zhang Wei," the urchin replied a bit too fast and a bit too rehearsed.

Timo grimaced but entered the name anyway. An obvious lie with an even more obvious reason. The kid had no Asian features whatsoever, but in Timo's experience half the dockworkers were called Zhang Wei with the other half being John Smiths.

"DOB?"

"22 January 2164," was the reply, undoubtedly drilled into the kid from day one.

19 years my ass, Timo thought as he keyed the date into his omni-tool. Usually the kids played it safe by admitting their age and denying the nature of their employment instead but this one was bold enough to lie in his face. Or smart enough to know that he wasn't going to bother with illegal workers today.

"Permanent residence?"

"3654-C Port Hamburg Street."

It would take him at least half a day to go through the databases if he wanted to find this particular Zhang Wei again. Most likely, the console would spit out no less than a dozen humans with that exact same name, date of birth and address. He dismissed the kid with a snort and a jerk of his head while he completed the entry in his omni-tool. The urchin bolted off, nearly knocking Timo's partner Yoshihiro Nakajima off his feet. Nakajima stepped through the door and offered Timo a plastic cup filled with something that resembled coffee, if only by colour. He sipped the brew silently for about a minute, until his partner poked the dead woman's leg with the tip of his shoe.

"So who is she?" he asked.

"Who do you think she is?" Timo retorted. "She's Jane fucking Doe."

Timo was in a particularly foul mood today, and a dead woman discovered by Mr Zhang Wei number three-hundred-and-fucking-thousand had done little to lift his spirits.

Nakajima raised his hands defensively. "Alright, alright. Just asking, maybe she was carrying an ID."

"Yeah, sure," Timo drawled sarcastically. "We get valid IDs in this area all the time."

"Almost correct," came a voice from the door.

They didn't get many turians in this part of Bachjret Ward but the flanging effect in his voice was unmistakable. The two humans whirled around to find him halfway through the warehouse already. Nakajima opened his mouth, undoubtedly to lecture the alien on the significance of police lines, but Timo stopped him with a slight shake of his head. He had recognised the C-Sec armour instantly.

Timo set his plastic cup down on top of a crate and folded his arms. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" he demanded.

The turian ignored the question and walked right past them, examining the dead woman and evidently comparing her to a file on his omni-tool. He turned around with something that apparently passed for a grin among turians, and pointed over his shoulder with that weird, three-fingered hand. "Her name was Jeanette Laurent, so you got the Jane part right at least. I'll take her from here."

The C-Sec officer gave them a quick nod, obviously a dismissal, and started taking recordings with his omni-tool. Timo clenched his hand into a fist. Who does he think he is, walking into my crime scene and trying to get rid of me, he thought furiously. Next to him, Nakajima danced nervously from one foot to the other and gave him a meaningful glance, which he chose to ignore.

He cleared his throat and took a step forward. "Not so fast. She was discovered here so she officially falls under my authority. You want her, place a formal request with my office. Otherwise she goes out the airlock as Jane Doe."

The turian turned around slowly and stared at him for a few seconds. Timo had to crane his neck to look at him. "I'm offering to give your Jane Doe a name, no questions asked, and you're telling me to go through official channels?"

"I don't make the rules, officer," Timo replied with a smug grin. "You got a problem with that, take it to your guys at C-Sec. Until then, kindly leave my crime scene."

For a second, Nakajima thought the turian was going to rip them both apart, but Timo stood his ground, meeting the turian's ice-blue glare. Wordlessly, the alien switched his omni-tool off and stalked through the door.

"Shit, Timo," Nakajima breathed out after the alien was gone. "Don't you know who that was?"

Timo shrugged and snatched his cup from the crate. "A self-important C-Sec officer. Why, you know him? Those turians all look alike."

"That's Garrus Vakarian. You just told Garrus Vakarian to fuck off."

Garrus flung himself into his chair and angrily punched his password into the holographic interface.

"Bad day?" Teaia asked with a broad grin from across the desk.

"Port Authority is stonewalling me," he snarled as he hacked away at the console. "They've got Laurent dead behind some crates but refused to give her up."

The asari gave an amused chuckle, earning herself the evil eye. "They're well within their rights to deny you, you know. Here on the Citadel we still follow protocol."

"The wards are knee-deep in reconstruction work, what do they care about one nameless body?"

Teaia raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said it was your lady Laurent."

"They didn't acknowledge my files so as far as they're concerned she hasn't been identified," he growled. "Said she goes out the airlock unless I go through official channels."

"Huh. Think they're dirty?"

