Chapter 12: Black and White

The taxi door opened. A turian slid inside.

"Hey how're you doing?" said the driver listlessly.

"Just fine." said the other, his eyes already out the window. The door closed. The engine started.

He simply was not there.

The driver's hand upon the wheel, the world whirring by; colors and fog. The angles of ledges and architecture skimmed past the glass, casting fleeting shadows over the passenger's plated cheek as they slipped on through them; a snake through towering silver reeds.

"Hey what's in the cryo box? Present for a girl?"

A present.

A pool of red hair, fire on a pillow, burning his arm.

Eyes that cut. Lips open. Breath.

Yes.

A present.

"Roses." he said quietly. "I hear humans like them."

"Oh you got roses! Hey, those are hard to come by. Must be a special occasion, no wonder you got 'em on ice."

Silence. The passing buildings which scraped the hollow sky.

"Yes. Some things die quickly."

The cabbie's eyes looked through the mirror at him, watching the other man stare out the window with no expression. Dressed in grey. He wasn't even wearing paint. The driver rolled his eyes. Kids.

He spoke again, absent.

"Some things just don't have enough time. Before they spoil."

The driver chuckled.

"Ain't that the truth."

They made a hard left.

"The presidium right?"

"No. About four blocks north, please."

"No problem. Hey, you going to that thing today?"

"What thing?"

"The funeral. Haven't you heard? It's been on every station, for weeks. That girl that died, that human."

He didn't say a word. The driver sighed and continued.

"Been off in the stars I take it?"

The passenger rasped a dry laugh.

"Yeah. I guess…you can say I just got back from a long trip."

He looked back out the window, to the buildings so high up above. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of the light on his face.

Warm.

Peach colored skin.

Smooth. Soft. Like silk, even with the white scars that crossed it like deltas on a foreign river. Memories, traced through the glistening sand of her life.

And then it faded.

Cold.

Again.

The lamp disappeared behind a massive tower. His eyes opened, just slits. His vision a blur, unfocused. He didn't care to look at the world for what it was anymore.

He had seen enough.

"...But here I am. Back again."

His eyes like embers out of that window.

"Like I never left."

The driver shrugged, fiddling with his music

"Eh, that's life. Sorry to break it to you, kid."

That's life.

Life.

"So where you going?"

"A grave."

"Oh. Spirits. Sorry. I didn't mean to offend."

"Don't be."

A sudden burst of light blinded his eyes, his pupils constricting, but he did not turn them away.

"I never liked him any way."

"You meeting your girlfriend there?"

"I hope so."

A quick right. Their bodies glided with the momentum, the heavy box pushing into his charcoal thigh as his shoulder touched the window. They were getting closer. All throughout the street he could see people walking, countless bodies in black and occasionally white, for the colors of mourning differed sometimes with culture. Thousands drifting towards a common point, robes and fabric flowing, floating with the wind as if the gravity had turned off. The marching of quieted feet. Like ghosts. All converging, all gathering towards a soundless epicenter of bodies, lights, and cameras. He could see the stadium lights in the sky, even half a city away.

He would not be joining them.

"Lots of people out there. Phew. I guess she was well liked. But then again, how many people save the galaxy's largest space station, become a hero, and then end up dead in the same six months?"

His fingers tensed.

"Only one."

"Exactly. It's a legitimate shame. I'm not really one for their kind – I mean, I was about your age when that whole mess went on, so I've got my prejudices. I still think they're ugly, but I saw her on the news and, damn, she might have been the exception. And I hear she was a hellion too."

"…She was."

The driver clicked his tongue in his mouth, shaking his head in dismay as he cut off another car. "Just my kind of woman. Figures. Didn't happen to know her, did you?"

The passenger ran his shaking finger down the metal box, watching the buildings slide past him with cold indifference, before moving his mouth.

"…No."

He murmured bitterly, the words turning like poison on his tongue.

"Not at all."

It was quiet for just a moment longer, before they stopped.

"We're here."

The driver reached a long hand back and took his card, slid it, and passed it back. The passenger looked at it uselessly, at its pointlessness, before reaching back up to take it. The door opened. His hands found their place around the leaden box and he slipped out of the door.

"Hey!"

He turned, his eyes looking like granite against the backdrop of his somber clothes.

