Chapter 29

Allison didn't know much about Vakarian, other than the fact that he was pretty stuck up and unfriendly to boot. She didn't have a thing for younger turians who walked around like they were hotshots. She preferred the seasoned veterans like Victus or covert agents like Orion—men who stood tall in their own right, even in a dog-eat-dog society, to be exceptional without the lure of promotions.

So, really, Allison had no reason to activate a tactical cloak, much less know about it, when she saw Vakarian slip inside Ms. Penny's office. She also wouldn't know how to hack into his omni-tool, without him noticing her. Allison should have reported it, ran around screaming that she saw someone slip inside and wasn't sure who it was.

But Legacy knew, as well as all the other people—the characters, the masks—whom she had designed to have this sort of training. She—they— watched him, completely unnoticed until that moment when she—they— knew he was screwed and they needed to intervene.

Why did they do it? Why did she? She'd done well not to think too much about Omega for over nearly a year. She had that experience in Tuchanka, talking to old friends, finding a place in a team after flying so many years solo—

Speaking of old friends, this was all Nalah's fault. This wouldn't have been so fresh in her thoughts if Legacy hadn't been asked before the start of this mission, what her feelings were about Vakarian—or more appropriately, what her feelings were about the fact that she knew, all this time, that maybe Vakarian looked at her with more than a reasonable twinkle in his blue-grey eyes.

Fuck, she was rambling in her head. When was the last time she rambled in her head? When was the last time her thoughts were this disorganized? She felt the vestiges of the injury on her shoulder twinge and she reached for it. This was Legacy's movement, not Allison's, so she was happy that no one was in the dorm at the moment.

She could blame all this on the injuries too. If she had healed a little faster they could have went for something more direct and efficient. Instead, even if long term infiltration was her forte, she had to take in the character of someone who was a little weak and frail and clumsy to give herself enough time to heal properly.

Legacy looked down at her hands, at the smooth and scarless skin that covered her own. Just like Raitlin, her first name—the child that, for all she knew, was going to die as she ran inside the house of rubble, hand to her side in a useless attempt to stop the bleeding. She didn't expect to wake up but then she did, injuries wrapped and the steel smell of omni-gel hanging in the air. She turned to the salarian, Lor, he would introduce himself—at that time cold and distant. Later, as his student, strict but warm.

Then there was fire, embedded into the palms of her hands and large eyes pleading—it had to be done. As they reflected his own scarred hands, as he sang the dirges of his brothers and fathers before him, fallen from grace and never to return. She cried out, unheard until there were no more tears—just screams and fire and blood. No more, she wanted to plead, no more. But any pleading would go unheard because it had to be done and the lessons needed to be taught.

She saw Christina's face. Her first friend as Shepard. She remembered Christina's excited squealing as she talked about their important mission—not knowing she would meet her death with the Thresher Maw during it.

She watched the protheans burn. Their cities toppled down. Their people ran. Their civilizations crumbled.

Not now, Legacy pleaded, her fingers combed through her hair as she buried her head in her hands. This was not the time. It wasn't safe. Beat the thoughts back, refocus, and reorganize.

Refocus and reorganize.

Conviction, repetition.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the blue dress, turning to the mirror, she wasn't sure who was staring back at her.

They were so close to finding Dregg's hideout that Legacy can finally breathe a little. It was about time that she shed Allison off her skin. She was getting tired of smiling and tripping over herself. Meeting Victus outside of South Pearl was dangerous, though they managed to convince management that this was as it should be—a member and patron spending quality time with his Srae.

"You're lucky," Myra said with a purr in her sub-vocals. "Few patrons want to be seen outside with an escort, especially one that isn't asari or turian. He must have really taken a shine to you, Allie."

"I'm a little scared." Allison gulped down the dread. One hand on her heart, she took a deep breath. "And leaving Hatty behind here is making me nauseous. I haven't been out of South Pearl since I was hired."

"Your brother will be fine—the girls will definitely take care of him." There was a small giggle afterwards. Legacy laughed inside as well. Mad— or Hatty, had already expressed in flailing pantomime how being mute had impaired his abilities to scare people off. Especially considering how aggressive the girls—and some boys—were. She'd already witness a turian Srae ogle his ass when she asked him to pick up something that had conveniently rolled off her table.

It was wrong of Legacy but she was glad he was more or less distracted and drawing the employees' attention. It was thanks to him that she sped up Victus's investigation. Today was just one of the last few sprints—as Nyreen and Sarah were dealing with the other end in Thessia— before she can finally close this chapter and deliver her payment to Alenko when he was functional.

She could put this all behind her and return to looking for Lor. Then, maybe it was time to retire.