"What, Port Authority?" His voice rattled with laughter. "Of course they're dirty. But that goes for missing cargo, not bodies. Port Hamburg is as legit as it gets on that part of Bachjret. Besides, why dump her in a warehouse that close to the airlocks?"

"Good point," Teaia nodded. "But, hey. At least you won't have to deal with this crap once you're a Spectre," she added cheerfully, in an obvious attempt to make him feel better.

Garrus scoffed. "Yeah like that's going to happen. With all that's going on right now they won't process any new applications for months."

The asari threw her hands in the air in defeat. "Fine, be miserable then!" she exclaimed in mock resignation, earning her a throaty chuckle from turian colleague.

"I'm going to head over to the break room. You want anything?" he asked as he pushed himself away from the desk.

"I could do with some ice," the asari said with a nod towards her cup.

As he made his way through the dimly lit corridors of C-Sec HQ, his thoughts trailed off to the two humans at Port Hamburg. In his experience, district offices without an investigative unit were usually more than eager to get rid of a homicide case and never before had he been asked to place a formal request. With a small sigh, he remembered the way the taller human had looked at him and put it down as a simple case of xenophobia.

"Chellick. Working hard as always I see," he greeted with a grin as he entered the break room and found the officer lounging on a couch.

"Well, I was going to save the Citadel from a geth attack but you already covered that," the other turian replied lazily.

Garrus thumped his fingers against the glass of the vending machine when something on the screen in the corner caught his eye. He recognised the reporter as Emily Wong, but he was more interested in the picture next to her, which looked suspiciously like a ship. A one-of-a-kind ship. He turned the volume up.

"… recovered two months ago on Alchera in the Amada system has been confirmed by Alliance officials as the wreckage of the SSV Normandy SR-1, a prototype frigate of turian-human design, in the service of the Systems Alliance and the Citadel Council."

"Hey," Chellick said, but when he turned his head he already found Garrus staring at the screen. "Isn't that your Spectre-buddy's ship?" he added, rather superfluously.

"… during an attack of undetermined origin. Some twenty marines have been declared as killed in action, including the Normandy's commanding officer, whom many may remember as the Spectre who stopped the geth attack on the Citadel three months ago."

"Two months ago?" was all he managed before he was out of the door, Teaia's ice forgotten entirely.

Chellick shrugged and turned his attention back to the screen.

Two months ago. He slammed his hand on the door control and blinked, confused for a second. He had no idea how he had ended up back at his flat, he hardly even remembered stalking out of C-Sec HQ. Slowly, he sank down on the couch, unsure how to begin organising hundreds of thoughts, all swirling through his mind simultaneously.

Garrus braced himself for the scolding that was about to rain down on him. He had heard it all before. Something about being irresponsible and reckless, and that a miss would have endangered the hostage. He was sick and tired of it. He was not some rookie with a gun, he was a trained marksman. He did not miss.

Clipping his weapon back in place, he looked her in the eye defiantly. But instead of the expected shitstorm, she just gave him a quick nod. "Good shot," she said with a jerk of her head in the direction of the one he had taken down with single, clean shot.

That took him a few seconds to process. Her behaviour was completely atypical of what he was used to from humans and their warped sense of justice. "Well, after all the trouble you went through just to create such a perfect opportunity for me," he replied without thinking.

For that, he expected at least a weird look, but Shepard only chuckled. "That's what I'm here for."

"In that case I should consider hiring you permanently," he said with a grin before remembering his reason for being here. "Dr Michel," he said as he quickly crossed the room and examined the woman. "Are you hurt?"

On that day, he had wondered for the first time whether Commander Shepard was simply an exceptional member of her species or whether it was time to rethink the opinions he had formed based on the only humans he'd known so far – criminals and C-Sec officers. After a few months aboard the Normandy, he had come to the conclusion that it was a bit of both. It had been strange, at first, being on an all-human ship. He'd received the occasional evil-eye, of course, but the humans had soon accepted the fact that their CO would fill a whole deck with turians, quarians, krogan and asari if she pleased. And that she had. In time, even Pressly the miserable old dirtbag had traded his scowl for a smile.

Garrus was still not entirely sure how to process the information. Turians did not usually grieve. When they lost a family member or friend to hostile activity, the socially accepted reaction for respectful citizens was to honour their sacrifice in service of the Hierarchy. A casualty, nothing more. Respect was the one thing that turians valued above anything else, but the hunt for Saren had painted the picture in different colours. And while there was no denying that he had the utmost respect for Ash and her abilities, Virmire had taught him, perhaps in the cruellest way possible, the meaning of friendship. Ash hadn't just been a casualty. She'd been a friend. And now he would have to add Shepard to the list of people who 'had been'.