"You sure you're in the right place? I don't know of any cemeteries up here."

The turian smiled and looked back down the empty road.

"There aren't…Don't worry, I know where I'm going. It's just a little bit out of the way."

"Oh…You sure?"

He smiled further.

"Yeah, really. It's ok. And it's kind of new. Well, it will be."

"…Alright. You take care of yourself, ok?"

"I always do."

He turned and left, walking into the great distance before him. His driver watched, still uncertain. At last he shrugged it off and turned the key; gone. The lone turian walked, counting the numbers on the buildings down until he came to the one he had chosen, so carefully, the night before.

He checked it twice; always the perfectionist.

The ashen turian walked through the door, which slid open for him with a pleasant mechanical whir. A zenful reception area, and Chellick, on door patrol. When he recognized him, his face lit up like a sunrise.

"Garrus! Spirits, haven't seen you in ages!"

"Hi Chellick. You're in a good mood. How's your wife?"

"She's great. Just got back with the kids from Paleven. Khali just had her birthday."

"You must be so proud."

"Ah, there's no greater joy. She wants to be a sniper, just like uncle G."

"That's sweet. Just do me a favor and tell her it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Eh that's you, so modest. What are you up to – shit, are those roses?"

"Yes sir. Long stem."

"You and the ladies. Another one bites the dust, eh?"

"Chellick, really. Just meeting up with an old flame."

"Mmm, those are the ones that burn the hottest. Better watch yourself."

His chest seared. He forced a painful laugh.

"Sorry kid, you know I'm an old bastard. Gotta live vicariously – married."

He flashed his ring. It glittered bitterly, like ice. The younger turian stared, perhaps too hard.

"So, anything I can help you with?"

"Actually… yes. Do you have the keys to the roof?"

"Sure, what for?"

"I was going to surprise her. I'm going to give her a gift."

Chellick smiled hugely.

"…You crafty little bitch. I never knew you were a romantic. She'll be in your bed tonight for sure."

His lungs collapsed, as all feeling was pried out through the hole in his chest, long since emptied. He steadied it, and cast his eyes upon the sunny floor, on its little golden flecks, swallowing.

"Maybe… in a dream…got those keys?"

"Sure Garrus, good luck."

They dropped into his hand. He looked at them, and then up at his old friend, who was casually picking lint off of his uniform.

"Thanks…and Chellick."

Their eyes met.

"I hope everything goes well for you. I mean it."

"Ah Vakarian, you're too serious. Going to scare her away like that. Just relax. Hey we'll go for a drink later, tomorrow night. You can tell me all about it."

Garrus smiled.

"Yeah. I'd like that. I'll see you at...the bar."

"You know it."

He tipped his head to him, and turned away, the keys nice and cool in his hand as he hit the call button. Soundless clockwork, and the doors spread out before him. He was still smiling as he crossed the threshold, and selected the 124th floor, the very top. He closed his eyes, and breathed in life while he stood standing, tasting the moment with a clarity he had never felt before. It took off like a rocket, so fast his stomach dropped from the dizzying push - a profoundly chilling, exhilarating feeling.

Like the Mako when it dropped to terra, holding on to the roll bars for dear life.

Like the scent of new armor, still slick with the plasticine perfume of sealant.

Like the clean ceramic clack of a heat sink slamming into its receiver.

The touch of soft red hair, sliding past his tongue. The salt of her sweat. The flames that always followed her.

My Angel.

He opened his eyes. He looked slowly up. He unlocked the door. Cold air licked him as he walked calmly from the frame to the desert of concrete between him and his vantage. His mind as clean as the beautiful sky, the perfect lie, he stepped purposefully, as if in slow motion, to the edge of the building, the box falling open.

His arms moving. The truth exposed.

Rose petals fell past his fingers like crimson snow. A headless flower, thorns, and an empty box clattered soundlessly to the stone, left behind in a trail of forgotten carnage.

A Rosenkov Volkov X glinted in the false light, already loaded, as it unfolded in his hands.

He walked, slowly, becoming a black silhouette against the cerulean sky.

Udina's voice magnified a thousand times its true capacity. Speaking empty sounds. Not a word of it audible, not a word of it that mattered.

Good. He was in the open.

He dropped to his elbows, prone; his body like a Y. Breathing, steady. Controlled. Bipod, out.

