-Garrus-
"And tonight we take a moment of silence to honor the late Commander Shepard," the vidscreen above the bar says in a feminine voice that Garrus is too drunk to place, the image nothing but a shifting blur over the bartender's shoulder. "Who's most notable accomplishment was the defeat of rogue Spectre, Saren Arterius, and his Geth when he launched an attack on the Council-"
"Turn it off," he snaps, the grip on his glass tightening slightly. To his credit, the bartender simply shrugs, long since used to the rapid fluctuations in his harmonics across the spectrum of emotions, and switches it to something that sounds vaguely like some sports broadcast. He slides another glass in Garrus' direction, the amount on Wrex's chit finally running to it limits after the entire day, before moving on to more coherent patrons and he's fine with it because he never really cared for the obvious pity in the man's eyes or feeling of silent criticism.
He downs his glass, the liquid no longer burning against his numb throat after his nearly week-long attempts to find solace at the bottle of the bottle, before slamming it back to the surface of the bar. Pulling the left behind glass closer, he doesn't notice his elbow hitting one of the previously discarded glasses or have a chance to really care as it topples over the edge of the bar – and wouldn't have had the coordination to try and catch it anyways.
Instead, he hears the clink of it being replaced on the counter – further from his person and less likely to fall again – in time with his first swallow of dark, no longer strong, liquor. He refuses to acknowledge the new arrival as the man takes a seat beside him, hoping the unbidden companion will take the low rumble of disapproval as a hint and leave. Instead, the silver – nearly white – Turian in elegant, floor length clothing Garrus has usually only seen at home on Palaven and in the higher classes ignores the vocal protest and motions the bartender over.
"A glass of Cipritine Nulli," the unrecognizable visitor orders. "And a second for Palaven," he adds with a side-ways glance towards Garrus, who narrows his eyes in suspicion. The man looks familiar, with his bare facial plates and long lateral crests, but he can't place it with anyone through the fog in his head. The only thing keeping his drunken mind from automatically seeing the impassive face before him as the former Spectre and reacting accordingly – aside from the fact that he's in no position to perform any fast movements to restrain him without tossing his last dozen drinks – is the golden rings through the prongs of his mandibles and the matching golden orbs set against the darkened hide of his eye sockets.
"Nulli secundus," the bartender says with an air of reverence as he pours the two glasses of deep amber-red liquid. "Don't get too many people ordering one of the finest drinks to come out of Palaven." He hands a glass over to the Turian Garrus still can't place – doesn't care to place and only really accepts since he's apparently buying him a drink – and the straight-backed man hums in acknowledgment, but doesn't over any response. "I'm happy to say that we carry it. In fact, I believe Parallaxis is the only bar here on the Citadel that offers it."
Garrus grunts at the unneeded explanation from the server and he takes the glass, but isn't intoxicated enough to ignore the fact that this stranger has just bought a glass of one of the most expensive liquors around for him. He stares at the swirling liquid as the bartender is dismissed by his companion with a slight wave of his hand in silent assurance that his services are no longer needed, the rings in his mandibles making a light twinkling of noise as he takes a sip from his own glass.
"Have you ever had the chance to try it?" The rolling voice snaps his head up and he stares into golden eyes. "I believe that every blue blooded Turian should know the taste, if only for a signal glass."
It's the lack of any telling emotion in the man's features, his plates blank and entirely devoid of anything despite the fact that Garrus isn't even trying to control his own harmonics from rising and falling all over the place. Sure, he doubts such a man that holds himself as stately as his visitor does would remark on such a fantastic failure at Turian control, but, even then, he wouldn't think his visitor would remain within hearing range of it. Even the bartender tries to limit his time around the mourning and completely hysterical patron in his otherwise extravagant bar.
The confusion only happens to frustrate him and only make his alcohol addled mind hurt. I drink to stop the pain, damn it. "Look," he manages to get out. "I don't know what this is." He holds his glass up. "But I don't want charity or whatever the hell you're offering and I sure as hell don't want to know what you expect in return."