Shepard, it suddenly dawned on him. And who else?

The non-humans had all returned to their homes after the Battle of the Citadel but as far as he was aware, most of the original crew had remained on the ship.

"Get me the human embassy," he snapped at the terminal in the corner.

The holographic interface flickered to life. "Establishing connection to: Human embassy, Citadel," the terminal VI informed him.

"All lines are currently busy. You will be connected with the next available agent. We apologise sincerely for the inconvenience. Please hold," a female human voice announced a few seconds later.

A nerve-wracking loop tune started playing from the speakers and he nearly knocked the terminal's base off his desk as he hit the mute switch.

The green light indicated that a connection had been established and he resumed audio.

"… reached the human embassy," the agent on the other side chirped with a cheerful voice. "My name is Sheila Connor. How may I help you?"

"I need a casualty list for the Normandy."

There was a short pause, but Sheila Connor carried that obnoxiously jovial-polite tone like the professional audio agent she evidently was. "I'm afraid I did not catch your name. Did you have family stationed aboard the Normandy?"

Do I sound like a human to you? He bit the comment back. "I'm with C-Sec. Garrus Vakarian. I was stationed aboard the Normandy," he growled as politely as he could manage under the circumstances.

"Could you hold for a moment, please?" chirped Sheila Connor.

No, I cannot fucking hold. "Yes," he managed through gritted teeth. Oh how he loathed politicians, secretaries, call agents and the whole bureaucratic lot of them.

The 'moment' took 3 minutes during which the he nearly went insane with the loathsome loop music and had to restrain himself twice not to introduce the terminal to his rifle.

"Mr Vakarian?"

"Yes."

"We have confirmed your service on the Normandy, but seeing as you had no family aboard the vessel as of the time of the accident we cannot release detailed information until we get clearance, sir."

He tried to yell at her but all he managed was a gargling noise, something between a snarl and a hiss.

"Sir?" Sheila Connor asked helplessly.

"I was on that ship just three months ago."

"I apologise for the inconvenience, but at this time we cannot publicly reveal sensitive information about –"

"What sensitive information?" he shouted at the terminal across the room. "They're dead"

There terminal fell silent. After a few seconds, Sheila Connor seemed to have found her professional audio agent voice again. "If there is nothing more we can do for you at this time, may I suggest that you take the matter to Ambassador Udina in person? I can set up an appointment in about two months."

He didn't bother with a reply.

"Mr Vakarian? Are you still on-line?

"Fuck Ambassador Udina and his army of bureaucratic husks," he growled, but it wasn't loud enough for the console to pick up.

"Sir?"

A few more seconds passed, then the connection closed with a click.

Without really knowing what he was doing, he lifted his rifle from the wall and laid it across his legs as he sank back onto the couch.

"Hey, Vakarian," he heard Shepard shout from across the cargo bay. "Come have a look."

"What is it?" he shouted back from inside the mako. "If it's another story on the extranet about some krogan you supposedly headbutted to death, I've had my share of those for the year."

Wrex, who had been entertaining him and Ash with war stories, let out a deep, throaty laugh. "The day a human headbutts a krogan and lives to tell about it is the day I unite the clans of Tuchanka."

"Don't make any promises you can't keep, Wrex," Shepard retorted. "Else I might just be tempted to try."

He heard the low 'thunk' of something very heavy being heaved onto a surface.

"Holy shit, Shepard. That's illegal." Ashley's voice joined in.

"Spoilsport," Shepard laughed and he could almost hear her grinning from ear to ear.

Garrus stuck his head out of the door and saw the two humans standing by the armoury. "Illegal?"

Ash snorted with laughter. "That got his attention. Go figure."

With a sigh, he swung himself out of the mako and crossed the hangar with a few quick steps. When he saw the object Ashley was gesturing at, he stopped dead.

"Shepard, that's a HMWSR." He examined it closely. "Master line," he added breathlessly, ignoring Ash's muffled giggles and Shepard's dry remarks about some little boy and Christmas Eve.

Gently, he ran a finger along the barrel. It was still illegal for him to possess, now more than ever, but Shepard had insisted he keep it for when he could flash it about officially. He had always meant to return it to her after he became a Spectre – after all, these things cost hundreds of thousands of credits and even a used one would still fetch a very decent price.

And now he would never get the chance.

"Get me Joker."

"Establishing connection to: Moreau, Jeffrey. Current location unknown."

A few seconds passed and the console flashed red. "Error. User not found."

He cleared his throat and did his best to ignore the implications. Joker had never liked vid calls, perhaps he'd just shut down his service.

"What about Kaidan?"

"Establishing connection to: Alenko, Kaidan. Current location undisclosed."

