-Garrus-
The warehouse area of Zakera Ward was dark, whether because of the damage or to help simulate manageable work hours for employees Garrus doesn't care to reason, and he easily blends into the shadows in his ebony armor from his time on the Normandy. Even the red undersuit was left behind at the Spectre offices, exchanged for the solid black of his C-Sec set, and the Spectre issued weapons strapped to his back and hip seem to aid his predicament, seeming to suck the light into their metal frames instead of shining it back.
It didn't take much digging into case files to find the location of Brecht's biggest warehouse, also the one most likely to incriminate him, and Garrus wasted no time in moving on his target, his blood pumping not only from the drugs in full force in his system but also the knowledge that sources haven't yet seen Brecht move to cover his tracks. He would have never guessed that the fat bastard's arrogance over his release from custody would have made him so clumsy and slow, but it would definitely make his job easier.
Climbing up the side ladder of the warehouse – taking the guise of some moving company, as if in a sick jest – brings Garrus to an outer catwalk along the northern end of the building and he easily finds a window that was most likely blown out from the station-wide destruction over a month ago. The makeshift barricade against scavengers easily shifts aside when he presses against it and his sensitive ears pick up on noise within the building even through the thick material of his helmet. It sounds like movement, and frantic movement at that, and he pokes his head in to get a better view of the area, his eyes easily adjusting to the darkened facility.
The lower floor seems usual for any warehouse of its previous claim of mere transportation of goods with large containers and equally large machinery to manage the loading and unloading onto whatever vehicles may make their way through the large bay doors at the far end. He doesn't want to imagine what those crates are truly used for considering Brecht's occupation and his mandibles flick with a light clack against his helmet in effort to keep his head clear. He doesn't need to waste this chance with getting unnecessarily angry. At least not until he has Brecht in his hands because, then, he can use his upset at getting information from the man.
His attention draws to a room, the only area of the warehouse that's lit, across the way from his location and set to overlook the warehouse floor. It is covered in large windows – currently with blinds drawn closed – on all sides not against the far wall and he doesn't need to read the plague on the door to know it'll be where his target is. As if on cue, he sees a shadowed figure scramble across the blinds and recognizes the shape – like a tall and slightly less clumsy Volus – as Brecht, making his fist tighten around the edge of the obstacle in his way in anticipation.
Emitting a low growl, he wedges the plank of plastic sheeting in order to give himself the needed room before pulling himself through the gap and onto the metal walkway on the other side. Keeping his back close to the wall and his body low in case the blinds of the office are more opaque for the interior viewer, he closes in on the din of crashing cabinets. The noise only works to his advantage as his approach goes unnoticed and he doesn't need to drag his pace to a crawl, coming upon the door and taking cover at its left, because he knows the human's hearing isn't nearly as good as his own and he can't even hear his own boots against the grating.
Taking a breath to calm his rushing adrenaline, Garrus tilts his head towards the room at his back and listens, cataloguing the situation from what his heightened senses are telling him. He hears the heavy footsteps against the ground like a Krogan stomping through on a blood-rage, the heavy breathing like a Volus' respirator, and he smells the heavy musk of sweat he's come to recognize as human, but it carries a stronger smell of waste than even the filthiest members of the Normandy. What makes his mandibles flick in satisfaction, though, is his ability to pick out the familiar scent of the man he arrested not one week ago. He's sure he wouldn't have been able to pick up on the scent if not for the stimulants in his system, the drug easily overcoming his earlier lethargy from his previous attempts at pain-management.
Definite that the man is alone, and clearly occupied with trying to destroy his former office, Garrus presses the door forward and sideways, bypassing the automated sensor with the pressure against its hydraulics and allowing him a type of manual control. The door slides open under his hands enough to let him get a visual, which only confirms his suspicions that his arrival hasn't even been noticed, and he releases his weight from the door, letting it slide open on its own with a swish as he draws his pistol.
Yet, the man doesn't respond, still too absorbed in covering any incriminating evidence through destruction to hear the automated door's entry or the whirring click of Garrus' weapon. Clicking in annoyance, Garrus steps into the office and closes the distance between himself and Brecht, nearly laughing when the human doesn't notice his visitor until the Turian is less than a meter from him. Stepping back with a heavy pant, the heavy-set man bumps his back into the hard metal of Garrus' armor, and he barely has enough time to gasp in confused shock before a heavy, black pistol slams down against the back of his skull, knocking him out cold.
