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Chapter Thirty-Six – Meetings
The low thrum of laserfire dragged Garrus awake. He sat, teeth clenched and glaring up at the pitted ceiling, while his thoughts tidied themselves up. Five times in as many hours he'd woken, he reckoned, the walls and floor trembling with the weight of whatever the hell was happening on the surface, so many metres above.
He'd slept in his armour, awkwardly and uncertainly, too aware of the noise on the edge of his thoughts.
He swung his legs off the mattress and sat, gloved hands clamped over his knees. The overhead lights spilled white and harsh over the lines of the desk and the buzzing console and his rifle, the pieces snapped together and gleaming. He made himself wait out another ten minutes, breathing slowly, the dry air catching against the back of his mouth.
As he had every morning since he'd arrived – since he'd stepped off the shuttle and into the bedlam of combat up here that never seemed to give way, never seemed to ease – he fumbled the comm unit on and listened to the patient crackle of the static.
"Sol?" Garrus asked. "Sol, are you getting this?"
"…out of the mess hall," she said, her voice buckling under the distance. "Connection's shaky."
"I know. How's your ship?"
"We're holding together." She breathed in, deeply and too ragged. "We're on double shifts. Moving all the time. Supply chains are a bitch to handle."
"Yeah." Never slowing down, Garrus knew, ships weaving their way through the fleet and grabbing at medi-gel and tech supplies in the bare instants before the Reapers turned lethal attention on them again.
"How's it looking where you are?"
"The same," Garrus answered drily. "We're dug in and not moving, but they push at us every day."
"Yes. Yeah. You speak to Dad?"
"Couldn't get through yesterday," he admitted.
"Okay." She paused, and he half-heard the clatter of footsteps, and someone shouting something to her. "In twelve hours we're swinging back around towards Palaven. Won't be landing, but I might be able to wrestle a clearer connection from there."
"Thanks." Garrus hesitated, his fingers slipping against the comm unit. "Stay safe, Sol."
"You too."
The same words, he thought, that they'd been saying to each other for days, strained and exhausted and anchoring at the same time.
He checked the console next, running appraising eyes over the night shift's watch reports. The fierce tangle of names and numbers that was the unrelenting onslaught of the Reaper ground troops, and he tried not to wonder how many they might have, how many that could keep falling out of the sky, wreathed in flame. He followed up with the comm channel chatter records, and it was the same as it had been yesterday, bleak and unremitting.
Fragments coming in from the fleets and less from Palaven and anything from outside was bouncing in from the Citadel via scout ships and not a whisper from Earth.
He flicked the screen off before it could surge up and drown him again, the lacerating awareness that he might never find her. That he'd likely never find her. That he needed to stop fucking thinking like this.
Garrus exhaled sharply, the breath shuddering out of his chest. He uncoiled upright and slung his rifle over his shoulder in one practiced motion. Outside, he pushed his way through the crowded corridor, half-listening as the soldiers swapped rumours and half-breathless reports of the surface. He'd been up there eight hours ago, staring at the jagged dark sweep of the rocks and waiting for the tiniest hint of movement.
Waiting and waiting, rigid with it, exhausted with it, waiting and not looking at the silvery curve of Palaven somewhere above.
Garrus rounded the corner, ignoring the sudden burst of conversation from the mess hall. He ducked under another archway and took himself down the last stretch of the corridor, and into the ops centre.
"Vakarian," Corinthus called, gesturing him across. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Garrus admitted. "What do you have?"
"The Citadel," Corinthus said. "The Council. We got a comm line through long enough to relay messages."
Garrus blinked. "And they said?"
"Hold."
"Hold," Garrus echoed, and wondered if his own voice was as hollow as Corinthus' had been.
"The Primarch's pushing for a meeting. Something official." Corinthus' expression hardened. "Anything official, even if it means heading off-planet to track it down. We're fielding incoming messages pledging support, but we need weapons and troops right now, not words."
"So no reinforcements."