The call went through, but nearly a minute passed before it was accepted on the other side. The video was shaky, transmitted from an omni-tool by the looks of it. A glassy-eyed human blinked at him from what seemed to be dimly lit corner in an even shadier bar. He looked incredibly exhausted, but it was Kaidan. Alive. Garrus moved closer to the terminal and a flash of recognition flickered across his face.

"Garrus. Hey." He even managed a tiny smile.

"Kaidan." His subtonals were equal parts of relief and anger but he kept his face a mask. "I saw the news."

"Yeah me too," came the slightly slurred reply.

He had never seen the lieutenant so beside himself. They had had the occasional drink and a game of poker on the Normandy, but even then Kaidan Alenko had never been anything but the very example of a dutiful Alliance officer.

It was obvious that he was in no shape for a reunion, but Garrus was not in the mood for a lengthy vid-call anyway.

"Nobody told me," he stated matter-of-factly. It was not a direct accusation but he couldn't keep the underlying disappointment from swinging in his voice.

Kaidan straightened himself and suddenly he looked the marine part again. "I couldn't. Direct orders from up top. Sorry."

"I see."

Drinking himself into oblivion in some seedy bar is fine, but dropping me a hint that the Normandy went down is asking too much? He wanted to yell at him but he couldn't. Kaidan had served on the Normandy a great deal longer than he had. And if he'd been ordered by the brass to keep his mouth shut, he would take the secret to his grave if need be. Garrus respected that. He would have made an excellent turian, he thought bitterly.

"Who else?" he asked instead.

"Pressly and some of the people that were stationed on the lower decks. I… can't recall all of their names."

"Joker?"

"Haven't spoken to him since…" He cleared his throat. "Well. I hear he's taking it pretty hard."

There was nothing more to say.

"Right. Well," he said with a gesture towards the screen. "I'll leave you to it then."

"Take care, Garrus."

"You too, Kaidan."

He closed the line and sat in silence for a few minutes.

Some of the people from the lower decks. He wondered how nearly everyone had made it out alive but her. And he realised that he already knew the answer.

"You stubborn idiot just had to make sure everyone gets to the shuttles," he growled at his rifle, for lack of an animate conversational partner.

In a sudden rush of anger, he grabbed the terminal and flung it against the wall, watching with satisfaction as the holographic interface disappeared with a flicker and a piece of plastic snapped off the terminal's base. It was then that he realised he hadn't asked about the ship of 'undetermined origin' that had supposedly downed the Normandy in-flight. And just as suddenly, he found that it didn't even matter. Kaidan and Joker had made it out in one piece. Between Shepard and Pressly, that was two-for-two. That, he could rationalise away. But the two months of deliberate secrecy left a bitter taste that would not go away so easily. Joker in particular had never cared much for protocol. With his tendency to accidentally drop important calls, surely he could have given him a heads-up?

He let out a deep, drawn-out sigh. There was no point in dwelling on it. It was high time he went back to what he did best and between C-Sec, the Council and the Alliance all competing for who could impose the most crippling regulations, there was nothing left for him in Citadel space.

His omni-tool beeped again. It had done little else for the past half hour. He let the green light flash a couple more times before he brought up the interface and put the call through.

"Teaia," he greeted jovially. "What's happening?"

"Fuck you too, Garrus," was the furious reply. "Where the fuck are you?"

He looked around as though trying to determine his location. "On a shuttle," he stated.

"On a shuttle," she echoed. "Well isn't that nice. Better be a shuttle to C-Sec HQ or the boss'll have your head. Chellick says you haven't been in since you stormed off two days ago. And don't think I forgot about that ice you promised me," she added and pointed a finger at him accusingly.

He chuckled lightly. "I'm not entirely sure where this shuttle is going but I assure you it's nowhere near C-Sec HQ."

That gave her pause. "The Spectre?"

He shrugged. "I'm sick of rules and regulations. I need a vacation."

The asari on the other end of the line groaned. "You realise this has me handling your shitty Laurent paperwork and the Omega weapon shipments?" She sighed and shook her head. "You bastard."

Garrus couldn't suppress a grin. "So those weapons you've been chasing all over the Citadel were smuggled from Omega?"

"Yeah and I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be telling you that," she said sourly.

"I'll see what I can do. Tell Chellick he's lazier than a retired volus."

Teaia tilted her head slightly and gave him an inquisitive glare. "You sure about this?"

"Miss me already?"

"Fuck you."

Her hand flickered to the disconnect button but she hesitated. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"Don't get killed."

"Never."

Yes, he thought with a smile as he switched off the holo-interface. Omega will do nicely.