She sat in the bar, loving the dreamlike atmosphere and refusing to use the cups constantly offered to her, drinking from the wine bottle at her side. She didn't know why she was there; she hated bars, hated the heat, the crowds, the noise, and yet there she was. She remembered little, only the fact that she was waiting for someone important, someone she cared about, but couldn't remember his—or perhaps even her—face, voice, species. The memories somehow came back with the alcohol. After one bottle, a male. One and a half, turian. Two, Garrus. Garrus. She loved the name, and yet she couldn't remember why. He had told her to meet him here, though how would she know? He could possibly be the one over there, in the booth with about six asari. No, she remembered that wasn't like him. Perhaps the one over there, dancing like an idiot, as another friend once described? No, he'd sit and think, not move around. She didn't know, didn't remember, but she wanted to.
She wanted to so badly.
Bottle after bottle more memories flooded in. The only things she really hung on to were what he looked like—well, his markings and visor—and the last things he said to her, the way his voice sounded: "I…love you too". They were in love? Why? She had come into this place beaten up and bloody, barely alive, if that's the right word, considering where she was. She had no idea how she was patched up, the alcohol doing its memory erasing only in that area, and she remembered a number playing over and over in her head: 30, 30, 30. The number replayed more times than she bothered to count, and she continued drinking whenever it reappeared. It had become a code to her, remembering 30m, 30m, 30m. Whatever the new "m" now meant, she felt it was important. A ticking played in her head. Tick, tick, tick. It reminded her of the clocks back home. Home was safe, secure, in space. A starship. Started with an N. Hell, she didn't even remember who she was, never mind the name of her ship, her rank, her crew. She remembered she cared about all of them, but Garrus always stood out for some reason.
The sound of loud conversation filled her ears again. She'd learned how to block it out after awhile, realizing there was no way out of the bar anyway. The noise grew louder and into a true argument, and she couldn't help but turn and watch. A turian calmly stood in the doorway with his arms crossed as an armored salarian and his krogan helper threw insults and excuses at him. She quickly became infuriated without even knowing why, and found herself out of the barstool and walking towards the fray as the turian subtly watched her approach. In one motion, she put her hand on the salarian's shoulder and turned him towards her, then dodged a punch from him and a bullet—or maybe five— from his helper's shotgun. Despite being drunk off her ass, she knew exactly what she was doing in a fight. Shockwaves, Charges, fire and Overloads surrounded the room, and eventually they both were dead—for lack of a better term—on the floor. No one seemed to notice or care, and the few people that were accidentally hit glared at them hideously.
The turian wasn't even out of breath, and though she was bleeding again she felt no pain due to the drinks and surreal world. He looked at her and gave his species' equivalent of a smile, visor blinking happily at her. He was strangely familiar, and she allowed the emotions with no motive to approach her.
"Least you kept one promise," the turian said softly. "I doubt this counts as 'alive'." The ticking in her head stopped as soon as he walked into the room, ending with a loud ding that sounded too real to be in her mind. The numbers came back again, but now they were in a sentence: May you be in heaven for half an hour before the devil knows you're dead. Half an hour. Thirty minutes. 30m, 30m, 30m. The ding had marked Garrus' arrival and—wait, why did she identify him as Garrus? She didn't have any form of proof, she just…knew. But, she didn't know how she knew. She didn't want to think about it, and didn't think she was capable of doing so anyway. Before she was able to reply, she felt herself falling forward, but Garrus kept her from landing on the ground. He gave a short, familiar laugh. "I told you I was buying, remember?"
"Uh-uh," she mumbled intelligently, shaking her head. His arms were under hers, giving her the support she needed to stay upright, and her head was pressing against his chest. She could hear his heart beating under his heavy armor, and his warmth switched on something inside her, something that forced her to remember everything that had happened. He loved her, and she loved him, and he'd promised to meet her "at the bar if things went sideways". She remembered her name, rank, crew, the Normandy, and how she—God, she hated thinking of this word—died. Reality was a bitch, and it had punched her right in the face. She felt tears threatening to break lose, and though only one or two succeeded, she never wanted him to see her this way. He led her back to the barstool he saw her at before and sat her down, holding her shoulders to keep her from falling over again.
"Shepard," he muttered. She wiped her eyes and looked at him, responding to her newly remembered name.
"Hmm?" She reached behind her and picked up her half full bottle, but before she could drink Garrus grabbed its neck and pulled it down, leaving nothing in between them.
"Your thirty minutes are up." He swiftly pulled her closer to him, forcing her to drop the bottle on the ground with a crash, but before they could touch, she woke up with a gasp, tears silently streaming down her face.
She knew exactly what she was doing immediately: she was staring into Earth's darkened sky, lying in the pile of rubble that had once been the Citadel.