Garrus

I make the trek to my apartment, a million thoughts buzzing through my head like gunfire. Zaeed Massani matched the profile of men I pursued during my C-SEC tenure, and when left to my own devices on Omega, men like him became a dying breed. Ordinarily, a pursuit with a merc of his caliber would have been lethal. Blame it on a cramped ship, a suicide mission, or mutual sniper bravado, but I grew to admire him, even trust. If nothing else, the old mercenary was upfront about his goals. My gut tells me to trust Zaeed if he's involved, even though he swore he'd 'never trust a blue girl again.' But something about the meeting nagged at me. It's no surprise that Elkoss is dirty. They're in the arms business, out to make money. And the main buyers for guns are military and mercs. Love it or not, killing is a lucrative business, especially if you're not pulling the trigger.

Indecision never sits well with me. It's too much like fate, leaving things up to chance rather than taking action. And normally I'm content with making a choice and settling it, like I've always done. Applying for Spectre status, leaving with Shepard for the Normandy, and going to Omega were all my choices. Now I'm stuck at a strange crossroads, and it makes my fringe crawl.

Those sisters are nothing but trouble, whether they gun for the right people or not. Cerberus isn't a friend to anyone, but arming those two will end sour before the fruit falls. On the other hand, I know the Reapers offer only death and annihilation, and the Hierarchy, the strongest military in the known galaxy, isn't prepared. If I don't take this token title and do something with it, dealing with asari mercs will be the least of my problems.

Once home, I access my console, take a seat at my desk and pull out my flask. Turning it in my hand, looking at the tiny nicks and feeling the weight puts me right back on that ship. I should contact him, hear what he has to say straight from his mouth.

Damn I miss her.

I shake aside the thought. Not now. If I think about her for too long, the blank walls feel a little too close, and I'll get too distracted to do my duty. Instead, I stare at the console, spinning the flask by its corner. I don't know how to contact Massani other than standbys left over from the suicide mission. And knowing him, he likely ditched those the moment we parted ways.

We scattered when the mission ended, and the universe was lonelier for it.

I check my messages, skimming past Sol's insistent messages, reading the Primarch's notifications with marginally higher focus, all the while searching for an answer that won't come.

And looking for a message you know she can't send.

I need someone to bounce the idea with. Talk it through before I do something rash. I give the flask a final spin, and heave a sigh. Much as I never liked it before, the old man's advice lately has been… refreshing.

So to speak.

I open up a comm channel and wait for him to pick up.

"Vakarian here," a gruff voice answers. A familiar, battle-hardened face fills the screen.

"Father," I answer. "It's me. How are you?"

"Better than most," he answers automatically. "Though I should ask the same of you. You look troubled."

Straight to business, but I suppose there's no sense hiding. "Yeah," I sigh. "You could say that."

"What's on your mind?"

"It's just…" I hesitate. "Where to start? When you were back on the force, how many times have you ever run across situations that…" I eye the flask, "tested what you were willing to excuse, willing to let slide?"

"I'm not sure I follow. This some kind of moral quandary, or are you looking to reminisce?" Through the screen, he gives me a long, baleful look, then sighs. "Alright. Story for story. Sound good?"

"Lay it on me," I reply.

"We had a case, few years back. Long time ago before your fringe grew in. Batarian couple had a kid, a son, that needed a liver transplant. The parents, well, they didn't give their consent to the surgery. Religious reasons."

"You're kidding," I blurt out. "They didn't want to save their kid?"

"From what I understand, it wasn't saving to them. Religion's a funny thing like that." He waves a hand. "Makes you believe things you didn't think would make sense otherwise. At any rate, the parents and the head doctor argued, and meanwhile, the hospital 'lost' the patient." He finishes the statement with an air-quote.

"Lost," I repeat. "As in died, or kidnapped?"

"Lost," he replies with a quick flick of his mandible, "As in taken to a separate facility behind everyone's back, and given a liver from an 'anonymous donor.' By the time we found the kid, he was healthy and alive, playing in this, I don't know, daycare waiting room."

My jaw slackens. "That's… surprisingly uplifting. Which means it was anything but."

