A/N: On AO3 this fic is tagged 'Dark' for good reason. That's all I'll say.

It started like any other day. A seemingly ordinary day. Well, ordinary for people living on a station ravaged by a deadly plague. After weeks of trying to keep the peace and ferret out whatever bastards synthesized the viral onslaught, both Garrus and his men needed to blow off steam. But there wasn't time for that. So, he settled on helping Weaver cook up a few decent meals. They'd been living off of MREs for three weeks. Some hot food and a shower could do wonders for morale. Garrus wasn't adept at cooking, not by a long shot, but he could gather ingredients.

So he was in the markets, placing an order for several pounds of salmon, when Sidonis called him. "Hey, got a hot tip."

"I'm listening."

"The Blood Pack is funneling weapons through Kima. And … it looks like it's all vorcha. Given what we've been hearing from Gozu…."

"Think they're trying to make a move? Take over?"

"Exactly."

"Alright, Kima is just around the corner. I'll do some recon."

"I'll join you."

"Sure you're up for that?"

"Yeah. I have all the climbing gear. And I can stick to the catwalks until you show up."

"Alright, see you soon."

Garrus arrived to find plenty of vorcha, but no Sidonis. Although, he was slower and had more ground to cover. So it wasn't that surprising. But after twenty minutes of waiting, he grew concerned and tried Lantar's com. No answer. That's when he noticed Vortash. The vorcha was scrounging around a trash heap, picking out random bits of junk, food, medical waste – all sorts of nasty crap. Vortash was many things – a cannibalistic lunatic for one – but he hated the Blood Pack. He would never help them, or any vorcha under their control. Unless his clan was planning some sort of hostile takeover, he couldn't understand why Vortash was here. And what even was this? It really didn't seem like a place about to be overrun with black-market weapons. There were plenty of vorcha loitering about. Yet, that's all they were doing. Loitering. And rummaging through garbage. If there was some grand scheme behind the hubbub, he couldn't see it.

He rang Vortash, who thankfully had the same omni-number. The vorcha practically leaped with joy on seeing the caller-ID. "Archangel!"

"Hey, Vortash. I… have something to ask you."

"Yes! Yes!"

"Are you aware of any Blood Pack shipments being run through Kima?"

"No."

"You're sure? With the plague, it may only be vorcha running things."

"No shipment place. This place for food."

Forty-two minutes and still no Sidonis.

Garrus revealed himself then, settling next to the vorcha while he waited. Mind beginning to churn, unraveling what was before him. He could practically feel Vortash's elation at his presence, which fed into whatever odd feeling was building. Something was bothering him. A tickle at the back of the mind. Sidonis and Vortash had always been connected in his head. But it went beyond the turian's recruitment. Even Vortash's betrayal had been linked to Lantar. After all, Sidonis was the one who discovered it. Honed in on it. A dark, cold feeling crept up his limbs, settling between the plates. Driving him. Hunting him. And now Sidonis had sent him on a bootless errand. Why? Anyone with half a brain could see there was nothing nefarious happening in this dank alley.

He turned to Vortash, who was preoccupied with a wad of moldy cheese. The vorcha licked the chunk, considered for a moment, then devoured it whole. "Remember that data-pad? The one you handed off to the Blue Suns. The one I was upset about. You said I gave it to you. What did you mean by that?"

"Archangel gave."

His breath caught, a pattern forming before his eyes, feeding that dark, sinking feeling. Two bad ops – Tarak and that damn weapons shipment. The one he knew made it into the Sun's hands. The one with an overwhelming amount of heavy artillery.

His mind was moving faster now. A vid playing in his mind's eye, meaning screaming against its confines, begging for release.

Sidonis's edginess. The excuses. He chalked it up to the man's inexperience. But the timing… And the way he inducted Vortash – with a full, turian squad. The fact he relied on Sidonis for that insight. Did the vorcha understand the difference between them? 'No! No! That Vortash-Two,' rang through his mind. In his ignorance, had he asked the wrong question? His craw constricted so tightly the words barely escaped. "Which Archangel?"

"Other Archangel. Purple paint on movey parts. You gave though! You gave! Sent to Suns!"

Sidonis. But it couldn't be, right? Spirits it couldn't be. Did… did he toss out the patsy and not the mole? Panicked thoughts. He forgot to breathe.

"Sidonis… gave you the data-pad. Sidonis put you up to it, found the evidence, then called me here." Garrus spun, a deranged energy building. Immediately, he tried ringing Krul. Then Ripper. Both went straight to voicemail. "I...I… The base. I have to get back to the base."

