Tavia: Prep

Tavia arrived at her home feeling distinctly rumpled. So much so that, despite having gone to the grocery store, she decided it was just easier to order out. Which made the purchase of groceries a little silly, since she wouldn't be there for the next few days to use them. "Hey, boys," she announced as her two cats slunk into the room, clearly in the middle of some cat stealth mission.

Being allergic to cat dander, despite being a cat person, Tavia had compromised: she'd invested in the 'naked' cats—she could never remember their proper name—and taught them in kitten-hood to like water. Regular bath times were not a problem for them, and her allergies remained under control.

The cats—Ante and Ace—abandoned their mission when she dropped into the nearest chair in favor of twining about her ankles or climbing her frame. Both were amply rewarded with gentle scratches or rubbed muzzles. "How about we order out tonight?" she asked, as Ante jumped to the floor.

Having to restructure the office's day-to-day business on short notice left her mentally drained. The idea of messing with more Prothean tech left her nauseous and wondering if it was really worth it…

It was. It had to be. Only the prospect of answers, answers she'd waited five years for, beat back her doubts, made the risk worth it.

Her terminal in the other room pinged. "VI: who is it?" she asked loudly.

The VI responded, "The message is a secure communique from one Officer Vakarian."

Dammit.

Tavia forced herself to her feet, Ace having to jump out of her lap when it became apparent his warm weight was not enough to keep her sitting down. He grumbled, but followed her into her office, where he joined Ante in the cat hammock under her deskside table, glowering at her in affront.

The message was clipped, giving her a destination for the zero seven hundred appointment—not the civilian spaceport, but the one attached to the Vancouver military installation. All she had to do was show up at the front gate and an MP would be waiting to conduct her where she needed to be. There were a few other minor provisos and Tavia face-palmed, realizing that she needed, in addition to everything else, to find someone to feed her cats while she was gone.

She wouldn't be gone long enough to send them to a pet resort.

…or so she told herself, as she dialed her best friend, Sherry, who was most unfortunately a dog person.

But she couldn't very well ask her tentative boyfriend, Russ, to come see to them. He'd never set foot in her home, nor she in his. They weren't that far along. Certainly not far enough along for her to trust him with her cats.

And she'd have to tell him she'd be out of town, probably out of communications as well. She wouldn't want him thinking she was avoiding him.

Preparing for this trip was rapidly becoming a monster. If it weren't for the promise of answers—or, at least, reasons—for Akuze, she might have thrown up her hands and said 'screw it all.'

Part of her wondered if this short-notice timetable was some kind of weird Spectre test of her abilities.

Garrus: Ruminate

Garrus frowned at his terminal. Shepard's service record before Akuze was sterling. She was not the frontal assault type, but preferred to pick off targets at range while they focused their attentions elsewhere. If she couldn't do something marvelous with tech, she could blow it away at range.

Her unit, before they died, had a reputation for being the go-to people for delicate objectives with heavy resistance. Her team whittled away at an enemy while sending a handful of stealthy operatives to take care of business while the enemy worried about flying bullets. They'd been a well-oiled machine: slaver bases, hostage situations, disabling ships, ground assault, holding actions… the missions were not usually high profile—though there were one or two he'd heard of via the news, the names of the operatives having been withheld—but they were usually very effective. Objectives were always completed.

And then Akuze. He replayed her interviews, listened as she moved from the fearful jerkiness to the incoherence of someone pressed to talk about a particularly fresh ugly experience. Pushed beyond reason.

He felt a twinge of guilt at what he was asking her to do, which he immediately stowed away. Spectres didn't feel guilt and knew the value of necessity. It wasn't as though he was asking her to do it with no thought to the consequences.

Still…

His mind drifted back to Nihlus and Saren. Nihlus, who had trusted him, whose patronage with regards to Spectre candidacy had lifted him out of his father's arena, off the path Vakarian Sr. had wanted for his son. C-Sec had been a good start… but it was better now to be his own turian on his own path, without the shadow of his father touching every aspect of his life.

He remembered Nihlus' original assessment of his aptitude: you've got spunk. As if spunk was all it would take. Nihlus was a real taskmaster, a hardass, but a good mentor. Even if Garrus found himself feeling somewhat at sea with his so-called apprenticeship abruptly ended, he couldn't help hoping that once he could start doing his job instead of laying ground work he'd stop feeling so… uncertain.

If he was uncertain, his father certainly had been. Vakarian Sr. had been within an inch of disowning his son, but he had too much sense to give way to intemperate behavior.

Another reason Garrus found himself feeling uncertain: he had something to prove to his father. And anyone who knew Garrus Auric Vakarian Sr. knew that changing his opinion was almost like trying to reorient a planet's gravitational field. It took a supreme effort… and probably wouldn't work.

Garrus sometimes wondered why he bothered. Except that it chafed him that his father should be so confoundedly convinced of being right that he never considered any point of view that ran anything but parallel to his own.