"Of course not. You know that." He leans in closer, resting his arms on his knees. "One count of reckless endangerment of a sentient below their government's age of majority. One count of falsified medical records, one count of operation done without surgical consent, and to top it off, a mysterious donor of a child-sized batarian liver." He sighs and leans back. "A liver that saved a kid's life."

I eye the flask again, and heave a sigh of my own. "So you investigated. It was, by all accounts, the right thing to do. What came of it?"

"Rogue doctors," my father replies derisively. "A group of medical students and lab technicians, salarians, asari, even a couple of humans, who wanted to try a new method of organ transplants using completely synthetic parts."

"Don't we have that now?" Isn't that partially what brought her back?

"We do because of them and their 'research,'" he says dryly. "In the old days, we would need the patient's DNA to grow an organ, and even then, finding a donor was more desirable. Cloning takes months, months they didn't have. Those doctors knew that, and did the right thing in the wrong way."

"In the end, you still arrested them," I say, more bitter about the outcome than I expected.

"In the end we had to," he replies. "Still, you know as well as I do that getting arrested is never the end of someone's story. They were charged, got a light sentence, and their own wing at Huerta Memorial."

"Sounds like justice was served," I say dryly. "In the end you just did the same thing. Time after time, by the book as usual. I'm not sure if I see the moral quandary in that."

"The quandary is choosing to go by the book." He gives me a stern look. A familiar look. "Thinking for yourself doesn't always mean breaking the rules to get the results you want. Those doctors eventually learned that lesson. Even if it took a little help," he finishes smugly.

"What do you mean?"

"A story never ends at the arrest, like I said. Investigating officers are required to testify, and in some cases give their opinion on the situation. I did my part best as I saw fit."

"You encouraged them," I say, wonder creeping in my voice.

"They saved a kid's life," he says, voice brittle. "Kid's a captain on Kithoi Ward, now."

I swallow hard, avoiding my father's gaze. Mildly surprised at the story's ending. "Play by the rules, because that's the best policy."

"Yes."

"So that's it, then." I heave a sigh.

"Twenty-odd years, and still," he mutters. "Garrus, you learn the rules and play by them because they exist for a reason. They represent the right way to do things. Nothing more. And frankly, I can't talk you into doing everything by the book. We both learned that when you ran off to Omega."

I wince.

"The only thing I can do," he continues, "is try my damnedest to instill some common sense into you. So that you can make the right choices for yourself. To have honor."

"That's worked out well," I say dryly.

"Actually, it has."

I blink. "…What?"

"It has," he repeats. "Son, you spent half your life walking in the shadows of others. Mine, your generals, teachers, even that damn human Spectre of yours. And like it or not, that stint on Omega." He sighs. "Much as I disagree with it on every level imaginable, it was your path to walk. Not in the shadow of someone else. So don't pick now to fall back into that pattern."

I crane my neck and look to the ceiling. "Father, I'm not going to run away to the Terminus again, not if I can help it."

"I don't mean that," he snaps. "I mean following in footsteps that don't belong to you. You keep walking in someone's shadow, you'll only be Garrus on the outside. But who's the turian behind the carapace? You know right from wrong by now, and you know what's right for you."

"But," and the question catches in my throat. The words he threw at me turned me into a young cadet again… but finally an equal. "How will I know what the right thing is?"

"You won't," he replies tersely. "That's what trust is."

Shepard

We run silent as soon as we enter the Zaherin system. Doctor Bryson followed up with more intel, none of which sounded too promising. Small, underfunded research facility, too close to the vorcha dens scattered around the planet. An even smaller team, with young Dr. Bryson herself in the lead. They broke off contact about a standard week ago, which in my experience means anything from dead to trapped in a Prothean force field.

I climb aboard the shuttle with Kaidan, Vega and Vasir in tow. Vega looks eager as he double-checks his guns, like he's long overdue for excitement. Vasir looks bored as all hell, and shows it in the way she slumps in the corner seat. And Kaidan is a rock as usual. Same thoughtful face, same coffee-brown eyes scanning every detail. Same calm veneer hiding whatever's really going on in that head of his.

Black little rainclouds.

