Chapter Thirteen: Yellow to Red

1 year and 6 months later…

The small screwdriver in his hand was too big for the torque he needed to turn the last screw of his updated mod. He frowned at the tip of it, tossing it in the desk in front of him before reaching over to pull a drawer open. He fumbled in there for a moment, not taking his eyes off that tiny screw and when his fingers found the velvet case. He unsnapped it and retrieved the smaller screwdriver. It was a hair's width thicker than a needle, and it did the trick. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Seven times, that'll do it.

Sitting backwards he felt the tension in his plates scream their resistance. Glancing at his omni-tool he realized he had been down here for almost four hours taking apart, cleaning and upgrading his M-98. He smiled softly down at her, running his hand along the side and silently thanked her for being fierce, faithful, and mean.

And she was a mean gun. Even before he started upgrading her to his specs, when she had been purchases new, the rifle pulled to the left just enough to make up for the angle of his carapace. It sat against his frame and at first, he had thought he would have to switch arms, though he was still a good shot, he felt completely unbalanced. She had surprised him when he pulled the trigger and corrected against the recoil, and he had hit the target dead center. Shattering that bottle into dust. Literal dust. He had actually purred after he realized the sniper rifle was practically made for him.

He hadn't held a gun in almost four months before that night. It had taken a long time for his body to heal enough for him to even go to the shooting range. Luckily, he did. His body may have a few more aches and pains on cold nights, but it had never really been cold on the Citadel and now that he was on Omega – well, cold air wasn't ever a problem.

It was six months to the day of the Normandy going down that the Alliance held their official memorial. They had said it was because they had wanted to recover certain articles from the crash, but no expedition had ever been coordinated. The Council blew it up. The entire Citadel was littered with the faces and names of the dead. The Normandy crew would 'live on in our hearts' and that sentiment was the chant through the vids and everywhere he looked someone or some company was making a killing off the grief of losing those 'brave men and women who saved the Citadel'. The dead had become tools for the politicians and military to utilize to garner support. The Alliance had her face on recruitment adds. Her name and voice filtered through hub screens in an obviously edited 'join the Alliance, make the galaxy our home' propaganda.

And he had hated every moment of it. When he joined the others at the memorial service, it had meant something to him. It truly did. He hadn't realized at the time how much he had needed to say his goodbyes to the men and women who had never made it off that ship. He hadn't been able to do much but heal and find solace in empty liquor bottles and clipped conversations, but he could damn sure be there to honor the Normandy. That…that he could do. But it was too big, too many people, so many of them had been people who had doubted her, slandered her, the cause, their mission acted as if the death of the Normandy and their Commander pained them. What did they know of pain?

Pain was the shake in Tali's body. She had been sitting beside him and her body trembled so hard parts of her suit rattled as she fought against the sobs that were stuck in her throat. The way her shoulders were hunched, and her filters wheezed because she seemed to be struggling to breathe past her desperation for control.

Pain was in Liara's face. He recognized it. And though he did not look into her eyes, he saw it dancing on her cheeks in silver streams of grief that he still – to this fucking day – envied. She cried quietly, anger was in her jaw and in her bald fists on her lap and she had not stayed to the end of service but had managed to wait to leave until they had read each name on a list – flashing their service picture on a screen so big it almost hurt Garrus' eyes too look at.

Bakari, Jamin

Barrett, Germeen

Branson, James

Chase, Addison

Crosby, Silas

Draven, Rosamund

Draven, Talitha

Dubyansky, Alexei

Emerson, Hector

Felawa, Robert

Gladstone, Harvey J.

Grenado, Caroline

Grieco, Marcus

Hopkins, Daniel

Laflamme, Orden

Lowe, Helen M.

Negulesco, Monica

Pakti, Abishek

Pressly, Charles

Rahman, Mandira

Shepard, Jane

Tanaka, Raymond

Tucks, Carlton

Waaberi, Amina

Every name came with a memory. Even if it was just a glance, a small smile as he walked by them to the airlock, a familiar laugh as he had eaten in the mess hall, stoic advice when he had started trying to upgrade his omni-tool – faces to names, faces to names, faces…

When they spoke her name out loud, he had been angry for her. She hated her name. It had been used against her in some of the most brutal moments of her life and she had all but taken Commander in replacement. Hell, he had doubted that had she ever been promoted she would have! He snarled when he heard it, low and angrily to himself, but Tali's hand grasped his and they didn't let go for the rest of the service.

