V·A·K·A·R·I·A·N
"So, this is what you get up to when you're not running your dark empire."
Liara turned away from the railing overlooking the Presidium, offering the barest of smiles to Garrus as he approached. If he caught her off guard, she didn't show it.
"Well, someone gave me a very good reason to leave the café I normally work at." She hesitated just a moment before words tumbled out in a rush. "I mean, sit at. While working. Goddess, I'm not working as a waitress. I'm certainly not some kind of maiden stereotype."
Garrus rumbled a laugh, letting her sort through her discomfort, but he didn't interrupt. He just settled on the railing next to her, looking out over the Citadel.
"I know that café. Great place to stake out if you want to catch some white collar crime going down." He nodded in the direction. "Don't point. Don't want to let him know I'm watching. See the salarian in the green robes? Melon skin, symmetrical horns."
"Double pu-erh with extra sugar and an energy vitamin complex. Always sits with his back to the corner, and if his seat's taken he returns every half hour until it's available."
He laughs. "You have spent a lot of time there. Alright, well, did you know he's ex Spec-Ops? Look at the way he surveys the area. He's had training. Too young to have retired, and the STG doesn't let agents go unless they've screwed something big up. Clothes are custom, designer quality. He's got money, and he's advertising it. Ex-military personnel with a dishonorable discharge don't usually like to be noticed. My guess is insider trading. He's probably—"
"Treason, actually."
Garrus stuttered. "W-what? Do salarians even prosecute Treason?"
"Not for military transgressions. But making a Dalatrass' lineage records public…"
"Damn." He gave the Salarian an appraising look. "You think he's looking for amnesty?"
"Hardly. After he was passed over for Spectre status he turned mercenary. He's working for me now."
"Hey now, that takes all the fun out of it if you've got him on payroll."
Liara was quiet a moment, before nodding to a human on the lower level. "Blonde, refugee clothing. She's moving through the Presidium like she lives here, but dressed like a refugee that broke quarantine. My guess is that she's trying to get the attention of C-sec."
Garrus followed her gaze, and laughed. "Damn, she looks terrible as a blonde. No, she's ex-Cerberus. I'll have to tell Shep she lived through the raid, though. Refugee clothes are legitimate, she's been on the run for months. But she didn't come here as a refugee. She's been in hiding since Shepard took the Normandy back to the Alliance."
"Interesting. Maybe I'll have Shepard ask her how she managed an identity change without my knowledge…"
They traded assessments like that for a while, reading people based on actions, clothes, and facial expressions. Reducing people to easily digestible data with practiced accuracy.
"Alright, Liara. You've got to tell me where you got training. You grow up with a Commando babysitter? Was your father part of some secret Asari espionage corps?"
"No. Nothing quite so interesting, I assure you." She sighed, slumping into her elbows on the railing, and hanging her head. "I am not skilled at understanding people. I never have been."
Garrus let her gather her thoughts, for once not interrupting with a smart comment.
"It was a rough childhood, carefully cataloging the mannerisms, tones and expressions that indicated anger, or frustration, or sadness. And even now, I am not always correct. If I can't tell, I'll assume a negative emotion first. I'm less likely to embarrass myself that way."
"You'd have made one hell of a detective."
"I make one hell of a Shadow Broker."
She twisted her lips up at him, ever so slightly dimpling the flesh by her nose. He'd seen the expression on her more often, since the Reapers arrived. They'd all picked up more responsibility since the days of chasing Saren and the Geth across the galaxy.
"All right then, T'soni. Do me."
"I—I'm sorry?"
"If you didn't know me, personally, what would you notice first? Pretend I'm just another displaced turian wandering the Citadel."
"I don't think—Really, that isn't a good idea. These kinds of observations aren't generally shared with the subject for a reason."
"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."
"Alright." Liara sighed, turning to face Garrus fully, her eyes flicking analytically over his whole body, her face devoid of any hint of familiarity.
Damn. That was more intense than he expected.
"Active service, since you're in armor and not civilian wear. Your posture and hip-tilt are more reminiscent of human body language than turian, so you aren't a turian-space refugee. I would say that puts you squarely in C-sec, except your armor is custom, and has more than one illegal modification."