"We've got some coming in from the colonies."
"And they've been hit as badly," Garrus said, his tone sharpening.
"I'm not turning them away," Corinthus snapped. "I'm losing men by the hundred down here, every day."
"I know. I know." Garrus exhaled. "I'm sorry."
Corinthus shook his head. "It's fine."
No, Garrus thought. Not fine at all. Running on numbers and the numbers change by the minute and all it's going to do is keep happening.
"We've got clearance to send wounded," Corinthus said, slightly wry.
"Could they stop us?"
Corinthus laughed, low and empty. "Without the necessary paperwork? I think they might try."
"Nice." Garrus leaned against the side of the desk, his gaze skipping across the glow of maps and terrain lay-outs. "We can make that a priority, but we'll have to be careful."
"I agree." Corinthus' green eyes flickered, and Garrus wondered if his thoughts were angling towards the same dreadful conclusion.
They had far more dead than wounded and the clustered defense ring overhead couldn't – shouldn't – be turned into an open door for a handful of casualties who'd more than likely die before they ever saw Citadel space.
"Anything else?" Garrus asked heavily, the words a mechanical distraction.
"Nothing new. Comms are going up and down. The fleet's holding. Barely, but they're holding."
"Palaven?"
"The same," Corinthus answered, terse.
"Okay." Garrus nodded. "Give me something to do."
Corinthus' head tilted. "It'll be on the surface."
"Good," Garrus said fiercely.
"Head on up and relieve the squad near the comm tower. Take five soldiers with you, your choice."
"I can do that. Anything specific, or are we just shooting anything that points its ugly head at us?"
Corinthus' teeth flashed in a vicious smile. "That sounds about right."
The air was thick, hazy with smoke and the drift of dust above the sawtooth rocks. Garrus paused, rifle tight against his shoulder. Forty minutes since they'd sent the night cycle squad back underground, and twenty of those had been spent pushing back the waves of husks that stalked slowly and inexorably between the uneven stones.
"Clear?" Garrus asked.
"Clear."
"Okay. Arrian, get yourself up the tower. Shout if anything needs tidying."
"Yes, sir." He slung his rifle into its harness and reached for the ladder. "You know, they always decide to rush us whenever we're actually trying to get something done."
"Yeah, yeah," Garrus retorted mildly. "Get it done quick and maybe you can join in the fun when it happens."
"Thanks, sir. Really."
Beneath his feet, the ground trembled. Garrus swallowed and looked up and over the high edge of the rocks. Toweringly huge, a Reaper moved there, its long jointed claws sliding over the ground.
"It's okay," Garrus hissed. "It's okay. It's not looking at us. It's nowhere near us."
"Yeah," one of his soldiers muttered. "Great."
"Stay still," Garrus said.
The Reaper swayed its way behind the spearing shape of an outcrop, the bulk of its hull turning away. Garrus waited, his fingers locked around his rifle and his shoulders prickling. "Warn North Base they've got a Reaper walking towards them."
"Yes, sir."
He dragged his gaze from it – the terrible height of it, the size of it, the sinuous rippling way it moved – and glanced back at the comm tower. "Arrian?"
"Tower's good, sir."
He heard the flat, apprehensive note in the soldier's voice. "What isn't?"
"I've got midrange scanners online up here, sir. We've got company."
"Ground troops?" Garrus asked.
"Looks like."
"Okay." Garrus scrutinized the jumble of stone and dust and the rolling slope of the ground. "Form up with me and we'll use the rocks as cover. Arrian, you got a guess as to how long we've got?"
"Six minutes, sir. You'll be reading them within seconds, I'd guess."
"Good." Garrus forced his voice steady and added, "They get here and we push them back. Time your shots and do not let them get close."
He settled his shoulders against the rough press of the stone, part of him aware of their voices as the others spoke, low-toned and almost in whispers as they waited. Every day, he thought. Every day had been like this, knife-edged silence and the grinding knowledge that they were defending, pushing back, jumping madly into any tiny gap the Reaper troops offered up.