Pain was Joker. His body forced in a wheelchair, his hands still in casts and his face collapsed in grief too great to describe. Joker hadn't spoken to anyone. Garrus had visited him once while they were both in the hospital, sat with him in silence. Joker had just stared out into nothingness – true terror behind his eyes as his jaw had tensed and relaxed, his body shaking ever so slightly. Tali had been the only one to get any real reaction from him. A single tear. One tear. It seeped out of the inner corner of his eye and down the length of his nose and dropped unceremoniously onto his shirt. He didn't know why Tali described that moment - but it was important to her, and he let her share. Afterward, no other tear followed, and he had shook his head. Tali had gotten him to actually eat for the first time. He had been a damned skeleton in that bed. Tiny, broken. And now he sat in his wheelchair, Garrus could only assume the pain in his features was both mental and physical pain. And not for the first time since the crash, he felt as if the pilot had died right along with the Normandy.

Pain was the look on Anderson's face. That far away haunted grief that someone tried to hide, but it won out every time. Ghosted against the shadows behind his eyes that hadn't been there before. He had stood guard over the twenty-three empty caskets from the moment they appeared to the moment the very last one had been loaded onto its own private transport shuttle to be sent to families all over the galaxy. Shepard's, as customary, was the last to be loaded. They were taking it to Mindoir. He watched as Anderson placed a hand on the top of it, no doubt saying something and when the Councilor stepped back to stand at attention his sharp click at his heels sounded like a gunshot throughout the quiet theater. His salute was rigid and poised and his marine 'hoorah' sounded, Garrus watched as every private, officer and military of the Alliance who was in attendance click their heels and cry out in the same farewell grunt of a soldier.

All except for Kaidan. He had saluted, but he made no bark of farewell.

Kaidan was there, but he wasn't. He stood on the opposite side of the stage that Anderson had. Dressed in his starch blues and strange hat. His hands covered in white gloves too clean to be on a soldier. Garrus had studied him then, in that moment. The tight strain of grief on furrowed brows. His mouth a thin line, but his control had returned. The Turian had been thankful when the news had come that Kaidan was not going to be held responsible for his biotics surging. He had an entire surviving crew that had testified that he had been the one to save them all and rally them together on that planet. Garrus had even spoken for him. Whatever good it did. All he knew was Shepard wouldn't want Kaidan to rot in some jail somewhere and it was enough for him to defend the man's grief and speak on behalf of his leadership. The fact that he had kept himself and Joker in stasis for six days had been a miracle in itself. They had tried to say it was because the crew kept giving them both IV's, but he knew – they all knew – Kaidan had been a hero on that planet. It had not been Lieutenant Alenko – it had been Kaidan.

When the crowds had cleared, it was Kaidan who stayed standing there.

Garrus and Tali had remained seated.

Anderson lingered longer than necessary but slipped away just before the last stragglers cleared.

Tali left to find Liara.

And he stayed standing there.

Garrus stood from his seat and walked towards him, stopping in front of him, but below him on the ground instead of on the stage.

Pain was the look of utter emptiness that was found in both a human's eyes and a Turian's and the strange and surreal bond that formed in a moment that no words were spoken, but every single explanation was given.

Garrus left the Citadel that night.
Kaidan left in a different way.

"Hey," a deep voice cut through his thoughts as a hand came crashing hard on his shoulder, "You done yet?"

Garrus rolled his neck and stretched his shoulder, "I am never done down here."

"Yes, well," Vortash almost chided, "They got food upstairs, Garrus – go get some."

The turian shifted in his seat and eyeballed the bartarian with a dismissive glance, "Didn't know you cared so much."

"We got a job tomorrow and you know you got to eat," he shoved him out of the seat, "Damn Turians."