My friend. I've missed you.

The optic, carefully coated in a glareless film, automatically routed to his visor.

I said…things…I never should have said…

Wind direction 94 percent ambient. Near optimal.

I know now… I finally see…but then… I never knew…

A slight southwest breeze. Residuals from the oxygen recirculator.

how scared you were…I didn't think you were afraid of anything…that you even could be…

Predictable sinusoidal pressure fluctuation, crests 3.37 seconds apart.

How wrong I was…like I always am…

His eye kissed to the lens.

I destroy…everything I touch…

Crosshairs. No parallax.

You're so beautiful…

Scanning the crowd. A sea of heads.

But I ruined us…I tried to take what wasn't mine…You're right, I have no patience…

Marked. Podium.

But.. It can't be undone…

183 degrees from origin.

And it's killing me inside…My only…

Confirmed.

The only time I wasn't lost…

Closing eyes. Three seconds to prevent fatigue.

was when I was with you.

Open.

Please…

Recalibrating.

My sweetest friend…My angel of fire…

Target in the cross hairs.

My…

Breathe in.

Please forgive me…

Breathe out.

I'll see you soon…Just remember…

Heart beat.

To come down and talk with me, whenever you have the time…

And empty.

You know where I'll be…

Heart beat.

Right behind you…

A finger.

Forever.

A trigger.

"And now, if you will all be so kind as to lend your eyes and ears to the screens. We would like to air Commander Shepard's last interview, taken just days before our terrible loss. Let us remember her, in her own words…"

His heart stopped. Raw footage. Her eyes right through the camera, through his scope, past the cross hairs.

To his core pierced her eyes.

"Now Commander, everyone wants to know, what was the hardest part of your involvement in taking down the dangerous terrorist Saren Arterius?"

Shepard's scarred brow crossed, and she sort of smirked. What a stupid question.

"You mean aside from the fact that he was operating under judicial immunity?"

The video cut a single frame; it had been edited. It skipped right to the reporter's next question without skipping a beat.

"Well, yes…But I mean, emotionally."

"Emotionally? You know I'm a soldier, right?"

There was laughter in the crowd.

"Er, yes. Could you humor me perhaps?"

Shepard smiled, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She looked off into the distance, past him; considering. Her eyes focused, and she looked back into the camera.

Right back into him. From behind the veil of death.

There, again.

"Well…I would have to say the worst part was that he…he thought he was doing the right thing…and to be honest…"

He couldn't breathe. The rifle shook in his hands.

"I pitied him."

"You pitied him? The murderer?"

"Yes…I pitied him…He was so sick that he actually thought he was trying to help people…I think you would have to be heartless to admit that that notion isn't sad. I...I watched him die."

"But you realize that he was a merciless killer?"

"Of course…but he was also a person…once…You see, you may think I'm delusional, but you should consider something very important, something that Saren himself never saw…a dangerous line of thinking. Something I hate more than anything else."

"And what is that, Commander?"

She sighed, her gaze becoming hardened, as she saw past and present fused into one.

"The world…the Universe…it's not just black and white. It's a nice thought to think that it is, but it's just not. There are too many factors…Too many consequences…Every single thing we do is a result of choice. Even the things we think don't matter, and the one that sneaks up on all of us most of all, well, it's how we perceive things. That's what shapes us, our choices – the lens that colors our world, so often, is either black or white."

"And what color is your world, Commander?"

She laughed.

"Well, I would say my world has lots of colors. Sometimes it feels like grey, but then I snap out of it, and look around. And I see blue,"

His chest burned, his finger sliding off the trigger, a tear shaking in his lid.

"- and green, and red, and peach, and brown, and a whole kaleidoscope of beautiful things."

"Now, Commander, forgive me, but just a few minutes ago you were criticizing me for asking you about your emotions, but now I think you're spouting poetry."

"Hey that's different."

More laughter.

"No, really – I've got a gunnery chief that's obsessed with poetry. I've got nothing on her."

"Really?"

"Yeah we read together sometimes. I love her. You see, that's exactly my point. You'd never know by looking at her, she's about the hardest girl I know. Always on my case, but she keeps me sharp. She gives me angles, that well, sometimes I neglect. But I guess…I guess I believe in people. I get a lot of shit for keeping xenos on my ship in particular."