It wasn't an offensive op and it hadn't been since the Reapers had come shuddering out of the clouds over Palaven.
Three minutes later, his visor was spilling out proximity warnings, and he heard the lurching, thudding sound of footfalls against the ground. He eased his finger around the trigger and waited, gaze pinned on the gap in the rocks.
"Contact," Arrian snapped, from somewhere to his left.
"I see them." Garrus lifted his rifle and sighted.
Husks and at least five of the bigger ones, the lumbering monsters that lugged wide-barreled weapons around in place of their arms. Three viper-quick shots in succession toppled the husks, and someone else's grenade scattered the others. Garrus tilted his aiming angle down a notch and knocked one of the others off its feet when it scrambled upright.
"New signals, sir."
"Reading them," Garrus answered.
"They're moving fast," one of his soldiers muttered. "Too fast."
"Hold steady." He edged away from the rock wall. He could hear them, whatever they were, feet snapping hard and rhythmic against the ground as they ran. Marching, he thought, and something cold chased down his spine.
He steeled himself motionless until he saw shadows lurching through the gap in the rocks. Reaper ground troops followed – troops, units, Reapers, and absurdly Garrus wondered why he was even trying to classify the bastards - jagged and all angles and moving like they knew how to, rifles clasped hard in taloned hands.
"What," Garrus mumbled, half to himself. "What the hell is that?"
The creature swayed into the frame of his scope and Garrus froze.
This thing had been a turian.
It was one of them, and the awful realization clawed its way into his gut. This thing had been a turian and it had been changed and warped and now all he could see in its face was the fierce blue blaze of its eyes.
His hand found the trigger, and he watched as it crumpled, half its head blown away. He swallowed against the twisting, sick feeling that had lodged itself in his throat and lined up his next target.
Three hours later he sat beneath the sterile white lights of the command bunker and listened to his own voice, flat with the truth.
"They're us," he said. "Or they used to be. Like husks. Those things out there – the things that look like us – that's because they are us."
"You knew about this?" Corinthus asked.
"I didn't know they'd do it us. Makes sense though," he admitted. "I'd seen husks before. Should've thought that they'd do the same to us."
Heavily, Corinthus sat, his hands clamping hard over the edge of his desk. "You killed them?"
"We did."
"Alright."
Casualties twice over, Garrus thought bitterly, and bit back the urge to say it out loud. "General, sir?"
Corinthus' head flinched up, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. "Yes?"
"We'll need to send word out. I doubt we were the first squad to see them, but it's not something we should sit on."
"Yes, I agree. And then what?"
"We keep kicking back at them," Garrus snarled. "We keep at it until we push them back. Every day we're still breathing is a day they haven't won."
"You believe that?"
"We have to."
"Yeah. Yes." Corinthus' shoulders sagged. "I know it. I just, I look out there and they fill up the sky."
"Yeah," Garrus said. "I know."
Shepard listened to the terse quiet of the glass-walled ward room, too aware of the low-toned sound of machines – tagging his heartbeat, his breathing, the movement of blood under his skin – and Alenko's supine silence.
She'd spent the hour since docking on her feet, and briefly she wondered if she looked as grimy as she felt, as if the red dust of Mars was still under her nails and behind her teeth.
Empty words from the Council and nothing but the vague promise of support, maybe, perhaps. They'd sighed and nodded and commiserated, and she supposed she should've known she'd get nothing out of them but an agreement for a shipment of shiny new equipment.
And some terrible part of her understood – painful and raw and still she understood – that of course they would step away from it, step away and take the time to secure their own worlds, turn their attention to their own borders.
"Okay," she said to the empty air. "Take care, Kaidan."
Out in the pristine white corridor, she left the ward staff with her details and a reminder that she'd be happy to hear from the patient – her tongue caught on the word, rough and impersonal and blank – whenever he woke. She crossed the white floor into the wider, brightly lit area, all chairs and floor-to-ceiling windows, vaguely aware of quickening footsteps behind.