Garrus chuckled and straightened, watching as Vortash took the seat instead. The bartarian was older than him by almost two decades. For all he knew, he probably had children Garrus' age. He was damned good at manipulating weapon systems and had taught Garrus more than a thing or two in the last year that they had been working together. Working together. He shook his head – a bartarian working with anyone other than a high paying boss or its own kind was unheard of.

But here he sat. Warts and all. Loyal to a fault to the team that had slowly been collecting members since his first few weeks on Omega. Though a batarian would never have been one of his first choices in recruitments. They didn't necessarily scream comradery. They were loyal to a fault to their own brood - even more so than the turians - which was both scary and admirable. Even as mercs they answered the call from home and would do whatever was required of them. It was rare to have one disconnect himself from the Hegemony. Vortash, however, Garrus had watched him shoot agents between all four eyes without a single second of concern. It had taken nine months before Vortash had explained his reason to turn his back on his people. Watching your wife and three children get slaughtered in front of you as punishment would break anyone's faith. They had been killed simply because the chain of command had expected him to find more eezo on a human colony raid. He hadn't. His family and the family of his four squad mates had been the price. It didn't matter that there wasn't any eezo on the planet to be found. It was a dead zone, the only cache they grabbed had been in parked ships. It didn't matter. They wanted what they wanted.

To him, any of his brood that still worked for the Hegemony was a traitor to him. He didn't outright kill people. He didn't provoke, but he made damned sure that if a batarian was in a fight against them - he got the kill - always right there between those four eyes.

Garrus understood. He wondered though if there would ever be enough eyes for Vortash to close.

"Alright, you too though – I'll send Mierin down to drag your ass back up."

"Fuck off, G."

He shook his head and left the room, he was hungry. And they did have a job the next day. It was a big one too. They had finally got a hold a good hold on the red sand dealer Thralog Mirki'it. The bastard had been a nuisance since he had gotten to Omega. He was a good dealer too. He didn't target the street urchins or the like, he favored higher end cliental. The kind that had more money than sense. He filtered his product through their systems. Problem was, as bad as red sand was, he was altering it was borsiet, a red sand look alike that had started being the cause of hemorrhage in the humans and asari who took the stuff. He didn't necessarily care if a lot of drug users got affected, but once that drug got into someone's system, the very oils they sweated became toxic. Anyone with amino-acid based biology started getting severe burns. Nasty business. And yet somehow these sick fucks on Omega thought it was delicious to buy. To toy with death. It was like they got their rocks off on it. To see how far they could push their bodies until they just collapsed in back alleys to rot. Omega didn't give a damn about some unknown body in the streets. The Vorcha would strip them down to bones for it. Eventually. After the decay and rot of the corpse exploded outward. Dead bodies were not pretty.

Vortash had been the one to bring him the files on dealer. The older man had been disturbed by the entire thing and had insisted it be something they handled. Garrus had been reluctant at first – there were more pressing things to handle. Truth was, the squad and him had a long queue of inquiries and hopeful pleas to sort through. Omega was a cesspool of criminal activity, and it was theirs for the taking. To clean. To rescue. To fix. To absolve. But Mirki'it was crafty. He had been in the business for a long time and Garrus or Vortash never would have found him had it not been for Monteague. The damned drell had a way of skirting around the extranet like no one else he had ever met. He could hack into personal comms, data pads, bank accounts – you name it, he could firewall his way through it. The only one close to being as good was Vortash, but he specialized in field hacks and armory not private affairs with more security than anyone thought possible.

Monteague had searched for eighteen days before he found the man's entire life story. He didn't care about any of that – but they had a location, and they had a routine. They also had to send a mini-fortune to one of Monteague's contacts off world because the drell had admitted after looking for twelve days straight the only person who would have been able to truly get any real solid intel was either the Shadow Broker himself or his old colleague Keiji Okuda. To say that the Turian was pissed when he realized the damned double agent was tied to the Alliance had been an understatement. But Monteague assured him that Okuda was trustworthy. Garrus decided faith was better than losing his drell team member and trusted him. It had worked well in the long run – Okuda had helped in a few other cases and Garrus had in turn helped the operative when some other thief had needed backup. He scoffed, not that he had done much when he arrived. Never even saw her. He provided a distraction, a loud one and the thief had slunk away in the shadows with a sassy, "Thanks Archy!" He supposed that's what they had needed because the job had been done and Okuda had thanked him personally. Good man.