He raced through the streets. Thick, armored boots crashing against Omega's pavement. Not even registering that Vortash was following, hot on his heels. They sped. Blood pounding against his skull. Thoughts fragmenting and colliding. It was right in front of him. It had always been right in front of him. Sidonis. Be wrong about this. Be wrong about this. A prayer to the spirits he didn't even believe in. Be wrong, please let me be wrong. Let this be some absurd notion.

But he wasn't wrong.

On the bridge, leading to the base's entrance, was an army. Heavy mechs, a gunship, the works. And that army? Eclipse, Blood Pack, and even the Blue Suns had teamed up. Their uniforms a hubbub of yellow, blue, and red. They came for a massacre. Even from this distance, he could see that the base had been breached with heavy machinery. Explosives. The reinforced steel door laid several meters from the entrance. Shorn to pieces. No way there hadn't been casualties. And without warning? Spirits. Some were still alive, that much he knew. Gun fire from the balcony confirmed it. But how many? And how would he reach them?

"Will help Archangel." He startled. Gazed down at the creature, at Vortash. Only now aware of his presence. "Help." Bare claws took his hand, dug through the armor, as he allowed himself to be dragged into an alcove and out of sight. He had been so wrong. So wrong about all of it.

"You need inside. I help." Vortash motioned to his bandoleer, completely filled with grenades. "I distract. Big booms!"

It took him several seconds to respond, still caught up in shock, and the pervasive feeling of helplessness. Of being too late. He slapped himself with an armored glove. Once. Twice. Blue blood dribbled down a mandible. Focus. You need to focus. He quickly surveyed the area. There were at least ten troops on the bridge along with a heavy mech, not to mention the spirits forsaken gun ship. Talk about overkill. "Alone? That's suicide!"

"Vortash two help too. Lots of booms. Hard to kill. And if die, have Vortash three. Got big. He run clan then."

The gun ship swiveled towards the top balcony, unloading into the barracks. Once again, he stopped breathing. Forgetting to inhale until one of his guys returned fire, confirming that whomever was alive hadn't been taken out just then. He needed to get them out of there. Now.

There was no other way. If he wanted a chance to save his men, this was the only option. "Alright. But before you do that, tell me what you want. No matter how fantastical…" Seeing how Vortash didn't quite comprehend that word he corrected. "No matter how out of reach it may seem, I will do my damnedest to finish it. Turians call it a dying wish."

"Blood Pack."

"Yes I know you want them dead. But… help me out here. Where are they? There must be more cabals than the ones on Omega. After this, Garm is gonna die. I swear on my life that every bastard here will answer for this. But what else do you want?"

Vortash seemed to consider for a moment. "Many. But far away."

"I said anything."

"Zada Ban. Other places too. Not sure. Took … took away. Made fight. Made all fight."

"Alright. You've got it. So long as I'm still breathing, I'll find a way to take that place out, and liberate your people." A stab of guilt hit him, deep in the plates, at seeing the borderline hero-worship in the vorcha's eyes. So wrong. How could I have been so wrong?

"No sure if can free vorcha. Will fight til die. But needs to end or will take more."

He placed a armored palm on his shoulder. "I'll get it done."

Less than ten minutes later Vortash-Two arrived, ladened with a couple grenade launchers, shot guns, and even a few biotic grenades. The spirits only knew where he got his claws on that, but it was a welcome sight right now.

Like his predecessor, Vortash-Two was a damn good fighter. Although they moved so similarly, that Garrus wondered if he had always been speaking with Vortash or if they changed intermittently. Living one life through two bodies. An arbitrary thought banished by the time they stormed the bridge. And that's when he got a taste of Vortash's shotgun. The vorcha had carried the odd contraption around with him but he'd never seen it in action before. It emitted a sustained current that literally melted through shields, armor, and flesh. Even the heavy mech, distracted by the crack of Mantis fire, didn't stand a chance. The gunship swooped into view and unloaded a barrage of ammunition. Vortash-Two took the brunt of it, baying over the din. Garrus loaded his rifle with inferno rounds, took aim, and pierced the ship's fuel tank. It immediately burst into flame, swaying and bobbing as it limped towards the merc's forward base. Right. A reinforced, forward base. He'd left home less than an hour ago. It was astounding what they'd accomplished in that time. Working together made them almost unstoppable. Getting out was going to be… a problem. But he couldn't think about that now. He had to reach his men, save everyone he could.