"Commander Shepard?"
Shepard turned, halfway between grinning and staring. "Doctor Chakwas?"
"How are you, Commander?"
"About to say that I'm surprised to see you, but then I remembered that this is, after all, a hospital." Shepard scrubbed a hand through her hair. "I'm okay."
"Good." Chakwas' gaze swept over her, scrutinizing. "We've had reports coming in concerning Earth."
"Yeah."
"Commander, if you've got time," Chakwas said.
"Of course," Shepard said, cutting across her.
"I actually have an office now," the doctor said archly. "This way."
Shepard trailed her through the bustle of another crowded ward area, up curling white stairs and into the spotless square of her office. She grabbed the spare chair, spun it around, and said, "Nice, Doc. You been camped out here long?"
"Just over five months." Chakwas sat, long hands clasped over her knees. "I've been keeping busy with an R and D lab for the most part. Coordinating with Admiral Hackett."
"He's been busy," Shepard remarked.
"Indeed. We've been implementing new medi-gel release systems. Pushing for supply coordination through the fleets, working out probable casualty numbers." The doctor's voice faltered slightly. "The less enjoyable side of it."
"You do what needs to be done," Shepard said, not censuring.
"Yes. Yes, we do." Her head lifted, her gaze incisive as she regarded Shepard. "You were on Earth."
She opened her mouth to say something irreverent and failed. "Yeah. I was. It was, well."
"I can't pretend to understand," Chakwas said softly.
"Yeah." Shepard looked at the immaculately organized desk, the wall, the clear curve of the window. "You heard about Kaidan?"
"Yes, I've seen him. He'll be alright." Chakwas paused. "Eventually."
"It was a mech," Shepard said. "Or something very like a mech. A machine. Prettied up to look human. Just wrapped its hands around his neck and lifted him. Not really what I was expecting to find."
"He's alive," Chakwas said, a little sharper. "He's here, now, and he'll be looked after."
"I know." Shepard planted her elbows on her knees. "Long few days. That's all."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Go back and shout at the Council some more." She hesitated, her gaze on the pale stretch of the desk. "Hey, Doc. Look. This is probably out of line for me to ask, but, well. I need to arrange medical gear, and my medbay is embarrassingly empty right now. You wouldn't happen to want to give up this sparkly new office, would you?"
Chakwas smiled. "I think that's something I could manage, Commander."
Something very close to relief washed through Shepard, and she nodded. "I should warn you that I've still got Joker living in the cockpit."
This time, Chakwas' smile broke into a laugh. "Of course. How long are you on the ground here?"
"No rush."
"Then I'll tidy up here and see you on board within three hours, say. Do you want me to organize med supplies?"
Shepard nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, thank you."
Bits and pieces of words, Shepard thought, and she wondered if it helped, if it changed anything, if it was the only raw choice left, to talk as if such small threadbare complications mattered.
Her comm unit buzzed, and Udina demanded, "Shepard? Are you there?"
She gritted her teeth, considered telling him she most certainly was not, and answered, "What can I do for you, Councilor?"
"I've had word from the turian councilor," he said crisply. "He'd like to arrange a meeting."
"Didn't we already do that? You remember, the one where they all told us to fuck off back to whatever rock we crawled out from under?"
Udina exhaled sharply. "This is different. My office, twenty minutes."
Shepard sat in the stifling quiet of her cabin and tried to quell the unhelpful whirl of her thoughts. She could feel the surge of the engines, and seconds later, she heard Joker's affirmation that they'd cleared the Citadel docks smoothly. She pushed her hands through her hair and knew that she needed to rest.
Needed to wrap herself in the empty sheets and will herself into sleep.
She shoved upright, her fingers curling against her palms. Moments later, she was outside and in the elevator, glowering at the blank gleam of the walls. In the CIC, she paused by the constellation charts long enough to nod to Traynor.
