Author(s): miryai (LJ) aka fanthropologist (Tumblr)
Artist: janiejanine (LJ)
Disclaimer:
Word Count: 1,013 (drabble)
Characters/Pairings: Garrus/F!Shepard
Warnings: None
Spoilers: For Mass Effect 2
Summary: In the months following Shepard's death, Garrus has to come to terms with a life of broken hopes and failed dreams.
Author's Notes: This is a pinch-hitting drabble based on janiejanine's awesome fanmix for the Mass Effect Big Bang 2012.
Link to Art Master Post: /works/537406
He settles the sniper rifle butt against his shoulder, takes a deep breath, and turns, lifting the rifle over the balustrade and resting it on the hip-high wall. Two to the right, three to the left. But one on the left is wearing superior armour. He's the target.
Cheek against stock. He inhales, exhales, waits for the sights to settle. And squeezes.
He waits long enough to see the merc's head snap back, then he's pulling himself back over, sliding down against the wall, and ejects the spent sink.
He finds himself thinking of Shepard.
Why now? Why so near the end?
It is relentless. Soon, he knows, it will be over. And at least there will be an end to the pain.
He pulls the rifle back into his shoulder, turns, and leans over the wall again.
For a couple of hours, there is a break in the fighting, and Garrus naps, talons wrapped around his gun.
He thought he was doing something good. Clean up Omega. Make the best of a bad lot.
He'd seen Shepard do it. Get a crew, train them, make the universe a better place.
But somehow it didn't turn out that way.
Maybe Garrus just isn't good enough.
One of his team betrayed them.
Killed them all.
Damn near killed him too.
Soon.
The night before they all went their separate ways, he and Shepard had had a drink.
Well, maybe more than one.
Had maybe ended up dancing with each other, the club spinning woozily around them.
He hadn't stopped to ask himself why he'd ended up there.
Or why it felt so good.
And her eyes – so alive in the lights of the bar. He'd wanted to keep them on him forever.
He could still remember her smile, her laugh. The way she moved closer to him, each beat of the music pressing their bodies closer together – until scale was touching skin.
She'd leaned close, shouted over the music – "Wait for me," she'd said.
What was one more patrol?
Little did he know.
He didn't believe it when it came over the news.
Lived that way for a week and a half.
But when Kaidan knocked, and shook his head. He reached for a bottle. Climbed in. And didn't get out for eight months.
Woke up in strangers' beds, and stranger places, mouth tasting of dust and ashes.
Tali came, tried to pick him up. But he was too heavy, and too drunk.
And too hopeless even for her.
She looked after him for half a year. Then, one day, she shook her head. And left him to drown.
A couple of months later - he isn't sure what changed.
Just one day, he woke up, and threw out all the bottles. Picked up his gun.
Decided that if he couldn't have Shepard, he may as well try to be her.
The universe deserved that much.
It was all he could give.
Penance, he'd decided.
He squinted down the sight. Another merc in his crosshairs. Another squeeze of the trigger. Cold satisfaction.
Penance for failure.
Failure to save Shepard. Failure to succeed at anything.
Failure to even be a good turian.
So he would do the one thing he was good at.
He would kill.
And Omega waited with open arms.
There were people here. People like him. Hopeless, despairing, angry.
They turned to him.
'Archangel' they called him.
But it wasn't holy fire he held.
Just rage.
It was enough.
He survived on that rage for more than a year.
And some of the pain – just some of it – melted away.
He laid out blueprints for Blood Pack camps, or Eclipse buildings, or Blue Suns' encampments. Pointed out exits, entrances, locations for snipers. And they looked at him, trust in their eyes.
And he would smile – that savage grin.
And they would kill.
Scum. Villains. Thieves. All of them. He counted the dead.
He would burn this place clean, if he had to. For everything he'd taken.
This, he could give.
Where did he go wrong?
He'd trusted them. Trained them. Gave them purpose. A reason to live.
If he had been Shepard –
But he wasn't.
Couldn't be.
So he failed her too.
Failed to be her.
And when Sidonis had given him that lead – too good to be true – he had followed it. Like a fool.
And it had killed them.
When he'd returned, he found their bodies.
Brains blown out through their foreheads.
Executed.
They weren't even armed.
He'd stood in their blood. Red. Blue. Purple.
And vowed he would kill every last one of them.
Well, look how far that had gotten him.
Pinned down and dying.
He wasn't an idiot. He could see that.
But damned if he wasn't going to take down every last one if he could.
Make them pay for his life, and those of his team.
Someone had to.
Last clip.
It had to happen sometime.
He ejects the expended sink and loads the last one into the chamber.
Better make this one worthwhile. The highest value target is going down.
He takes a deep breath.
Turns, leans over the wall, and looks down his sight.
Scans the field.
And there-
- there -
It can't be.
- is Shepard.
Someone is coming up behind her.
He takes the shot.
It goes wide.
He doesn't let himself believe until she walks into the room.
But even then, he hesitates.
Stands with the help of his rifle.
– Since when were his bones so stiff and sore? –
And sits.
And just looks at her, with eyes that are tired.
– He hadn't realised how tired. –
And all he can say –
It sure is good to see a friendly face.
– And he closes his eyes; can't let go of the death grip on his gun.
She's come.
Too late.
The gunship, when it comes, is a release.
"Shepard," he tries to say. And her hands are on his scales.
"I'm sorry," he tries to say.
For everything.