An escort from South Pearl drove her to Rivali, one of the best hotels in Renaudi. Still in her hard suit she got off the skycar and into the lobby. She was escorted to the penthouse where she could shed off her hard suit and fix her hair before meeting the General. When the escorts stood safely behind the closed doors of the elevator, the passcode entered into her omni-tool allowed her a fast entrance into the main living room—plush and white, the high ceiling and the round pillars reminded her of the pictures of Ancient Rome that she had studied once. The only difference being that everything was cut from the finest of glass—of ice in the colors of white, blue, and even red.

"It's called Cipritine glass."

Allison froze. That was not General Victus's voice.

"Shepard. You said we could talk."

It was impertinent of him to call her out, right when he knew she had frozen at the sound of his voice. She probably never expected him to call in favors or to confront Victus directly about setting this up. In fact, the General had seemed both surprised and approving when Garrus said: "I'm going to cut through the pyjack shit: I need to borrow your Srae. We're old acquaintances and there are things I need to iron out with her—sir. Before we can continue the investigation."

The General didn't ask any questions, didn't ask Garrus how he found out or why he needed to meet Allison. Victus only gave him a solid nod and a smooth reply. "We're set to meet outside South Pearl in a few days. I'll give you an hour."

So, there he was. He waited for her dutifully, cleaning out the rifle she gave him and his sidearm. At least both Legacy and Allison had precision in common, especially when it came to time.

Shepard didn't move. In fact, it looked like she had stopped breathing—in her flowing dress she seemed like a statue frozen in time.

Garrus didn't need an hour.

"Look, I'm not exactly good with words, Shepard. I think you know that better than anyone. So I'm just going to blurt it out and hope I don't make a fool of myself.

"You didn't give yourself away—not once until a few days ago when you saved the investigation. I can only guess that you're around because this involves the Reapers or Lor. But I'm tired of running from you—or my thoughts of you—Spirits, there are too many questions in my head that I want to ask but I know you're not going to answer them."

He walked up to the low-legged table in the living room and slid the necklace off his neck. He gave it one last look before he let it dangle from a talon. The pendant hit the glass with a soft click before he let the rest of the chain fall.

That's the only time Legacy turned to look at him. Locking eyes with him first before she looked at the pendant and the chain.

"I wanted to give it to you—but you left before I got the chance. It was the Christmas present I owed you."

It was Legacy's grace that had her walking towards him, her eyes still on the pendant as she reached forward, fingers quivering, when she picked it up. She ran a thumb at the etched insignia, one he had painstakingly dug up from his old files and memories.

"Do you like it?"

She remained silent, her thumb still tracing the design.

"I'm glad." He looked away and down. "But I'm also sorry. And angry and scared. Because I know that—I need you more than you'll ever need me. And—Legacy? Wh-what's wrong?"

The right hand meant pain.

Legacy learned the hard way, much later, that pain could take on more forms beyond just the physical. The pain of losing friends and loved ones, the pain of regret, the pain of betrayal, the pain of shedding away memories, a life, an identity.

Still, she didn't think she felt a pain quite like this before— looking into Vakarian's eyes, then at the necklace. She felt the sigil of the League burn into her skin like it was searing a new scar there. Sobbing, screaming— nothing was expressive enough to show how much this sigil meant to her.

Yet, in the heart of that she felt the shattering of Vakarian's, no, of Garrus's trust. If she were a better person, she would let him go—just like she did in Omega— and they would never have to see each other again.

"Don't play with a man's heart too much, baby girl." Murakiel, one of the First Seven of the Dominion, used to say with a cigarette between his thumb and his index finger. His advice came in the form of an impressive southern drawl and the upward tilt of his chin as he blew the smoke away. "You're probably going to feel that backbite when you realize you return the same feelings."

She always used to shake her head at his advice about love. Now she craved more than anything to have the Dominion, the First Seven, and their reproach or support on this matter.

Should she answer Garrus with honesty and damn him? Or lose him and save him? There was no black and white for Legacy, only darker and lighter shades of grey— one time too many she'd chosen the darker side but sometimes there was light too.

Where did her feelings about Garrus stand? And could they hold up against the tidal wave or be buried beneath the sand?

Behind her eyes, she saw, re-lived the old lessons— the scars on her hands hidden, the meaning of both of them, the Protheans burning, the screech of the Thresher Maw, Lor's soothing songs. Conviction, repetition. Loneliness. Hatred. Revenge. Silence. Conviction, repetition. The life of a shadow, the Legion, the Dominion. Of no one and everyone. She stood alone in an expanse, unable to be understood because the men of Legion were one—and we have no weaknesses.

She held the pendant in a fist. The sigil on her skin felt cold. Against her eyes, the back of her hands burned as she reached for her self-control.

Don't cry.

Don't cry because no one will hear or answer or help or understand.

But how did he know? A voice in the void asked her. How did he know how to hurt you? How did he know that this gift would mean so much to you?

It didn't matter.

When Garrus pried her hands away from her face, there were no tears.

Edited 06.22.2014