"I would have expected a word of thanks." The paler male says with a twitch to a single brow plate, the fast movement barely registering in Garrus' slowed mind, and waves the tip of a talon upwards in the air between them in silent command. "However, given the amount of alcohol you have seemed to consumed in the short time I have been here, I will take the acknowledgement."
Garrus flicks a mandible in scrutiny, but falls under the golden stare, taking a single sip. The taste is strong and flows smoothly over his tongue to slide down his throat. He's sure if his mind wasn't half way gone in whatever darkness that holds his grief, he would able to say something about the flavors and crispness of such a refined beverage. As it is, his mind simply commands he down the rest of the glass, pulling a disapproving grunt from his companion.
He slams down the glass, his mandibles flickering and his chest clenching painfully in protest to drinking another glassful of liquor on an empty stomach, and he has to close his eyes against the fact that each acknowledgment of pain just brings back the memories of why he's doing this in the first place. He holds his pounding head in his free hand, his breaths in pants that echo with his low, growling keen, and ignores the warmth at his side that still hasn't seemed to taken the hint.
"What do you want from me?" he pleads to the annoying menace, his will collapsing under the returning emptiness under his keel. "Can't you just leave me alone to my grief?"
His puts his glass down on the counter with a soft clink, takes a deep inhale, and turns his head to look straight into the weakened silver-blues of the fallen C-Sec. "I am not one to stand aside and watch potential waste away in failed efforts of absolution."
Garrus snorts at that and holds one of the glasses on the counter to see if any liquid has happened to pool at the bottom. "That didn't work for those who knew me. What makes you think some stranger is going to convince me?"
"I am not here with intentions of making you believe your choice is incorrect." Garrus raises a brow plate at that before narrowing his eyes in silent order to spit it out while the older man still has a chance to be heard. "I simply offer insight of another way to go about joining your mate that do not involve massive amounts of inebriation."
Garrus flicks a mandible in exasperation and sighs. "Oh, enlighten me." He leans his weight against the counter with and scowls at the hazy reflection of himself that's casted back between from between his forearms, a weak exhale passing from quivering lungs. "What does it even matter? I wasn't there when it counted."
The man lets Garrus gaze into the image of his own pain for a moment as he savors a sip from his glass before speaking. "Do not waste time contemplating the nuances of what could have been had the situation been different." He pointedly ignores the rumble of displeasure that Garrus voices at his perceived flippancy. "Instead, use your energy doing something worthy of someone capable of provoking such a reaction."
Groaning, Garrus' head falls into his hands as a low keen vibrates his chest. "I can't… I tried to be a better man for her, or at least I thought that's what I was doing, but I can't help think that it was all just for my own selfish needs. I wanted to become a Spectre because I thought I'd be able to be of more use than some failed cop, but now I know it was just because I wanted to be her equal. Because I was too ashamed to know that others thought I was just her subordinate." He takes a stuttered breath, closing his eyes. "And what did it cost me? What did it cost her?" He lifts his head and finds himself staring directly into golden eyes shining brighter that the rings framing the man's mouth. "How can I do anything worthy of her if I don't even know anything that would ever compare?"
Without breaking eye contact, the paler Turian lays his glass on the counter top and turns to fully address his younger companion. "By fighting."
"I don't know how to do that," Garrus admits with a rumble of confusion vibrating his chest, but he doesn't let his gaze drop. For some reason, this is the first person since his reality shattered that he's been able to keep eye contact with for any amount of time. "Everywhere I turn, I end up running into endless obstacles."
"Then pave your own path. Find a course of action that will grant you the death worthy of even the best of our people. An honorable death to absolve you of the failures you claim upon your spirit." He cuts the attention for a moment to grab his glass and an empty one, pouring a finger's width into the free glass before offering it over. "Is that not what you are seeking at the bottom of each glass?"
Garrus pauses, his eyes falling to the dark liquid in the glass. Though he's never completely admitted it to himself , either aloud or internally, he is trying to join Jane in any way he could imagine – that mostly being seeing how much stinging alcohol he can shove down his gullet before he succumbs to poisoning. Would it not be preferable to use the emptiness in his chest, the pain that pumps through his blood, as fuel to do something good before finding a way to her? Isn't there a saying 'leave the world a better place than you came in'?