They seemed to have a break, where they took cover behind a now defunct Mako. Garrus noted that it had been shot in the exact same manner as his own work, the day he met Ripper. Hopefully, that meant the man was still alive. He quickly dressed Vortash-Two's wounds, while the vorcha shouted in triumph about how he was 'still alive.' Miraculously, even before the medigel set in, he could see the vorcha mending before his eyes. Coriaceous skin weaving and interlocking, like the spirits themselves were sewing the gaping wounds together. At that rate, he'd be back on his feet in no time.

More troops poured from the merc's side. They were quickly put down by the combined fire power of himself, his men on the balcony, and Vortash. And then he made a break for the base, leaving Vortash One and Two to cover his back.

Garrus pushed through the rubble, heaving slabs of concrete out of the way as he dug. The sound of his breath, hot blood in his ears, served as his only company. Even Vortash, no more than a dozen feet away, seemed as though he were in another world. Everything was drowned out in the face of a singular focus, get inside, get his men, and get them the hell out of there.

Finally, he carved a tunnel for himself and crawled into the foyer, once more forgetting to breathe. A green stain extended from the banister, separating the entryway and living area, to the floor. Pools of coagulated blood all around. Melenis's body was slumped against the divide, brain matter and bits of skull trailed down the corpse. A head shot with a high powered rifle. He gasped. Choked. The vapor, tainted with the mingling blood of different species, filled his lungs, burning his craw.

There were others further in. Lumpy shapes shrouded in smoke and dust. It was so thick that even sharp, turian sight couldn't pierce it. His legs shook so violently it was all he could do to force himself onward. Your men. Your burden. Your fault.

He found Mierin and Weaver next. The turian's head was cradled in Weaver's lap, deep gaping holes in his chest oozed ichor. Half the human's face was burned off, charred black straight to the bone. Vacant eyes clouded over. Garrus slipped off his gloves, gently drawing the lids closed. Breath shivering in his chest. Shuddering. Cold. They were both so cold. He stood with a hand clenched to his chest. He had to keep going. He had to put one foot in front of the other. Blue and red squelched around his boots, turning to a sickening purple-brown puddle. They died hard.

One foot in front of the other. He just kept forcing one foot in front of the other no matter how much he wanted to fall down at their side keening, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

He could hear Vortash screeching outside. The shake of detonating grenades. Those men were buying him time, possibly with their lives. He damn well better use it.

The next mass turned out to be Frank. He was face-down by the stairs, pants around his ankles, with a headset jamming no more than a few inches away. He'd been blindsided when the attack hit. Probably didn't even hear it. They dragged him out of the bathroom and put two in the back of his head. Bastards didn't even let him pull up his pants. Nalah I'm so… sorry doesn't cover robbing you of the only person you had left in this fucked up galaxy.

The tatatatat of a rifle and ensuing explosions let him know he was out of time. He had to save those who were left.

Shaky legs climbed the stairs. Monntegue's body was halfway up, shredded by semi-automatic gunfire. No shields. They didn't even have shields. As he ascended he noticed the cards – aces, spades, and hearts all around the living area. No diamonds though. (An errant thought.) They'd been playing poker when the ambush hit, when they were slaughtered like beasts.

Everyone responsible would pay. And pay dearly.

Growing more detached with every step, he pressed ahead to the barracks.

The door was barricaded. He hollered, "it's me," over the din. There was a pause and a scraping sound before the door opened. Four black eyes meeting two beady blue.

Beyond Krul was Ripper hunched in the corner, his hair puffed out so far it looked like he sprouted a second head. Several soaked bandages wrapped around his left arm. The cloth was dense with blood. Patches had dried – a grainy, black against his swarthy skin. But there was enough streaming freely to be concerned. Next to him was Erash. An I.V. bag haphazardly tottering above, dripping saline into his system. The salarian was gasping, green bubbling from his mouth and abdomen, where the ruddy brown of intestine poked through a gaping wound.

For a moment there were no words. Only reality closing in around them.

It felt like the world had come to a halt. It felt like an eternity. But mere seconds were all that passed before Garrus had crossed the room and settled next to Ripper. First rule of triage, tend to the one who has the best chance at survival. The wound was through and through. Not that bad. Definitely survivable. He quickly patched it up with a hearty dose of medi-gel and fresh bandages.

Once Ripper was taken care of, Krul leaned in, speaking in harsh whispers. "We were hoping to get him out of here," he nodded towards Erash. "But I don't think… He's not gonna make it. Not with the army out there. If you can't do it…I-"

Garrus held up a hand. This was his burden. Their medi-gel stores were running low, but there was a stockpile of unused painkillers. Not that gel would matter either way. Erash was critical and in need of surgery. Now. And that wasn't going to happen. Garrus pulled out several vials of demerol. Resting a hand on the salarian's shoulder, he steadied his voice, rumbling his subvocals calmly as he spoke, "it's gonna be okay Erash. It's gonna be okay." That's all he said before connecting to the I.V. and pushing the plunger. He watched the life fade from those immense, watery eyes. And pulled the lids upwards when it was over. At least he went in some semblance of peace.