There were a lot of good men in these dark shadows. Doing good deeds that seemed criminal.

Most of Archangel's crew, he hated saying that – but they insisted on it – were out doing various assignments. He hadn't been the one to give him the random name and he had been incredibly putt off by it at first. He suspected though, that the little thief and Okuda had started it. Little whispers in the shadows and soon the citizens had made it a title. It makes their band of misfits matter in a way that they hadn't before. And Garrus figured, if that brought out just a little bit of hope - and placed a little bit of fear in other ways - he would be okay with it. However, no one in the crew was allowed to say it. He was Garrus - not some figment of human mythology.

It fit, though, to him - if she wasn't going to be able to be here to do the work of good men - at least a part of where she came from could exist to do it.

The krogan team member Weaver was providing a group of colonists that had broken down just outside the station escort. Strictly guard business because no one should ever be stranded on Omega. His presence would ensure that the repairs were done, and the family would be able to leave as soon as they were able. Too many people had been ending up missing since the Vorcha started showing up in waves. Weaver joined because of his loyalty to Meirin. The asari. She was quiet, kept to herself and could take down a wall of enemies with her biotics. Weaver and she were inseparable in their loyalty to one another. If a krogan loved - Weaver showed it in the tenderness he wielded for Meirin. Their backstory was muted. Clipped. One saved the other and in turned they saved them. Against what and who was never specified, but they proved their loyalty to the cause time and time again. Unwavering faith in one another to always get their assignments done and come home to each other. Garrus envied them and was honored to witness it. Wrex had shown him a side to the krogan he hadn't been privy to and now so did Weaver.

Vorcha were…parasites. Their mouths of dangerous teeth so long and locking together and with no lips to cover them gave them appearance of snarling. Their eyes were too wide, too set back into bone and muscle that sat atop their skin instead of under it. It did not help that they were just smart enough to be considered a species and not beasts. Their language was broken series of barks and snarls and grunting – and the few that had learned to communicate in words – could barely be understood anyway. Vorcha rarely lived outside the asteroid belts. Unless they were guns for hire. Cannon fodder. That's what they were for the gangs of Omega. But over the course of the last three months – there had seemed to be an increase of them that started living in the lower alleyways. Like feral varren on the street, they wandered and were dangerous to be cornered by.

Erash was – well he didn't know where Erash was. He reminded him of Tali a little bit. Eager, funny, idealist. Though he was a salarian so truly listening to him always gave him a bit of a headache. He just knew he was out there doing something that would most likely end up with an explosion and Garrus having to fund a private construction detail to any civilian homes or businesses that got caught in the …detonation zone. He trusted him though, one of the few former-military men on his team. Most likely a member of the Special Task Force. A memory of Captain Kirrahe on Virmire fluttered across his mind and he wondered if he was still out there holding the line in another too-close-for-comfort battle that would never be known about. Espionage that saved the galaxy.

Ripper was probably in the bedroom with Sensat and Butler was probably at home with his wife. The three humans had been former C-sec officers. Sensat, Garrus had worked with personally. After Sovereign on the Citadel they had left because of various reasons. A common theme was simple: they believed the deceased Shepard and the Citadel had become a breeding ground of falsehoods in regard to her claims. It was a similar story for him as well. He had accepted Executor Pallin's offer to reinstate at the station and it had taken him one week to realize that the majority of his job there was 'rumor control'. To appease the politicians and help aid them to calm the masses and replace any mention of the term "Reaper" with Geth. Garrus had seethed when he realized that they were all basically calling Shepard's word - and the mission that so many died for – a lie. The Council claimed that Saren had manipulated Shepard into thinking there was someone else to blame so that he wouldn't be apprehended. In the end, they at least left her with some dignity and said she finally saw through his lies and killed him.