"You stole my next question."

"Yeah, I know. Everybody asks me why. And frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing it. I don't care if it makes me unpopular or whatever. I love my planet, but we're not the only ones in the Universe. There, I said it. Is there not the word "Alliance" in Alliance? You see, when I was a kid, it was right after the First Contact War. My whole life, I was basically raised to be terrified of turians, in particular."

"Tell me more about that."

His head was in his arms, his tears crashing down in soundless waves, unable to look any longer, her voice vibrating his entire body like his sun, so huge, blinding with its light.

"Well, it's plain to see, and it goes back to my first point, which I see you keep trying to stray me from - about things never being black and white. So we were at war with the turians for a brief time over what was essentially an accident - The Relay 314 Incident. We almost got destroyed, let's not kid around. Us, barely in space, and them – thousands of years advanced. How could we not be afraid? And, really, how could we not be jealous?"

"Jealous?"

"Yeah you heard me. Jealous. Just look at what they had – what they have. The most well-organized military in the entire galaxy. A stable economy. Thriving infrastructure – countless colonies; the perfect system. The perfect bureaucracy. It's everything we always wanted, what we've strived for - from every throne, from every seat of power, in our world. Rome lasted less than seven hundred years. The Turian Hierarchy however, god. Millennia. A culture of public service, a strong belief in personal responsibility and honor, and a near religious desire to commit to things not just for the self, but for the greater good. What the hell is there not to like?"

He could hear cheering begin to roar through the crowd, ten thousand voices bellowing in his tongue. But the sound of his people couldn't stay his tears, which raged in soundless epiphany. He knocked his gun over, and it clattered down beside him, as immobile as his shuddering body, pressed hard against the concrete.

"Do I hear you putting turians up on a pedestal?"

"Hell no, I just killed a psychotic one. Stop twisting my words. Jesus, there's that black and white thinking again. Look. Here's some parting wisdom, because frankly I'm getting tired of this shit and I want to get back to work."

She breathed in, and steadied herself, looking right back into the camera, to the whole Universe.

"The easiest thing in life is to hate what you don't understand. And I don't put anyone on a pedestal – we're all fools, but we're all fools together. I should be going."


He went home that night, laying in his bed with a small piece of paper in his hand, scrawled in red hand writing, for hours.

He watched his life drift before his eyes in a montage on his ceiling.

And then, he began to pack.

He emptied his bank account to zero. With the credit chits that were the jingling embodiment of his bachelor years coming to a close he spent one on a courier to take his many rifles, the only things he really owned, to somewhere he never thought he would go, with the first light of morning.

Morning. The most beautiful he had ever seen. The only one he could recall ever even watching, the tea warming his plated nose as he watched the endless city come to life from the soft blue twilight of his window.

He didn't sleep that night.

He had never felt more alive.

He looked around his empty apartment, all its life picked up, and shipped away. He looked around at its absolute emptiness, and embraced it. Liara's words filtering back, a memory whispered in his ear.

His choice.

His eyes fell down to his hand, at the paper he never threw away. The tiny slip, still folded in a crisp square. His fingers caressed it, opening it, softly, to its still perfect center. The fragile thing he had worn beside his heart, between his shirt and his chest, in absolute secret, for nearly a year.

A year ago, that day.

The white plane of it, the letters in exotic curves, the red name that wasn't hers. A name that was a secret. Something from a different life. A fragment. A bad memory. A part of her he never knew.

But like her; it's apparent frailty, was deceiving.

There it was, in his palm. So thin, and yet it endured. Soaked with his sweat. Through mortar and fire, across the Universe, through light and time.

Through death.

His muse of ink and paper.

A belief as frail as paper in rain.

The rain upon the desert of his soul. The rain that poured down upon his parched earth from the unfading storm clouds of her eyes. Grey eyes brimming with the water that gave him life. The water breathed spring in the wasteland of his heart.

He touched it to the plates his forehead, a turian kiss. Feeling her. Seeing her.

I will never fail you.

He closed his eyes and put it back against his skin. Against his heart which beat steady for the first time in what felt like his entire life.

Your Spirit, will never die.

He stepped outside his door.

And Shepard, your nickname, it's good. But I've got one better.

The portal of his first life closed with a clear click.

You know I keep it classy.

Archangel was born.