As his body crumbles to the ground, Garrus is left missing that satisfaction of the take-down, this human not much of a challenge, but he shakes it off with a growl of disapproval as he holsters his pistol back to his hip. He didn't outright shoot the man because he needed information, information that most likely won't come without a little bit of persuasion, and he has a good idea that those crates down stairs are perfect for their 'conversation'.
He isn't going to pull out his back carrying the heavy human – he still doesn't understand how a human can even be this shape – so he grabs Brecht under his arms, thankful he has gloves against whatever is causing that horrid smell to litter the air from the shift in position, and drags him unceremoniously out of the office. Pulling him across the catwalk towards the lower level, he stops at the stairs and moves position, grabbing his legs instead so he won't be in a precarious position going down the stairs.
The low thumps and groans of the human's head hitting each step bring an amused flicker to his mandibles and it doesn't take long before he starts to feel what little strength the human has come back into his limbs in the Turian's hands as he slowly regains consciousness. It's all the same to Garrus as he finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, his hold not even coming close to breaking under the weak attempts of the man below him, because it just means that they can get started sooner. He strolls over towards the nearest container, its lack of markings along its surface drawing his attention and suspicions, and he lets one of the man's legs go to check its entrance panel.
It doesn't seem normal to the few others he's seen in C-Sec, and a few taps against its commands confirm that it is, indeed, something not in Citadel jurisdiction but instead from the Terminus. A whimper draws his attention back to the smelly being at his feet and his dark helmet turns towards his captive who's just barely starting to realize the situation he's waking to.
"Please, don't hurt me." Brecht says around slightly red teeth, obviously having bitten something on the way down to this level. "I'll give you whatever you want."
"I know you are," Garrus answers, his voice flat and without emotion. "Do you know this container isn't sanctioned to be on this station?"
Eyes a color that reminds him of the damp skies of Feros widen and the man's thick neck jiggles sickly as he shuffles to a sitting position. "You…you're here to tell me that?! Who the hell are you?!"
Faster than Brecht can react or even register, Garrus grabs the man by the back of his head and slams his face against the cold metal of the container, pulling a loud crack followed by a screeching-scream of pain from a now bleeding face. He cuts the scream off short, not wanting anyone who may happen to be in the area to hear them before he can get what he wants, by tilting the man's head back, cutting off his air supply.
Sputtering for breath, Brecht gets the point without words – either scream or breathe – and he gives a nod in pleading understanding, his eyes starting to tear. Lessening the angle, Garrus points the man's face towards the access panel with a single order. "Open it."
"I don't have the-" he tries to plead, but is cut off with a threatening tilt back towards the hard surface and his breath speeds up, nearly causing him to hyperventilate, as his eyes widen at the red smear centimeters from his face. "No! No! I'll open it! I swear!"
Garrus pulls him away and lets the man hover his hand over the panel, his Omni-Tool flickering to life before the door of the crate shifts slightly. Wedging his hand into the gap created, he shoves the door open enough to drag the now-struggling human inside and tossing him unceremoniously against the opposite side.
The container is small and he must hunch over to make it inside, but he doesn't see it being a problem as he'll most likely need to be crouching because he doesn't see the coward managing to stand on his feet anytime soon. The air is heavy and still with the smells that grant him the appalling assurance that, yes, it was as he suspected, this crate and the others like it were being used as transportation for captives off of the station. Eyeing a panel within the walls much like the one on the outer wall, he scowls at the fact that it's an inner release in case someone not a potential slave found themselves locked within. At that, he turns to look straight at the slack jawed, quivering human just within the band of light from the outside and pulls the door closed, locking the two in the deafening darkness.
His eyes adjust quickly – and if they couldn't, his visor would have that covered – and he relishes the panicked breathing of his target as the man tosses his head this way and that as he tries to scramble to his feet and catch sight of his assailant. Surprisingly, Brecht doesn't scream, doesn't shout for help, but Garrus figures that it's probably because the man knows it would just be a waste of energy. These slave transports are built to be soundproof after all and any efforts would most likely just bounce back to deafen the occupants.
"What the fuck do you want, Turian!" His face points towards where Garrus last was, but the plated shadow has already moved aside and closer upon his left, his movements as silent as any natural predator. "What the fuck is your problem! I ain't done nothing to you!"
"Perhaps." He grabs the man's wrist, twisting it behind his fat back while kicking his foot back, and slams his target to the ground. "But we're still going to have a little talk." He twists the arm higher, pulling a gasp and curse in pain. "And your answers dictate my response."