"I didn't see," his voice caught, trembled. "Sensat."

Krul rubbed at his eyes. Garrus could see bits of red and black across the temples. Scorch marks. The damage was superficial. His vitals were solid. The batarian was okay, clearly exhausted, but okay. "He sacrificed himself. Suicide bombed the entryway during the ambush. Doubt there's… anything left. But we wouldn't be here without him." He paused, palms once more massaging his top eyes. "We collapsed the passageways under the base. Though I doubt it'll last. Their bombs have picric acid."

Fuck. As an explosive, picric acid was incredibly corrosive, capable of eating through just about any metal. It explained how they were able to breach his reinforced, steel entryway. And confirmed his suspicions – this attack had been planned for weeks. The mercs knew exactly what they were up against. Someone fed them information. He didn't need to guess as to who.

"And Sidonis?"

Their eyes met. He knew.

"Gone."

With the break provided by three additional hands, Krul was able to hack through the jamming, and bring the coms back online. The first thing Garrus used it for was ordering Vortash to the bunker. There was a break in gunfire now that the mercs had been routed back to their base. No matter what happened, those vorcha were a part of the team now – what was left of it anyhow. And it was safer in the barracks.

But today was not his day. It seemed he was doomed to make one bad call after the next. That damned gun ship swooped out of nowhere and shelled the entire bridge. With a shout, he returned fire, disabling it once more. But it was too late. The smoke cleared to reveal a bloody stump that had been Vortash-Two. Vortash himself was a few feet from the body, barely alive. Garrus launched himself from the barracks slamming onto the bridge, and with Ripper and Krul covering his advance, scooped up what was left of him. Both legs were blown off. And if he didn't know better, Vortash was in the throws of some form of blood rage. He gnashed his teeth, wildly spewing and sputtering. It was all he could do to keep him from squirming out of his grip.

Back in the barracks, they applied medi-gel and bandages. At least infection wasn't a concern with the vorcha. It didn't take long to discern that he'd survive the injuries, but they were down a fighter. Both Ripper and Krul were exhausted. And there was a battalion out there. The situation was… grim. Not to mention the fact that Ripper was looking rather peaked, having lost a good amount of blood before he arrived. Once finished with Vortash, he took the man's blood pressure and had him lay down on one of the bunks while Krul kept watch by the cannon.

"Hey, can you start an I.V. on him? His blood pressure is lower than I'd like and you know me and fragile, human veins."

The batarian wordlessly complied. Exhaustion etched into every line on his face.

The fighting was rough. It seemed the mercs had an endless supply of troops. Bodies were piling up on the bridge, to the point that some were using corpses as a wall of shields. Darting in and out of the cover they provided to try and nail them – usually to their peril as machine gun fire cut right through flesh. Yet, no matter how many they killed, the mercs just kept throwing men to grinder. These scum had no respect for life. For their people.

It had been little over an hour since forcing Ripper to get some shut eye. Soon he'd have to rouse the man, let him trade off with Krul – who was barely on his feet. A pile of stim-vials clustered around his perch. After five doses, it worked similarly to cocaine – an effect emphasized by the massive size of his pupils. At this point, he was running on pure adrenaline. The crash had to come sooner or later.

But their momentary reprieve was over, and all thoughts beyond what was directly in front of them had to be stowed. Reality came in the form of half a dozen engineers, over twenty well armored troops, and a heavy mech. Garrus's rifle swung from one target to the next, lobbing grenades between rifle bursts. Krul was on the cannon, now reprogrammed into a rapid-fire nightmare. The deafening roar of machine gun fire drowned out everything else.

Their biggest issue was that damn mech. Every time they'd get close to whittling down its shields, an engineer would be ready and waiting to repair the thing. They'd killed several in the process, but what was worming through while they were forced to focus on one or two targets?

Drones. That's what. Spirits forsaken drones. Preoccupied with the mech, surrounded by an army of techs and rocket-bearing troops, he didn't spot them until they were half way to the bunker. "Drones! Two o'clock!" A blast from the mech knocked the batarian to the side. But he recovered admirably. And swiveled the muzzle overhead, his barrage never missing a beat. They rained from the sky. Joined by the crack of his Mantis. But it wasn't enough. Two made it through, exploding the second they crossed the base's perimeter. Garrus and Krul hit the deck. It was a miracle the blast didn't collapse the entire place. But the south side of the barracks – where all the bunks and Ripper were located – buckled under the force.