"Hey now, everything I have is above board."
"The medi-gel injection system you designed for Shepard two years ago would be banned under the genetic modification laws even with the exemption for medical use."
"And polonium rounds were never strictly legal, but I seem to remember you using a number of those in your pistol."
She gave him a sharp, deadly smile. "Garrus, when have I ever claimed to be above board?"
He thought about that. His own mental construct of Liara had her as a soft, bleeding heart scientist who cried during romance films, even on the third watch.
But he had to admit, she also routinely used gravity wells to crush Cerberus troopers into malformed balls of flesh, armor, and circuitry. And she generally enjoyed it.
He was suddenly very glad she considered him a friend.
"Point taken." He couldn't keep the amused approval out of his voice. "But you were supposed to be assessing me as if we haven't been saving the galaxy together on and off for years."
She sighed, and pulled up her omni-tool. "You forged the security certificate for your black-market shield booster, and your visor modifications aren't registered. They aren't offenses that come with more than a few hundred credits in fines, but I'd assume you're more likely to be Spectre than C-sec."
He almost argued that he'd been fudging mod registration rules since before his detective days when he finally processed the rest of what she said.
Spectre.
"As Joker is so fond of reminding me, if my ego gets any bigger it won't fit in the Normandy's airlock. You don't have to soft-ball it for me. What would you really peg me as?"
"I wasn't exaggerating. The quality of your equipment, your battle scars, and the way others give you space as you move through the presidium all support the assertion. I'd assume you're a Spectre, and one I wouldn't want to draw the attention of. Anyone else with those markers would be high enough military to be recalled to Palaven to help with the war effort instead of wasting time…" she trailed off, her distant face contorting with down-turned lips and heavy creases under her cheeks. "…shopping on the Presidium."
He grunted in acknowledgment, coming to rest on the railing with her again, looking out over the people below.
"I—I'm sorry Garrus. I didn't mean to—"
"No, you're right. I think the same thing about everyone I see up here. The willful ignorance it has to take to just… pretend that the Reapers are some distant problem happening to someone else in the galaxy—"
He cut off, noticing the blue fingertips gently wrapping around his arm. Liara had leaned up against his armor, gently placing her hand on him. She looked up at him and said with a waver to her voice "Garrus, I'm so sorry. About this. About Palaven. I can't imagine how hard it was to leave your home while it was under attack."
He took his other hand to rest on hers, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "And here I thought you were 'unskilled at understanding people'."
"Well…" her voice cracked, and she looked away. "They're much easier to process as easily categorizable data points. Microexpressions, body postures, word choices and inflections—"
"Extranet searches and surveillance footage? Café orders and designer suits?"
She shrugged, falling into silence.
All the talk about reading people, and Garrus had to admit he still didn't have a good sense for when Liara needed to talk, when she needed a distraction, and when she needed to be left alone. So, he did what he did best. He took a gamble.
"You said someone gave you a good reason to leave the café. If you were waiting for someone, you would've noticed me before I approached. So, who are you avoiding?"
She pulled back, removing her hand from his arm and straightening. "No one. I suppose you could say I'm avoiding the lack of someone."
"…Shepard?"
"My father."
"Oh. Oh!" He hadn't spent enough time anywhere but the refugee dock on the Citadel, all tied up in managing transport and resources and finding enough beds.
"She…was working at the café before Cerberus attacked. I assume she's moved to more military pursuits."
"Well…" another gamble. "I'm sure it wouldn't be hard for the Shadow Broker to keep tabs on her. You'll get a chance to catch up again."
"I'm… glad," she finally settled on the word, "Glad that we talked. That I had a chance to connect with her before…" She shook her head. "Well, it was good to finally meet her."
"Hey." This time Garrus reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "If anybody has a shot at winning this war, it's us. You'll see her again."
"We will end the war. I'll make sure of it." She glanced back over to the cafe, and pulled away from Garrus, making her way to the stairs away from their perch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
He grunted, looking back to see what she saw. The melon-skinned salarian was gone, but he'd left his drink on a coaster at the table.
He smiled. Dead drop. Liara really would have made a hell of a detective.
Because she certainly made one terrifying Shadow Broker.