Though he has no qualms about ending his life in any way possible, but he can't deny the appealing sound of using his last breaths to try and emulate her as best he can. It may never make up for failing to be there for her in the first place, but perhaps it could grant him some sense of peace against the guilt that invades even his drunken slumber.
Flicking a mandible in agreement, he raises his glass to the older male in silent toast before mirroring him in downing the last of their drinks. Laying his glass down on the counter, Garrus turns to golden eyes. "I can't say I completely understand why you all but butted into my life, but, for whatever it's worth, thank you. I will do something to be proud of."
A silvery-white brow plate lifts in interest and a mandible twitches, releasing a near-silent tinkle of noise from the golden ring shifting. "Oh?"
Garrus smirks, the movement still sluggish thanks to the numerous liters of liquor in his system. "Starting by fixing my most recent failure." The man nods in silent assurance that he's listening. "I'm going to find Brecht and then I'm going to follow his supply chain to Omega." Garrus doesn't really care that this man probably doesn't even know who the hell he's talking about or what the hell Omega has to do with anything, too occupied with the plan starting to take shape in his head. "It's a perfect place to 'go down fighting' – as she would say. It won't be hard to find criminals. All I'll have to do is point, and pull the trigger."
Garrus shifts and stands on wobbly legs, leaning against the counter to fight the spinning of the room at the movement. Golden eyes scan over his form, scrutinizing before rumbling barely in amusement, though the sound lacks most mirth – something Garrus has noticed from many Turians who tend to force control of their vocals but still try to come across as personable. "Might want to find something to counteract the alcohol before attempting to fulfill your plan."
"Stims will work." Garrus shakes his head to try and clear it some more. "I can't give Brecht any more time to leave the Citadel, he's already had almost a week."
With a hum of acknowledgement, the older male removes a small vial from a hidden pocket in his long, navy robes and offers it. Garrus blinks in disbelief at the sudden availability of said stimulants, but, then again, it isn't necessarily illegal to carry some drugs on the Citadel and his own people don't really see any problem with usage if it doesn't affect the user's capability to perform their duties. Frankly, it's also not that surprising that a man who is clearly unashamed to walk around without colony paints would also be unashamed to be carrying something that could only be seen as something no more illegal than a highly concentrated energy supplement – if Garrus doesn't look to hard into whether or not the vial fits C-Sec regulations that he's too intoxicated to remember.
"Should I bother with asking exactly what that is?" he asks, but takes the offered drug. He's already planning to break the law in searching out Brecht, so he doesn't have many options to combat the heavy dose of liquor coursing through his veins. Besides, he's sober enough to remember that no legal drug is going to be able to cut through the numbness and haze, so perhaps he's really out of options.
"Probably not." The admission is low with the sound of ringing from the bands that glisten from white mandibles.
"And why should I suddenly trust that this isn't going to kill me?"
The man takes a deep breath, as if giving Garrus a chance to think about that question before flicking a mandible lightly in probably the biggest reaction he revealed since sitting himself at the bar and inserting himself into the younger man's life. "Why would I waste the credits to purchase you a glass of Nulli and spend the time to speak with you if I was going offer you a tainted stimulant?"
"Why help me at all?" He shakes his head and immediately regrets it as it makes the headache flare to life underneath his plates. "People don't just suddenly take interest."
"I would be foolish to stand by and let the most prominent Turian at the moment wither away under a flood of inexpensive alcohol. I have never appreciated the waste for potential, no matter the circumstances." The man shifts in his seat to face forward, intentionally stating with his body language that he no longer intends to carry on the conversation. "Take it as a parting gift to make sure that you can accomplish what you are setting out to do. Seeing as how I have taken interest in your success, it would be unfortunate for your fears of losing this Brecht because you must wait for your body to flush out the toxins." Golden eyes glance over a shoulder with final parting words. "And believe me, I would not carry substandard stimulants, though their strength does run risk of addiction, so use them sparingly."