"Hey, Commander." Joker swiveled his chair long enough to throw her a half-smile. "Want to play spot-the-Reaper with me?"
"That's really not funny." She leaned against the co-pilot's seat. "Did Chakwas come up and bully you yet?"
"Twice," he retorted.
"It's for your own good."
"Sure it is." Joker hesitated, one hand flitting up to yank the brim of his cap lower. "So. Palaven."
"The moon," Shepard corrected, and somehow her voice stayed even.
"Whichever. You got a plan yet?"
His gaze stayed on the main screen, and she knew he wasn't talking about the Primarch, or the Councilor's proposal, or just how exactly he was going to dance the Normandy through circling Reapers and down onto Menae.
"I'll get there," Shepard said, and it was half a lie and half lurching, desperate hope.
Joker laughed, a small, tired sound. "Let me know."
"I will," she said, and tapped the back of his chair. "Give me a shout when we're close."
"Always. I'll let you know if we're about to get attacked by a Reaper, as well."
"Still not funny."
Back in her quarters, she showered quickly, folded herself in a towel and wished she'd wasted more time under the scalding fall of the water. She dug shorts and a vest out of the smaller locker and burrowed under the covers. Half an hour later she turned over again and glared up at the ceiling.
Sleep claimed her eventually, and her dreams were full of fire and the acrid taste of ash.
She jolted awake, hands locked in the sheets and heartbeat thundering. She checked the clock, swore, and kicked the tangle of fabric aside. Once she'd wrestled herself into her fatigues, she stalked back down into the CIC. She found it quiet, that layered hush that always seemed to come with the night cycle, workstations on low lights and most of the crew banished to rest.
At the constellation charts, Traynor half-flinched into a salute. "Sorry, Commander. I didn't see you."
"Not a problem," Shepard said mildly. "I'm sorry we haven't really had time to talk so far."
The young woman's answering smile was thin and worn under the soft spots of light. "Not at all, Commander. I understand, I do."
"Joker mentioned you were with the retrofit team."
Traynor nodded. "Yes, Commander. It's a beautiful ship."
"That she is," Shepard said. "You're settling in alright?"
"Yes." Traynor's eyes shifted, dark and shadowed. "Better circumstances would've been, well, better."
"I hear that." Shepard leaned against the rail, her gaze drifting idly across the bright splashes of the star patterns. "Normally you get to agree to being hauled out of the lab."
"Hah, yes." Traynor's expression relaxed slightly. "It was pure luck, actually, Commander. I'd come in early because I'd planned to leave just before shift change."
"Never underestimate luck. Pure, dumb or otherwise."
Traynor laughed. "I'll remember that, Commander."
"Anything come in this afternoon that I need to hear?"
"Nothing vital, Commander. Daily reports from Admiral Hackett's personnel. I can forward them for you, if you want."
"It's when you're swamped by paperwork that you know you're back on the job," Shepard muttered. "Yeah. I'll have a look at them."
"Anything else, Commander?"
"No. Not now. Thanks, Traynor."
Fifteen minutes later she'd tracked through the armoury, and padded her way across the crew deck and into the rec room. Deserted this late, and she knew she should be steeling the raw rattle of her nerves and resting. Instead, she yanked one of the hanging bags along its frame until it swayed over the mat. Stepping back slightly, she squared her shoulders and slammed gloved hands against it until the punishing rhythm drove her thoughts blank.
Garrus sat with his back against uneven stone and looked up at the curve of Palaven, fierce against the sweep of stars beyond. Half in shadow and half scarred with flame and he stared at it until he thought he could see the fires rippling. Under the encasing weight of his armour he felt filthy, the dust of Menae on his skin and between his teeth, sour and gritty.
Reluctantly, he uncoiled upright. He had to chivvy his squad on – midday patrol, whatever the hell counted for midday up here, carving a path through rocks and Reaper troops – and already he'd let five silent minutes stretch into ten.