He tried to settle himself and found only fuming resentments.

It was good being free of the endless red tape… though there was more paperwork than he expected a Spectre to have to deal with. The Council might claim that they preferred to be hands-off in what their Spectres did, but they certainly expected reports on every little thing. Just in case they were bored, he decided, or needed bedtime or bathroom reading.

He didn't relish the idea of working with Shepard any more than he liked Anderson's constant hints about how best to deal with her. The meeting in her office hadn't gone well and he'd been glad of Anderson's presence… even if he found the man somewhat ineffective in bringing his former cohort to heel.

He sensed a few unresolved issues between the captain and the former lieutenant commander, but felt no need to pry or involve himself.

With any luck, Shepard's participation would be quick. That might be a hope they both shared.

Tavia: Guest

Tavia crossed the threshold of the Normandy's airlock at exactly zero seven hundred hours. She'd noted the odd design of the ship, recognized its origins, but paid it little thought. She did not get worked up or hot and bothered over a ship, as she'd lived her career by the acronym for marine: my ass rides in navy equipment. A ship was a ship. Its job was—had been—to get her and her team from Point A to Point B.

It felt strange to be surrounded by Alliance blues while she wore her usual clothes for assignments that took her away from her home office—an office now in the capable hands of her second in command, Jenga Schneider. Jenga—she refused to answer to her given name—treated the short notice rearranging of business as she treated everything, with a calm prosaic acceptance that clients inevitably found reassuring.

"Shepard."

Tavia nodded once, bit back the grimace as Vakarian appeared as if on cue. He didn't look any better this morning than he had the day before. He no longer wore plainclothes, but the more traditional working garb for a turian: armor. The blue suited him, she decided, as a fashion statement. It struck her as odd that they were both wearing blood colors: blue dextro, red levo. It was a morbid thought and she found its occurrence disturbing. She was not at all superstitious, but somehow it seemed oddly significant.

She countered the unsettling thought with something practical. "Where are we headed?"

"The Citadel," Vakarian answered. "Mr. Moreau, if you would?"

The pilot, Tavia noticed, rolled his eyes and seemed to bite back a huff of irritation, but complied. Clearly the Spectre had not concerned himself with his people skills. She had to wonder if he'd been like this while he was C-Sec, or if this was him deciding what kind of Spectre personality he wanted to have.

It was not a Spectre's job to be friendly and affable, but that was no excuse for being on the road to alienating one's support staff. And, whether the crew liked it or not, that was exactly what they were at the moment.

Tavia followed him down to the next floor, the mess deck, and into the mess hall. Her civilian attire drew looks but no comments. The red polo shirt with its blocky black 'Bulldog Security' and logo on the right sleeve stood out vividly among the crew's sedate blue. Again, it struck her as oddly symbolic: blue for the Spectre, blue for his support staff… red for the visitor. A flare of color for the major unknown variable.

Anderson was in the mess as well, looking a little tired but trying not to show it. "Morning, Shepard."

"Captain." Tavia glanced around the mess deck, taking in the long row of sleeper pods, the medbay with its big windows, the entertainment corner. How much had to be wrangled or finagled to permit her to set foot on this ship? She had a feeling it took a Spectre and Anderson himself to manage it.

Civilians didn't belong on warships and, like it or not, she was a civilian now.

She nodded when informed that she should restrict herself to this deck unless otherwise accompanied, and that the trip shouldn't take too long. Apparently Spectres got priority passage at relays. Unsurprised, Tavia settled in an empty seat and pulled out a datapad.

Garrus: Morning

Garrus was surprised when Shepard turned down coffee, citing to Anderson that she'd 'gotten over' her addiction to the stuff. Maybe it was the early morning or maybe it was being in the public eye, but she certainly seemed less standoffish than she had the day before, speaking less and watching more before burying herself in her datapad.

Then he caught her eye and realized she was simply presenting her professional front and if he jerked her around today he would find her just as uncooperative as he had the day before, if not more so.

And, her expression seemed to suggest, he needed her a lot more than she needed him. With that, she went back to reading—this time for real, for he watched to see if her eyes tracked back and forth, which they did.

It was going to be a long few days. He had that sinking feeling.

But it would be worth it, he reminded himself, if she could offer some clarification about the beacon. He stroked a mandible thoughtfully with a thumb as he considered. The beacon was of interest to him only because it was of interest to whoever attacked the colony—he had to work hard not to say 'of enough interest to Saren to risk attacking a colony.' His investigation, however, was short on leads at the moment—hence his willingness to try this far flung idea of bringing Tavia into the investigation.

Not a good sign, but a man who attacked a colony, a well-established colony, would move again eventually. More than feeling at sea, he hated the idea of just waiting for another catastrophe, but his options at the moment were limited. Maybe his contacts on the Citadel would have turned something up since he was last there…