"Dammit!" Krul bellowed, "not the kid! Garrus! Start diggin' I've got you covered."

Blood and organs were smeared across the floor where Vortash had been not a minute earlier.

"Now boy!"

He snapped back to reality, lurching towards the pile of debris. A few agonizing moments later and he found Ripper – rebar cutting straight through his neck, chest crushed by a slab of stone. Shallow, gasping breaths. "No no no c'mon man, just hang on we're…" But there was nothing he could do. Ripper grasped, desperately clawing at him, at anything, eyes wild. Red stained the side of his face. Dribbled down a mandible.

Garrus heaved the chunk of concrete off his chest, and pulled him onto his lap. Soaking in the agonizing moans, the fear in his eyes. Ripper died in his arms, choking on his own blood. And he just sat there. Red oozing around his knees, pooling at his feet.

Green, orange, red.

He looked up.

And Krul was knocked backwards in slow motion. Two slugs to the chest.

Until the end of his days, Garrus would never recover the next few minutes. He'd never remember leaping several feet and landing like a spirit of vengeance in the sniper's perch, laying waste to everything that moved. Nor would he recall the two mercs who breached the perimeter. Although, he'd always have faint glimpses of the fear – the little emotions – flitting across their faces as he beat them to death with their own rifles. As he stomped and stomped and stomped on their helmets until the armor shattered. Until his boots hit brain. And then he stomped some more.

They both bled red.

He just kept hitting them.

He came back to himself when it was over. When the mercs had been routed back into their base and he was kneeling in yet another pool of blood, gently rolling Krul onto his back. The batarian gurgled, lungs filling with blood. It dribbled down his chin as his eyes grew unfocused and hazy. "Hey, hey take it easy."

Krul choked, turned his head, and spat. "Help m-m-me s-s-it up."

Garrus obeyed, vertically propping him against the wall. Gravity drained the blood from his mouth, allowing Krul to talk. The words gyrated in his throat. "Y-you listen to me boy." Shaky breaths. "Survive this. Get outta here, find Jane, remember why we did all this. She'll take care of you." Garrus could see the end coming, even before Krul weakly grabbed at the back of his fringe, pulling their heads together. He was so cold. "D-don't let it define you."

Not knowing what else to do, Garrus pulled him into his arms, clenching his jaw as Grundan's body stiffened then devolved into convulsions. He held on as all the life – the spirit, the soul – whatever it was that made a person who they were – seeped out of him. And then he was alone, cradling a corpse, seething in the darkness.

The next action was almost mindless, automatic. Any soldier in their right mind would say the move was far too risky. But he was not in his right mind. Now he was just an embodiment of rage and hate. The spirits of his men guiding him, hunting him. Grenades were pulled from his pocket by a phantom limb, then dropped – almost casually – onto the bridge, sending it into disarray. He watched, detached, as the wall of bodies were shredded by the force, revealing the survivors of his previous onslaught. And then he descended. Possessed by a spirit of vengeance. A ghost comprised of pain and rage.

They died screaming at the wrong end of a flamethrower.

He should have run then. Beyond the bridge, he could see a few shuttles taking off. Probably to pick up reinforcements. They didn't have enough troops for another push. Not yet. And with Krul's stealth net installed on his omni-tool, he could slip through their poorly guarded perimeter, ascend to the catwalks and disappear. That's what he should have done. But that's not what he did.

His nimble intelligence and foresight were dulled by a manic desperation.

It felt like a lifetime had passed from the moment he first clawed through the rubble until now. A different man stood at the threshold than the one who left that morning on a grocery run. And then he looked back – spotted Frank face down, languishing in his own blood, ass flapping in the atmospheric breeze. And his despair grew palpable. His men, all of them, abandoned to rot. No dignity. No final rest. While the one responsible fled like a coward.

Numb legs turned back, fumbling towards the stairs. His mind a shattered obelisk. But somehow, someway, he forced one foot in front of the other.

It wouldn't take long. But he couldn't leave them like this. They deserved better. In. Out. Give them some semblance of peace then retreat.

Ever so gently, he wrapped their bodies in tarps, blankets, even a few of his own clothes – stripped from his closet. He stood over them, flamethrower in hand, when an explosion rocked the base.

You're too late, his mind chimed.
It took everything he had to care.

A/N: Full note with music, short movie link, etc on AO3.