With that, he jerks Brecht's wrist down and slams his free palm against his elbow, snapping it like a twig. The man screams and Garrus smells the new scent of urine in the air, fresh and definitely from the man in his hold. He flicks a distasteful mandible, thinking, I've just started and he's already showing signs of submission. Pathetic.
As the screams begin to die down, he leans to the human's ear, releasing his wrist to jerk his head back and cut off his air so that he can be heard. "What is the name of your buyer on Omega?" Dropping the man's head to suck in gasps around his whimpers, he watches shoulders hitch a moment before losing his patience and grabbing the already injured hand, taking a finger between his talons in silent threat.
"Wait!" Brecht shouts, trying to tug the hand from Garrus' hold. "Wait just a fucking minute! I don't know nobody on Omega, you fucking asshole!"
"Wrong," he answers coldly and snaps the finger, bringing it backwards and nearly against the back of the man's hand. He lets the screams echo through the container, his helmet blocking out the noise so that he doesn't go deaf, and takes the second finger before asking again. "What is the name of your buyer on Omega?"
He has to hand it to the man, either he's too stupid or whoever he's working for scares him more than the armored Turian, because he merely spits in Garrus' general direction. "Fuck you, you fucking cuttlebone freak," he grits out.
Internally sighing at the useless stubbornness, he breaks the finger in his grip, accepting the resulting scream as reprimand enough for the 'cuttlebone' remark. "What is the name of your buyer on Omega?" He certainly hopes the main will grow a brain soon, the novelty of breaking fingers is wearing off quickly.
"Kron!" Brecht stammers as talons grasp at the third finger on his hand. "His name is Kron!" Garrus snaps the third finger, making the man scream and nearly black out. "I fucking swear! Oh God, what do you want from me!"
Garrus leans closer to the man's face, the cold metal of his helmet presses against the slick temple, and a mandible twitches when the broken man tries to presses against the chill to battle the pain. He lets Brecht search for the little bit of comfort before grabbing the last intact finger on that hand and orders, "Last name."
"Harga," Brecht sobs, his free hand gripping the talons around his finger in silent plea. "Please, it's the truth."
"We'll see," is the only response, followed by the snap of bone, before the man passes out from pain. Seeing as how it's useless to continue while he won't get any information, Garrus lets the man's broken hand go before pulling out a Medi-Gel pack from his armor and examining it.
It doesn't take much to find the separate section of the pack that contains the adrenaline compound and he pulls out the knife from his boot to cut away what he won't need, returning the antiseptic and narcotic back into his pouch. He slaps the remaining pack against the sweaty flesh that rolls around Brecht's neck and waits a moment for it to kick it, slapping the man's face to wake him the rest of the way once he sees his eyelids flicker.
The man awakes with a gasp and his head jerks in sudden remembrance of his situation, but he can't scramble away before Garrus overpowers him, tossing him back down. Grabbing the human's currently uninjured arm, Garrus holds his wrist up and lays his palm against the joint of his elbow. "Who buys the humans you traffic out of the Citadel?"
"Are you serious?" he asks, delirious. "I just told-" A crack and the man screams as Garrus snaps the elbow against the joint.
"Who buys the humans you traffic out of the Citadel?" He asks again as he takes the unbroken index finger of this hand in his grip.
"I told you! Kron Harga!" Tears fall down sweaty cheeks. "I don't know what more you want! Please!"
Garrus wants to makes sure the information is correct, that the name isn't just some random title off the top of Brecht's head, that the smelly, fat bastard isn't letting his fear speak lies. "Who buys the humans traffic for slavery?" He waits a moment to see the realization in the man's eyes before snapping the finger.
"Kron Harga," he whimpers, his voice coarse from screaming, and passes out again.
Instead of doses him with more adrenaline, Garrus lets the man sit while he searches his Omni-Tool for anything that may link what he's saying to truth. It isn't like he doesn't believe him, after all, it's hard to maintain a lie after repeated questions, but he'd rather have as much information as he can get before the weak body at his feet no longer wakes up from the pain. Plus, this crouching is getting to his back and he'd much rather be on his way off this damn station.
When the man awakes ten minutes later, he doesn't even bother to try and pull out of the stronger Turian's grip and simply whimpers in anticipation. Unmoved - how many whimpered and pleaded to be released when you sold them like things, Brecht? It is not 'karma', as your people would say - Garrus stares through the dark pane of his helmet as he waits for Brecht to regain complete consciousness.