"We're coming up to a suitable landing zone, but looks like a dust storm is rolling in," Cortez says. "No reports to go by, but this one's enough to make communication spotty."

"Take us through nice and easy, then," I reply. "If it gets too bad, be ready to bug out after you drop us down."

"Aye, ma'am."

Turbulence hits the shuttle, forcing me to hang on to the railing.

"Must be one hell of a storm," Vega comments.

"The hell is going on out there?" I regain my balance and make my way toward the cockpit.

"Storms, like I said. Visibility's dropped to forty-two percent." Cortez looks up at me from his seat, eyes tense with worry. "You still want to drop in?"

"As long as you can land us," I say with ease. "This guy's daughter is down there, and they might have something good. I'm not about to get cold feet now." I look back at the crew. They're as ready as they'll ever be. "Drop us in, Cortez."

As soon as our feet hit the ground the wind tries its best to knock us sideways. I hunker down to get my bearings, then scan for any low-frequency signals, distress warnings, anything. Beside me, Kaidan does the same.

"Yo, Lola. Hate to state the obvious, but it fucking sucks out here."

I roll my eyes behind my visor. "Noted, Vega," I reply. "Picking up something faint about thirty clicks that way," I say, signaling the direction. "Let's move up, nice and easy."

Grit and sand swirl around us, transforming the sky and sun into a dim, burnt-orange haze. The trek toward the signal is slow, boring, and methodical. One step forward, squint, repeat. And with the signal spotty at best, and the wind beating at us, loud and fierce, we can't even put on shitty techno music to pass the time.

And now I miss Garrus all over again. Damn it.

Eventually we see the faint outline of prefabs dead ahead. The sand's playing with our depth perception, but according to our readout, still about a hundred yards away.

"That must be it!" Kaidan shouts hopefully.

"Agreed!" I yell back over the din. "Stay on your toes! We don't know if this is a rescue or clean-up!"

We draw our guns and approach the prefabs. Slow and steady, squint, repeat. Once we finally get close enough, close enough to hear the sand beat against the metal walls, we stop and listen.

Wind howling. Vega's breath over the comm. The quietest murmur behind the walls.

Bingo.

I take point to the doorway and signal the others. They fall into a defensive position, and I find myself pleasantly surprised at how efficient the meat tank and the crabby asari are. They don't have the excuse of experience like Kaidan does. Maybe this won't be so bad.

I override the lock on the door and enter.

Inside, the prefab is dim, with light coming from a couple of consoles on the far end. As my eyes adjust, I see a few people napping in the corner, two people at a table drinking TM88 and playing Skylian Five, and none other than the doctor herself reading a trashy romance novel at her desk.

I think I feel my eye twitch.

"So, uh…" Vega starts. "I guess we're here to rescue you guys?" He lowers his gun first and looks around sheepishly.

I step forward to the doctor. "Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy. Are you Dr. Ann Bryson?"

She scrambles out of her chair and straightens out her uniform. "Ah, yes! Of course. I'm Ann Bryson. Lead field researcher for Task Force Aurora. We ah… we weren't expecting anyone to arrive so soon."

"So soon?" I cock my head. "We were told to come out here by Dr. Garret Bryson. Said communication's been on the fritz." And when I look around at her crew assembling themselves, I get the slight impression that it's been spotty for some time.

"So then we weren't ignored," she mumbles to herself. "Just not heard at all." And for an awkward moment a guilty look flashes across her face. "Well. We did find something out here."

"That sounds promising, but I'm sensing a but," Kaidan says. He steps further into the room and stands beside me, folding his arms and looking around. He's not one to use intimidation tactics, but he wears it well. Based on the uneasy look the doctor wears, his stance is fairly effective.

"We came here on a hunch. Years ago, an asari reported that she abandoned a project here because 'the location was too creepy.'" She gestures towards the door. "Creepy, even though it's just rocks and dust out there. We found something, but not what we intended. Not a Rho device, nor any kind of Reaper tech I've ever seen." Her eyes glitter in the dim light when she says, "We may have discovered something even bigger."

"Show us," Vasir says. "And while you're at it, maybe explain why you're wasting time and good booze out here."