"Okay." He scanned the steep rise of the ground beyond the rocks. "Let's move on."
Wordlessly, they obeyed. They were wrung through, and he could see it in the way they were too wiry, their eyes too glassy. Strung out on double shifts and brutally conserved supplies and he wondered how many more days Corinthus could drag out of his command base.
The afternoon wore away beneath drifting skeins of smoke and the rapid thud of footsteps as another cluster of husks charged through jagged boulders. Garrus shouted the same orders he was sure he'd shouted the day before, and the day before that, and his hands settled into their familiar, blind pattern against his rifle. Afterwards, he motioned them on again, his boots sliding through loose gravel.
His comm unit sputtered, and he heard Corinthus say, "Vakarian, you hearing me?"
"Just," he answered. He gestured to his squad, motioning them behind the rise of an outcropping. "What's up?"
"How far are you?"
"Three clicks out, bearing south. Why?"
"Bad news," Corinthus said heavily.
"The usual kind."
"I'm serious. Primarch's shuttle went down."
Garrus flinched. "What?"
"Just what I said. I've got a team heading out to pick through the wreckage. No one's responding."
"What do we do?"
"Right now?" Corinthus drew in a gulping, shallow breath. "Nothing. Just keep on with your patrol."
"Sir," Garrus said.
"I'll keep you updated."
The quiet returned, broken only by the slow hiss of the wind cutting through the rocks. Slowly, Garrus turned. "You all heard that?"
Crouched down, his rifle tipped against his shoulder, Arrian nodded slowly. "Yeah. What do you think?"
"I think we won't know anymore until we get ourselves back to base. And yes," he added. "I know that's useless. But right now all we can do is keep moving. Alright?"
"Yes, sir."
An hour took them through a valley, gouged through steep rock walls and worryingly narrow. The footing there was treacherous, the each careful step mired by loose shale. On one side, the blackened metal frame of what might've been a shuttle tipped precariously close to the edge. Garrus hurried them up the last stretch of the slope, and out onto open ground, raked by the wind.
Above, the sky was grey with clouds or smoke, clinging to tapering peaks. Somewhere – too close, Garrus thought, far too close – there was the shrieking whine of something heavy ploughing full-bore into stone. The dull thump of the impact trembled through the ground.
"Us or them?"
"Them, sir," one of his soldiers answered briskly. "They're moving fast and closing on us."
"Numbers?"
"Twelve that I'm reading."
"Okay," Garrus said steadily. "Just like last time. Let them come to us and make them regret it."
Husks broke through first, their feet hammering hard as they ran. One flung grenade scattered most of them, and the two that lumbered back up were sent toppling moments after.
"Sir," Arrian called, breathlessly. "I'm reading more signals."
"I hear you." Garrus rested his rifle against his shoulder. He fixed his attention on three of them – them, things that were shaped as if they were almost still turian – all of them moving maddeningly fast. He tightened his sightline and fired, and fired again, his fingers flicking over the trigger in practiced, smooth movements. A third shot sent another one of them sprawling back, most of its throat missing.
Garrus spun, half aware of the thudding of footsteps somewhere behind him, closing fast. He angled the rifle up in the same motion and found himself staring up and then up again at some Reaper monstrosity he was fairly certain he'd never seen quite this close before. The creature charged, head dropping low and jaws gaping. Garrus fired in response, his hand juddering against the rifle. He backed away, his feet sliding over the uneven ground, gravel catching beneath his boots. One shot scythed over the creature's head, and the second ripped a chunk from the hulking curve of its shoulder.
Garrus' back hit unyielding rock and he swore. He shifted the rifle, and somehow fumbled another shot before the creature grasped for it, clawed fingers wrapping around the barrel and yanking. The rifle tore away from his hands and for a brief, wavering instant, panic eclipsed thought and he froze.