Seeing the awareness finally leak into the dirty green-brown eyes of his target, he puts threatening pressure against the next finger in his hands, getting attentions back on the task at hand. "Now that we have your buyer down, it's time you tell me your contacting protocol."
"I send him a message," he cries. "It's the same message each time. 'I can't wait to hit Afterlife, see if I can find me some sweet Asari blue.' He always responds with a location to meet."
With a flick of his mandible, he breaks the finger and repeats the question, getting the same answer. He's seen the messages and knew what they could have meant, but it doesn't hurt to be sure and he doesn't change subject until he receives the same response the next two times he asks.
He only needs one last thing from the man, one last thing before moving on to bigger targets, and he pulls Brecht's left arms closer, pinning it with his knee just before the elbow. The man gasps and cries in pain, but he ignore him as he removes the blade from his boot and feels along the thin skin at his wrist, locating the solid lump of his Omni-Tool implant. That gets the human's attention as he futilely tries to pull away, but his broken limps are weak and his fight is nothing more than a nuisance before Garrus rolls his eyes and lays his other knee in his palm and against his shattered fingers.
That cuts off any more resistance efforts as the Turian lays the sharp blade against the slick, human skin and slices the arm open around the implant. A loud cry falls from trembling lips before Brecht gains enough strength to scream fully. How the man isn't deaf by now, Garrus will never know, but a moment later, the Omni-Tool is out and still intact.
Garrus lifts off, letting the human scramble away to press his back against the cool metal wall as hard as possible in attempts to escape any more torment, and checks the Interface, nodding as everything runs smoothly as if still imbedding in its host. Pocketing the implant, and turning the crate back into darkness, he turns to Brecht, his plump form trembling with tiny whimpers as he grips his broken limbs to his chest.
"Please," he wheezes towards where he last say the Turian by the orange glow. "Please, I don't know anything else. Please, let me go. I promise I won't say anything."
"What would you say? A Turian in black attacked and interrogated you?" Garrus moves closer, not bothering to hide the falls of his feet and drawing a flinch at each from Brecht. "Your promise is worthless to me."
"You can't kill an innocent man," he says weakly, but even he seems to not completely believe his own chances.
"No, I can't." Garrus lowers to Brecht's side. "But you aren't an innocent man, are you?" The man bites his lips to hold back the sob that jerks against his chest and drops his head in hopeless resignation.
"Please," he whispers as his eyes droop, his body obviously going to shock from his injuries, and Garrus watches as his eyes close and waits until his breathing steadies into the gradual rise and fall of unconsciousness. Once sure the man is under, Garrus takes the man's head in his heads and gives it a sharp twist and tug, snapping his neck and giving him a quick end. He feels the body slump against his side before he drags the man out and piles him onto a cargo lift in order to transport him away from the warehouse.
He doesn't need to move far with his cargo before he finds what he's looking for and pulls the lift into the access to the Keeper tunnels nearby, ducking into the narrow pathways that are clearer of debris than even the Presidium. He has to drag Brecht's body the rest of the way, but he doesn't mind much as no one will think twice about a lift in the warehouse district being out of place as C-Sec often had complaints of Keepers moving items randomly.
He doesn't care if anyone finds Brecht's body, he covered his tracks and the man is dirty enough that the evidence of foul play could point to anyone he has wronged, but the discovery does come with other complications. He can't afford to get out the knowledge of the human's death as that could find its way to Omega and he can't risk losing his next target, who he now knows as Kron Harga. All of this will mean nothing if the damned Batarian can just go into hiding and continue his slaving business.
With the stimulants still pumping through his system and combined with the adrenaline of a successful hunt, he lets his sense of smell pull him towards the protein vats in the tunnels. By the time anyone discovers the scene in the warehouse, the vats will have done their job and there will be nothing left of Brecht to investigate, to lead C-Sec into investigating the sudden missing Omni-Tool and question that rarity. He doesn't want any officers trying to look into what the Tool could possess worth outright removing, they wouldn't do anything worth-while with it and he's damn sure not going to let it go to waste.
Coming upon the strong smell of the vats and whatever untold things may be dissolving within, Garrus stops to shift his hold on the body in his arms in order to better move it. He lifts the man under his arms, grunting at the dead weight that could shame a full heavy-armored Turian, and flings the upper half over the railing to hold it as he moves lower. With a light lift and flick of his center of gravity, the human's form tumbles over the metal bars and falls into the greenish-yellow vat of thick fluid with a subdued slashing-flop. The protein must work fast, as a light sizzle and scent of decay permeates through the filters of his helmet, and he leans his elbows on the railing as he watches Brecht's body sink deeper, becoming completely enveloped in the chemicals.