He had punched Pallin on the seventh day when the man muttered something about 'the human was a waste of a Spectre slot'. He wanted to kill him. Probably would have if he had been on Omega. But what worried Garrus more than angered him – was that Pallin believed the Council. He truly thought that Shepard had been fooled. Garrus pitied him and with a heavy sigh he threw his badge and gun down and stalked out of the Academy.

Fuck if he was going to be a part of brainwashing people to be blind to the truth. The Reapers were out there. But what the hell good does that knowledge do for him? Nightmare stuff. Eventually they wouldn't be 'out there' and they would be knocking on everyone's door. And then - then would they realize the fallen Commander Shepard had tried to warn them? Would they even acknowledge their ignorance? Their foolishness? It wouldn't matter because it would be too late.

Grundan Krul was drunk on the couch already when Garrus cleared the stairs and entered the main floor of the house, poor kid just lost his pet varren. The pup had gotten hurt in the last raid of stolen guns they had recovered, and he had to shoot him to end his suffering. That actually hurt to watch. Garrus liked the varren. Probably a little more than he liked Weaver. Krul was one of the three of the Turians in the squad and he was young. Very young. Just sixteen and should have been introduced into the Hierarchy the year prior, but that's not how things always happen. Especially when you live as a gutter rat and had been raised by the streets of Omega.

When Garrus saw Krul punch and then - subsequently beat to near death – a human who had forced itself onto another human, Garrus had offered him a bedroom of his own if he joined them squad. He didn't know why he wanted the kid to join the team so badly, but he chalked it up to raw talent if not a bit of pity. Though he never would say he felt that for him. Pride is a damning thing. After a while, he realized that Krul was fit better as a patrolman. Pseudo-officer to stalk the streets and step in to prevent some of the darker seedier acts that happen in dark corners of the station. He had agreed hesitantly and then greedily had come to appreciate his spot in the team. He was all ground and recovery. Get out there and keep people from hurting other people. Easy. Then come home and eat, sleep and be merry. Begrudgingly, Garrus had begun to worry over Krul. His attitude was lacking, but he was a smart kid. If the Hierarchy didn't approve of him, Garrus damn well was going to. If he admitted to no one but himself and his M-98 – Garrus actually really cared for Krul. He was protective of him and was glad that he had been able to give him his own room in a house that was safe for him. Living out there on the streets was no place to grow up – hell the boy didn't even know how to use simple items that were common in a home. And though he never asked how, he had watched Garrus intently in the first few months, learning in silence.

He hadn't known what to make of Melenis at first. The volus had a way of just disappearing and reappearing when Garrus needed his skill. One that had been uncommon to find in the short, rounded, masked mole-like creatures. Subterfuge. The man could charm a quarian out of its suit in the middle of a plague zone. No idea how he did it. No idea. Probably just a biased inability to compute because Garrus hated the way any volus spoke. They had to intake air through their filters on their hoods after every – single – fucking word. He still thinks he drugs his targets, a curiosity that had always kept him a little at bay of the shorter man. He was also a damned good cook and knew how to make both dexto-based and levo-based foods. When he wasn't out there making the dead talk – he was usually found doing the simpler task of basic needs at the base. Cooking, cleaning, laundry. Garrus had asked him once if he wanted to hire a mech to do that and Melenis declined by saying, none-too-slowly, "It…is…the…small…deeds…that…add…to…become…the…largest…of…them…all. It…is…my…pleasure…Vakarian."

Sidonis was still looking for leads on the serial killer Zel'Aenik nar Helash. Disgusting business. Dangerous. The kind of business that his right-hand man needed to be in charge of. He couldn't trust any of the others to get the intel they needed without getting caught or worse killed.

No, Sidonis was the man for the job.

Hell Sidonis had been unfathomably the most valuable and important member of his squad. He had been the first to work with him, similar back story. He had been an officer in the Hierarchy, not the Navy such as Garrus, but Infantry. From what Garrus could find out, Sidonis had served honorably. He had done what was needed, had been a part of dozens of battles, mostly recon missions to help fight off raiders in colony worlds, but he had opted out. Hard to do in their society. Once in – a turian is in. Until they are old enough to breed. Ten years after enrollment. Of course, Turians could remain in their military, but the option to branch out and find other routes in life was allowed. Encouraged even. Garrus had left to work on the Citadel, a move that would get him familiar with other species and policies. In the long run, Garrus had wanted to be a Spectre. Something his father did not approve of. What little dreams he had then.