The creature's head dipped closer. Garrus threw himself sideways, his shoulder jarring hard against the ground. Another desperate surge of motion had him reaching for his pistol. The creature's hand closed hard on his arm, jolting him forward. Aim spoiled, he fired anyway, ragged and desperate. Most of the round snapped wide, driving into loose shale. Another breath-stopping blow shoved him further, the creature's claws screaming against his armour. Furiously, he slammed the butt of the pistol against the monster's wrist, and when it recoiled, he emptied the weapon into its open mouth.
"Sir?"
Garrus levered himself away from the rocks and past the sprawled bulk of the creature. "I'm okay," he answered.
"You're sure?" Arrian asked.
"He threw me around," Garrus admitted. He leaned down, wincing when he scooped his rifle up. "I'll be fine. We all done here?"
"Yes, sir. Clear."
The last stretches of the trek back to operations proved mercifully quiet, the wind-scarred path winding through jutting hills and down the last slope. When they'd crossed through the last guard point, Garrus ordered his squad off to try and rest. He discovered Corinthus simmering in one of the above-ground bunkers, his gaze on the glowing spread of a map.
"Anything on Fedorian?"
"No," Corinthus answered heavily. "Once my scout group tells me what I think we already know, I'll issue a general report."
"Yeah," Garrus said. The knowledge of it swam in his thoughts, curiously numb, that it suddenly didn't matter, not really, the way he'd begged the Primarch away from Palaven, the way they'd shadowed him through the broken ruins of the city. The way they'd brought him here and then the days had toppled into each other and it was another name alongside the dozens he read on the daily KIA lists.
Corinthus turned, his face shifting into a frown. "What happened?"
"What?"
"You're a mess."
"You know the really big bastards out there?" Garrus shrugged. "The big ones that we always say you shouldn't get too close to?"
"Yes?"
"I got too close to one of them."
Corinthus barked out a laugh. "Right. Anything else?"
"No. Ground troops, but they were sporadic. Looking to find themselves lucky."
"Alright. Go get some rest, Vakarian."
"Yes, sir."
Back in the cramped quiet of his quarters, Garrus peeled his armour off piece by piece. When he touched the side of his arm, swollen and heavy with bruising, he swore. He turned his attention to his rifle next, smoothing out the day's scrapes inch by inch until it was arranged in gleaming pieces on the rack. The pistol followed, and the battered, dull parts of his armour, still thick with grit.
He flung himself onto the mattress and drifted halfway to dreaming. The comm unit woke him, and Corinthus' voice, insistent.
"Yes," Garrus grated, and slapped a hand over the button. "I'm here. I'm awake. What is it?"
"You'll want to hear this," Corinthus said. "We've got a ship coming in."
"A ship." Garrus sat up, his head all full of the fog of sleep. "Okay. One of ours?"
"No. They cut through the Reapers and they're on their way in. We steadied communications enough to get a hail up. They're Alliance."
"Alliance?" Garrus pushed back a sudden, absurd surge of exhilaration. He reached for his armour and forced himself to slow down. He didn't know anything, he thought. He didn't really know anything and his fingers were skidding clumsily against his armour. "Okay. I'm on my way."
The ruins of Menae rolled beneath the shuttle, pitted and dark. Shepard braced herself against the back of the pilot's chair and stared. She saw serrated outcroppings wreathed in smoke, the sweeping landscape below seared dry. Between the steep slopes, the ground was thick with Reaper troops as they clawed their way forward, spilling over barricades and surging up against blockaded gateways.
"Holy hell," Vega muttered. "Look at it."
"Yeah," Shepard acknowledged. "They're taking one hell of a beating."
The shuttle tilted, turning past a shallow valley, gouged roughly through the rocks and cluttered with smouldering wreckage. Beyond, the high grey walls of the command compound rose up. Turian soldiers stalked the perimeter and the walkways above, shoulders hunched against whirling dust.
Shepard leaned onto the comm and said, "General Corinthus? This is Commander Shepard again. Do you read us?"
"I read you," came the indistinct answer. "And we see you."