Pulling out the Omni-Tool interface from the pocket of his suit, he holds in in his palm, the low lights of the tunnel reflecting of the thin layer of red blood on its surface. This is his key into Harga's business, his way of drawing the slaver out for the kill, and he closes his fist around the tiny electronic, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. Whatever outcome of their meeting, he isn't coming back to this station, back to the life he refuses to life alone, but he does have one last thing to do.
He owes it to her.
V.v.V.v.V.v.V
He arrives to the apartment of another live to find a package by his door with a note. Pulling the large crate in the door, he checks the date of the delivery and sees it had arrived only a day after his life fell apart, but he doesn't recognize what it could be or who it could be from. Checking the note only makes his dead heart beat once in order to feel pain and he nearly collapse.
Mr. Vakarian. I hear you're doing well in Spectre training. Thought you might need some 'real' armor for when you get back to the Normandy. We do manage to find the best kinds of adventure, after all, so I got you some heavy armor. Plus, you need to stop being so damn stubborn and listen to your doctor, you little shit! Stop making me worry about you! Jane P.S. I miss blue on you, so promise me you'll wear this when I get back. I bet it'll look damn good!
He lays the note aside and turns to the crate, not sure if he wants the pain of grief to return by looking at its contents. He rumbles a low keen, his chest sore, but it stops there as his mind shuts it off, barricading the pain away behind numb indifference so he doesn't break before he needs the disassociation for Omega. Control returning, he lifts the crate's lid with a decision that, since he's coming here to collect any last vestiges of this life to keep him company on the law-less station in the Terminus, he might as well grant his lost love one last wish.
Tossing the lid aside reveals the large chest piece of a new set of armor, heavier than what he's used to but stronger than he could imagine, that shines in a dark blue with inset lines of black where the plates come together. The collar is tall and perfect to protect his neck and it sweeps down low to cover his waist without limiting his movement. Setting it aside reveals the rest, equally heavy shoulder plates and gauntlets followed by solid boots and strong leg guards.
He doesn't hesitate to remove the black layers of his now needless armor, even stripping off the worn undersuit to replace it with the more durable one that came with his armor, and his body actually feels good once the heavy pieces of metal protection fall and snap into piece around his body. The armor lies heavy on his limbs and he already knows that it will cause pain until he becomes used to it, builds the proper muscles to wield it, but he likes the feeling and wouldn't trade it for the comfort of his older sets.
The discomfort and eventual pain will do him good, let him have a psychical reminder of what he can't allow his mind to focus on for fear of losing focus. Let the blue plates and black material press against him like a lover, like the life that was ripped from him, and let his pain turn into sore muscles and bruised hide so that he can do right, succeed in one way where he has failed so many other times before.
Strapping his weapons to his new armor, he moves to the bedroom of the lifeless apartment and grabs a duffle bag for the few things he will take with him. He packs few clothes, the need to possibly blend in once in a while demanding he have something less obvious than a heavy suit of blue armor, and grabs a few things to keep clean, but he saves nearly the entire bag for the last scraps of his past life.
Jane's wedding dress, still crumbled in the bed from the last time he slept here with it clutched in his hands as he curled his body around it, gets folded as neatly as he can manage with his limited knowledge of human clothes and he finds her sketchbooks in a drawer in his desk. He drops the bag on the ground before he then rips the longer strap from another. He then grabs her guitar, trying to handle it with the most care he can manage, and he ties a loop around the longer stem and a large one around the curve of its wider base. Slinging the guitar over his shoulder to rest on his back alongside his favored sniper rifle, he takes the bag of the rest of his things in hand and leaves the apartment behind.
Within no time he finds a one-way transport to Omega that doesn't charge him much and, even better, doesn't ask questions as he hires them. He doesn't bother to look back at the station that once held his old life as the shuttle launches on its way and instead starts to devise his plan for when he arrives at the station that will hold his new one.
-SquigglySquid says: Just wanted to thank any and everyone who nominated and voted for Juxtaposed and Genesis on KinkMeme. It's a real honor and I really appreciate it.
Just as an FYI, if readers want the two years, I would like to make it a separate fic because two years can offer a lot of story. :) Here's the question, would you like a summary with key points that point to Resurgence, or would you like me to get into the gist of ME2?