Sidonis, however, never made it to that choice.

He had left the Hierarchy after his squad was assigned to Gellix. An almost uninhabitable world where the Turians had a few colonies. Everyone knew the reason behind Turian's control of that world – and it wasn't because it was even remotely good for their species. It was a muscle flex of the might of Palaven. They took it from the Krogan simply because they could. Forcing the brutes off world and back to their dying planet of Tuchanka. Sidonis' unwavering faith in the Hierarchy was broken by the things he saw there.

"They didn't release the Krogan," he had admitted in an a whisper that seemed painful to say.

"What do you mean?" Garrus had asked. Gellix had been seized in his lifetime – he had been in one of the battles himself and had personally watched as they loaded some of the Krogan on ships to take off world.

"Those ships never went to Tuchanka, they kept them – and they did things to them…" a shudder found the other Turian's shoulders and he turned his yellow eyes to catch Garrus' gaze, "I watched them lift the head plate off one and keep him alive. Forcing him to work. Brain just…just…exposed. But they didn't care – they forced him to clean the fucking floors with rags that were soaked with his blood until he bled out. Do you know how long it takes for a Krogan to die like that?" Sidonis took another shot and slammed the glass down. "He kept muttering about why he couldn't get all the blood up, where was it coming from – he was so out of it, he didn't even realize that it was his blood dripping down his arms and from his face. But he kept cleaning…kept wiping…until he collapsed. And then… they laughed. Our people, Garrus. Our people. I always thought there was honor in what we did. Like we had a right to claim what we wanted. But there is no honor in that."

Sidonis had left Gellix, removed himself from the Hierarchy – a price that is paid by being stripped of title and right to property on Palaven – and left their homeworld for good. He hadn't been back in three years.

There were times he found Sidonis staring at Weaver with wide horror-locked eyes. Garrus would step into his line of sight, nudge the man back to the present and continue on with whatever he had been doing.

Garrus himself, had had no experience like that within the Hierarchy. It did not mean it didn't happen. War criminals were not secluded to one species, and he would not doubt Sidonis that there were the same kind of scum in their ranks. He did, however, make sure that Sidonis was never assigned with Weaver and didn't pit him against the Blood Pack which consisted mostly of krogan and vorcha. He had become his go-to against the Eclipse mercs and high-profile crimes that required intelligence and charm. He had both.

It hadn't been just a one-way street of confessional either. Sidonis had helped Garrus during those nights where terror woke him. Where his brain played with his memories and manipulated them into weapons. He had never asked him any questions, but he was there to pull him up after a long battle with his demons and pour him a drink. When Garrus had opened up about nearly starving to death, Sidonis had fixed him a small plate of food – forced him to look at it – and vowed that he would never go hungry. He was sure that Sidonis was the reason why everyone seemed to always make sure Garrus had at least one meal.

Without fail. Every day. Someone would remind him to eat. Or bring him a plate of food. A bowl of soup.

It was just something you did for the people who you trusted. He knew that. Shepard was like that. She had taught him that leading wasn't leading mindless followers. It was leading a group of loyal men and women who knew each other. Who could read each other and take care of each other. It was why losing the Normandy felt like losing a part of himself. Because it was – the team was. He had known more about the people on the ship than the people he had served with before. Then friends he had since childhood.

Sidonis had been his first friend after that loss.

The others followed tentatively after.

These were his people. A year finding them and fighting alongside them solidified that. A year and a half since one crew perished in yellow beams of destruction and one emerged within the dull reds and pinks of Omega. It didn't bother him that these people were considered the outcasts of their own societies. It didn't both him to sit with each of them and hear their confessions, their demons, their hopes – it healed him. It helped him find something bigger than what he had lost. Not better – but familiar just the same.

"I…think…I…will…add…larkil…next…time, it has a better spice," Melenis would tell him as he pushed a warmed plate at him when Garrus relaxed into a seat at the table. "Enjoy…Vakarian."

"Thanks, Melenis."