The doctor, who I peg to be in her mid-twenties at best, looks uncomfortable again. "We were going to leave after the storms settled," she says indignantly. "Then about a week ago, we figured we could risk it and go off-planet anyway. But then… then our ship got stolen and we've been stuck here since trying to get a signal out."

"Stolen?" we say in unison.

"There's ah, a vorcha tribe pretty close by. We think they raided our supplies, as well. We heard rumors, but we didn't expect… well, to be stranded here."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Any sign of them now? Casualties?"

"No, none hurt or injured. We've tried sleeping in shifts, keeping watch, but they haven't come back." She ducks her head down, and the poor thing looks so lost and sad. "We think they're long gone."

The full picture forms in my brain as I take in the scene. This woman, in some ways still a kid, was eager to prove herself out here, and almost did. Then in a bad case of luck that any Alliance type knows about, got humiliated by some roguish-ass boat-stealers.

Man, I hope she at least kept the research.

"Did you at least keep the research?" Vasir asks, tone drier than the windstorm.

Dr. Bryson perks up. "We did. Luckily the artifact wasn't on board, so we still have it with us."

"With you?" Vega asks. "What is it? And how big is it?"

"More importantly, is it dangerous?" Kaidan heads toward the consoles, omni-tool already out. "I'm assuming this is the data? Alright if we make a copy?"

"Er… Yes, by all means." Dr. Bryson gathers files, books, and research equipment and stuffs them in a duffle bag. Her frantic energy reminds me of a certain kid on her first week at basic. I decide right then that I like her, in that Tali sort of way. The type of little sister that needs common sense drilled in them.

Her actions rouse urgency in her crew, and they pack their equipment in kind. The two poker players, a lanky, dark-skinned guy and a shorter, snubbed-nosed woman rise out of their chairs and head to a back room.

"Commander, if you'll follow us," the woman says, beckoning, "you can see for yourself what we discovered out here."

I give a slight nod to Vasir, and we follow the researchers to the back room. In the middle of a cluster of monitors, consoles and datapads sits a very round, very dim, and wholly underwhelming grey orb.

I rub my eyes with a hand and try my best to keep a level head. Beside me, Vasir lets out a long exasperated sigh and drums out a mnemonic on her arm.

"This," I start, praying to God for a neutral voice. "What are we looking at here?"

"We're not exactly sure yet," the woman says excitedly. "But we picked up an unusual signal when we scanned for foreign devices in the system. We landed here, almost by accident, really, and came across this."

"We know it doesn't look like much," the lanky man says. "But we found it in an old, unexplored cave. Along with this."

He enlarges a screen on the console and projects an image. It dawns on me quick as lightning what I'm looking at, and my blood turns to glass.

A mural. Ancient stone drawings, dyes and scorch marks still intact, showcasing artistry similar to ancient humans. Bipeds roamed this planet once, if the drawing tells it right, but that's not what stops my heart. A large imposing monster, that abomination synonymous with every horror lurking in the deep, towers over the figures.

They stand in fixed poses of worship, and I know damn well what that means.

The fucking Reapers. A damn drawing of the bastards on some underfunded dustbowl surrounded by vorcha dens. And to top it off, a fucking Rho device center stage in the goddamn room.

This day is turning shittier by the minute.

"You mean to tell me you have an untested, unshielded Reaper device right in the middle of your research station?" I say, quelling down the panic in my voice. "Did you people not get the memo on indoctrination?"

"Shepard," Kaidan says, entering the room behind me. "According to this data, that's not a Reaper device."

"Yeah, that and four krogan nuts will buy me a Trident, Kai."

"No, he's correct," Dr. Bryson says, duffle slung over her shoulder behind him. "If my hunch is correct, we're looking at the first race that ever encountered the Reapers."

"The first." I turn back to the image, this stark reminder of their shape, their size, so much like Sovereign, so foreign and violent. I stare at it, looking for whatever she sees, and coming up empty. "That's a Reaper," I say. "Are you telling me…" I turn back to the doctor.

"This may be the race that built the Reapers." She steps forward with a look of pride clear across her face. "And if I'm correct, we discovered the oldest technological artifact in the galaxy."