Chapter 1: Enter Garrus
Disclaimer—The Mass Effect Universe and everything in it belongs to BioWare. Only my words and my interpretation are my own. I derive no profit but pleasure from these works of homage.
Notes: This fic title will actually be a random assortment of all sorts of scenes, dialogues and snippets relating to ME—both 1 and 2. These chapters will not be in chronological order and will vary as to point of view. My (very vague) intention is to eventually assemble these bits and pieces into a more traditional narrative fic tentatively to be titled Two of a Kind, but I imagine it will be a long time before that takes shape (if it ever does), and I didn't want to wait that long to begin posting my little bits of plot bunny fluff.
Fic Title Inspiration: Whole \Whole\, n. 1. The entire thing; the entire assemblage of parts; totality; all of a thing, without defect or exception; a thing complete in itself. [1913 Webster];
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole. -Pope. [1913 Webster]
Almost-random Aside: Some of you may wonder why I've decided to group bits together for NWN2 and ME, but have been posting composite chunks for DAO. This is largely due to length. The DAO stuff tends to be monster, even when incomplete. NWN2 and ME seem to be more cooperatively concise. My incomplete Ginny Weasley is/was being posted as a chronological narrative.
While I may not post on some of these fics for long periods of time, I have not abandoned any of them.
Chapter-Specific Note: This chapter takes place early in ME1. Very slight edit done 8-5-10.
Garrus Vakarian was aware three humans had entered the Tower and stopped to stare at him with interest undisguised, blatantly eavesdropping on his argument with Executor Pallin, but he didn't particularly care.
Oh, he knew he was sure to hear about it later—from the Executor, from his father, and from everyone in between, all scandalized he hadn't simply accepted his superior's support of his superior, like a good little turian, because that was the way it was done, all absolutely outraged he'd dared to call that into question in front of a human—any human—let alone three of them.
He still didn't care.
Saren ranked above him, ranked above Executor Pallin, ranked above his father even. Garrus didn't dispute that Saren was above the rules; Garrus could respect that. In fact, he flat out envied it.
If he'd been above the rules or, rather, empowered to make rules when they were needed and to make those rules work...
But he wasn't. And he never would be. That chance had long since passed. And, because he knew and valued what he had lost, he recognized that Saren had it, and he realized that Saren didn't appreciate what he had.
Power was a privilege. One that had to be earned and earned again every time it was used. Used because it had to be...and never, ever, abused.
Saren abused it. With impunity. Garrus knew he did. He couldn't prove it, but he didn't have to; he could feel it in his bones. The knowledge insulted him, goaded him, left him impotent and outraged.
Knowing something did no good. Doing something was what counted. And—not for the first time—there was nothing he could do.
Nothing his superiors would let him do.
As much as he longed to see Saren confronted with the slightest suggestion his behavior was out of line, Garrus knew there was no reason to bother sticking around. No matter how persuasive these humans—and it did offer a certain satisfaction, the idea of Saren being forced to answer to humans—no matter how compelling their argument, nothing awaited but more disappointment.
The humans flickered in the corner of his eye as he stormed past; a vague jumble of black and white and a single, stark flash of red.
As it turned out, it was just as well his frustration had goaded him back to the office, because an anxious message from one of his contacts awaited him. Garrus kind of doubted her misgivings heralded anything serious, but stepping down to the Wards to reassure her would be—at worst—a distraction, and—at best—it might just provide him with a welcome—and much-needed—chance to shoot something.
As it was, his contact barely had time to hustle him into a shadowy alcove with a more-or-less incomprehensibly babbled explanation before the thugs arrived on the scene.
The first grabbed the contact by the upper arms, making her flinch. Garrus slid his sniper rifle from its slot in his armor and slowly, carefully, extended the barrel from the stock in painstaking silence and only by touch, never taking his eyes off the contact and the thugs. He eased the rifle up into position.
The contact jostled frustratingly into and out of his rifle sight. If he pulled the trigger in time with one of those maddening asynchronous shifts, the results could be disastrous. But...if he didn't pull it at all, it was only a matter of time before the thugs injured the witness themselves...or before she cracked and screamed for Garrus, in which case things would really go to hell fast—
Something, some hint of movement, some faint click or hiss on a register audible to him, but apparently indistinguishable to humans—at least over the sound of their own raised voices—told Garrus the door to the clinic had opened a split second before the squad burst into the room. For a single, tense breath, he thought the thugs had back-up, but recognition formed as shapes as colors slid across his scope. Black armor and a flash—a stark pulse—of red.
And—of all things—a rather bored-looking krogan. Garrus was sure there was a story behind that, and he was pretty sure he'd be seeing enough of this group to hear it.
Even as the thought crossed his mind in a mixture of amusement and amazement, he saw the image still in his scope; saw that one split second of perfect opportunity and instinctively pulled his fingers toward his palm as if to seize the chance before him...He pulled the trigger. The thug dropped like a sack of meat.
Garrus stepped from under cover...
Rather to his surprise, the least apparently intimidating member of the squad—a human female whose head barely cleared his shoulder—was already looking at him. She didn't glance at the body on the floor, or even in the direction of the still-shaking doctor. She looked Garrus in the eye and said, directly-almost analytically-without the faintest hint of disbelief or jealousy, merely stating fact, "Good shot."
It was hard to tell—he'd never heard such a tone from a human—but the words were almost too dry, a little too firm, as if pointing out that flawless execution didn't quite justify the questionable necessity of endangering the contact...and, yet, Garrus could also have sworn a corner of the human's mouth had quirked upward...an expression he might have interpreted as amused—or even admiring. He'd thought he'd begun to read humans rather well...but this one made him wonder...
This time he looked at her, really looked, sizing her up. She waited, lounging back on the balls of her feet, totally at ease and not at all at rest, ready to spring into action at a second's notice. She studied him as he assessed her and made no secret of it any more than he did. Garrus felt his mandibles flair into a faint smirk. She grinned back at him in that odd, flat, broad human fashion. Somehow, as alien as she seemed, Garrus had the odd, unshakeable impression the two of them already understood each other very, very well.