"Good. We'll be on the ground in minutes." Shepard hesitated. "General, I've come with a request from the Council. We'll need to talk with your Primarch."
"That's going to be difficult," he replied, and Shepard could've sworn he sounded vaguely sardonic.
"I understand that, General. We can discuss it on the ground."
"Of course, Commander. I'll be putting you in contact with Operative Vakarian while you're here. From what I understand, he's," Corinthus said, the words breaking apart beneath a sudden swell of static.
Shepard froze. "Sorry," she managed. "Say again, General? In full?"
The general repeated it, as measured, syllables that were shatteringly familiar.
"Thank you, General. We'll talk soon."
She straightened up, her hand slipping off the comm button. When the shuttle slewed sideways, she mechanically reached for the back of the chair again. Slow down, she thought. Words were just words and the treacherous connection had garbled the general's voice. Words were just words and she wanted to be on the ground and moving fast enough that she might be able to ignore the sped beat of her own heart.
The shuttles engines softened, and before they'd quite settled, she was at the hatch and keying it open. The wind hit her first, scouring and dry and thick with grit. She vaulted onto the ground, aware of Liara and Vega behind her, matching her pace.
Closest to the transport landing area, the operations base was a cluster of open-air bunkers, flanked by toweringly high guard posts, raised gateways between them. Shepard passed a makeshift medbay, and a scout group kneeling over maps, and another pair of soldiers, working their way through ammunition lists. She called out to one of them, and nodded brisk thanks when they answered that they'd find the general at the north end of the complex.
The ground sloped up underfoot, gravel sliding under her boots when she pushed on faster. She cleared the crest, and when she gauged the distance to the last bunker, she stopped.
He was halfway down the ramp and she was looking at him and he was marching as impatiently fast as she had been.
"Garrus," she said, his name locking up in her throat.
"I'm here," he said, and she wondered if her voice was as rough as his.
He moved first, and she met him halfway, her hands finding his and clinging hard. She half fumbled it, latching her fingers around his until it almost hurt.
"Yeah," she said. She swallowed against the thickness in her throat. She was staring up at him, at how the livid spread of his scars had softened a little more, at how he was still looking at her.
Looking at her as if they were alone, yearning and desperate.
"Hey," Shepard said softly. "You okay?"
"I'm okay." His blue eyes glittered, wry and knowing. "Location could be better."
"I hear that."
"We've got problems."
"We always do."
His teeth flashed in a smile. "Well, when you put it like that."
She wanted to ask about Palaven. She wanted ask how he'd gotten himself here, how it was that he looked so damn tired, how it was that he was here. Instead, she said, "Good to see you."
"Yeah," he said, sighing the word out. His hands tightened on hers. "You too."
"I wondered," she said. Her voice faltered. "I mean, I didn't know where you were. If you were, you know."
"I know." He stepped closer, so that their locked hands bumped against his chest. His head dipped, and suddenly he was close enough that she could smell him, dust and weapon oil and Garrus.
"You know something?" Shepard asked. "I thought I'd have to tear the place apart looking for you."
Garrus laughed, and the sound of it eased the knotted tension in her. "Saved you the trouble."
"Yeah," she said, and her own laughter joined his, uneven and gasped-out. Almost without thinking, she hauled him closer. His forehead brushed hers, and she held him like that, close enough that she could feel the rhythm of his breathing against her mouth. "Oh, God. Garrus."
"I know," he said again, and she heard the hitch in his words. "Shepard."
"You know," she murmured, and did not move. "There's probably some stuff we should talk about doing."
"Here?"
She spluttered into another laugh. "Actually I meant that part where we have to go talk to your general."
"Oh, that part," Garrus retorted. "Yeah. We can do that."
"So," she said. She tilted her head until her cheek grazed his, angled and sharp and all unforgiving lines. "You coming with me?"
"Shepard," he said. He leaned into her, his weight reassuring and welcome and known. "Now that you're here? You're not going anywhere without me."