The man returns his attentions back towards the bar, motioning fluidly for the bartender and subsequently cutting off any following remarks Garrus could come up with. It's all the same, though, as he's sure he no longer needs or wants anything from the stranger, tightening his hold on the vial in his hand as he makes his way out of the bar and towards the first destination in his new path at attempting redemption.
The ache is still there, still twisting against his lungs and making his heart feel like it's held in a Krogan's fist, but he feels a wall forming, closing around the pain and leaving only the hollow feeling behind. He doesn't mind, though, because he doesn't need the pain to remind him of his reasons, of his loss. He needs the disassociation that the emptiness has granted him during his long days wallowing in self-pity, drowning his sorrows, for what he plans for Brecht and, subsequently, Omega.
I can't bring her back, he admits with a deep sigh as he gets into a transit, but I can make things right. Do something she'd be proud of – something I'd be proud of. He sets his destination and sits back in his seat, holding out the vial to roll over his palm.
He knows that the Citadel holds nothing for him now that Jane is gone, their old home filled with memories of a past he can never have and scents that only work at his already shattered sanity. He also knows, even though he despises having to admit it, that he can't carry on in her name on a professional level. His desire to become a Spectre has all but been demolished after losing her and he isn't too out of reality not to hear how many are whispering to the contrary of everything she had fought hard to make others understand.
The Reapers are merely the mutterings of a madman – and now madwoman, though the cowards haven't yet said it aloud – and any mention is scrubbed from public view. It's an ignorant view that the Council is taking and the sheer thought leaves a slick feeling in his throat that even the cheapest of liquors couldn't produce. If he were to become a Spectre, to gain the courage to maintain his pursuit despite his lack of will, he knows his agreement with Jane's claims would never be accepted and he may have eventually turned into the same news stories as his own love.
He growls and balls his hands into fists, barely remembering the vial before it shatters in his hands. The very thought that so many are dragging his wife's name through the dirt when it hasn't even been a week makes his blood boil, his pain transform into utter rage, and it's just another reason – maybe the only reason if he really considers it – that he wants to get off of this station.
If he never sees this shiny, metallic excuse for false security and ignorant arrogance ever again, it'll be too soon. He will gladly die in the darkest, dirtiest corner of Omega in order to never set foot on the place his heart died for, only to have her name discredited and warnings ignored.
And I won't have to stay here much longer once I get what I need from Brecht, he muses with a rumble as he takes the vial and holds it up into the light of the transit's cab to examine it. It seems like a typical injection vial, where a twist will release the needle from the inner shell, and the viscous, reddish-black liquid looks much like a stimulant used to give the user heightened senses.
From what all his observations tell him added to the vague knowledge from C-Sec on current drugs, it'll definitely work to battle the effects of the alcohol in his system. He figures the high is much better than the low he's battling, so he finds the slight lip at one end with a forefinger and thumb and rotates. With a small pop and crackle, a thin needle slides from the center of the vial and he can't help but admire it's size - extremely thin considering the thickness of the drug, but long enough to fit into even the smallest of gaps in plating.
He feels the cab begin to slow as it approaches its destination, the less used entrance into C-Sec due to the current rebuilding efforts, where he plans on grabbing some weapons before getting into the system to download all of Brecht's facilities. With any luck, it hasn't been long enough for the higher ups to have denied him access under intentions of firing him due to lack of attendance and Brecht wouldn't have had enough time yet to completely empty his stores of evidence to his current whereabouts.
With his time growing short, he shrugs away any last minute indecision and takes the syringe to the thinner hide of his neck, the proximity to his jugular his best shot at getting the drug into his system in the fastest way possible. The needle slides into his flesh effortlessly and the vial's automatic injection system surges the thick fluid into his bloodstream in an instant, pulling a sharp hiss from his throat.
He waits until the needle retracts back into the vial before pulling it away, his breaths deep as he feels his heartbeat start to speed up. He puts the vial in a pouch of his armor to be disposed of later and steps out of the transit when it sets down, his mind already playing through his plan for when he finds Brecht and any possible alternatives he will need. He already lost the man once and will not lose him again, at least not before getting the name of his contact off station. If he gets that and Brecht manages to get away, then at least he will have a lead that's more deserving of the justice he plans to enact.
