Chapter 26: Crossfire

Main Battery, Normandy SR-2. Part IV of events preceding Garrus: Eye for an Eye.

Disclaimer: this chapter will only be revised on AO3. Search "Enough" by kesla there for the latest and most polished version.

The battery door cycled open on the CO at 06:24, four hours and seventeen minutes after Garrus had jolted awake to the white-hot splash of burning hydrogen boiling away his suit, the scythe of frag shredding his carapace; four hours and five minutes after he'd grounded himself, pulled up his screen, grounded himself again, and flung a message into cyberspace.

From: GY OFF Vakarian

To: CO Shepard

Subject:

Commander, if you're able to come by the battery this cycle, I'd appreciate it. The sooner the better.

G

He hadn't gone back down. He'd banged out HMC's workout regimen in quarters. Had two and a half cups of coffee by 05:00, and only stopped when he'd noticed the tremor in his hands. Tried to code, tried to read. But digits and letters slid off the surface of his awareness like oil on water, and so he'd paced, treading the deck while his mind turned over the conversation to come, scouting objections and plotting a route through anticipated barriers.

And now she was here, and all he needed to do was convince her to let him kill a man in cold blood.

"Got your message bright and fucking early. The hell are you doing sending emails at zero two hundred?" She stepped in and pushed a mug at him, keeping one for herself. "Grabbed you a refill."

"Shepard, I'm glad you came by," he said, taking it. "I may need your help."

"Sure. Got a problem needs solving, you know I'm your guy." She sipped. "What's the situation? Mail need delivering? Busload of orphans need adopting? Colony need solar radiation barriers re-upped by a jarhead with no technical skill whatsoever?"

"Something like that." He sealed the door behind her. She checked over her shoulder, then turned back with raised eyebrows. "It's not a conversation I want interrupted," he said in response to her expression.

"Well, no chance of that now." She crossed the deck and settled onto his container. "Fill me in, Vakarian. You need something that's in my power, you'll get it."

It was a nice sentiment. Not a true one, under the circumstances, but it was the thought that counted. Unless the thought blocked the prerogative to act, in which case it needed to be rectified now.

He set down the mug without drinking. Crossed his arms and battled down the impulse to uncross them immediately, to pace or shift his weight in dereliction of months' conditioning in HMC Sniper School. His heart was pounding. Too much coffee, too little shuteye. Too loose an end, and he needed to tie it off.

He worked his larynx and spoke. Pitched his tones at what he remembered was standard for their conversations. Equanimity. The appearance if not the fact of rationality. If he messaged ambivalence in any way, he opened the door to a dynamic two years gone but not forgotten.

"You remember my XO? The one who betrayed my team? Well, I found a lead on him. There's a specialist on the Citadel—name's Fade. Helps people disappear. Sidonis has been in contact with him as recently as a cycle ago."

Shepard nodded. "I remember the name. Never told me what happened, there. You wanna fill me in?"

No, Shepard. Don't ask questions; don't try to understand.

"It's—a long story," he said. "I promise I'll share it some other time."

"All right. I'll hold you to that." She set her mug aside and sat forward, interlacing her fingers. "What exactly are you planning to do when you find 'im?"

He tensed at the question, for all he'd planned for this. For all he'd charted the right words, a pitch demonstrating the logic and necessity and the moral imperative. But he was too close to it, too tired and wired and on edge, and what came out was:

"Oh, you know. The usual. Shake hands and affirm our undying fealty to one another. Come on, Shepard. You humans have a saying. An eye for an eye, a life for a life? He owes me ten lives, and I plan to collect."

He opened his mouth to clarify, to roll it back, then forced himself silent. Let it sit between them. It wasn't how he'd planned the approach, but the positioning was what it was.

Her eyes swept him, scanning for something he couldn't clock. He met her gaze. Braced for the questions, the remonstrances against killing. Stepped mentally to meet it in refutation. She was hardheaded as hell. But this had been his command, his misjudgment and his responsibility to clean up, and if he could just get her to goddamn listen—

She sat up and closed her eyes, rolling her shoulder in the socket. "You got it. I'll have Joker set a course for Serpent Nebula."

"—Just like that?"

Shepard nodded. "Just like that."

She woke her omnitool and began typing, which left him to examine the instant distrust that her consent had evoked. The misgivings over any qualifiers or interrogation. They'd never had a straightforward conversation about discretionary application of force. Doctor Saleon, Doctor Michel. The need for policy and procedure in Citadel Security or lack of it. Every perspective he'd voiced when she circled by the hangar, every initiative he'd taken in her presence even before entering her command in '83: Shepard had always had opinions. Expectations. There was no damn way that this of all things was an exception, that they'd phased into an alternate reality where stated intention to assassinate a civilian wasn't grounds for debate, cause for concern, and mandate to intervene.

Something untraceable pricked him, threaded his spine. And it might have been anger, or it might have been bewilderment, or it might have been frustrated expectation or sleeplessness or over-caffeination or any number of damn things, but it drove him forward now. If they were going to have it out, they needed to have it the hell out now.

"That was…strangely easy," he said. Probing. "I blocked out two hours for the debate. Sure you don't want to fight me on this?"

She didn't look up. "Wise guy, huh?"

"Always."

"Dunno what to tell you. I've got your back on this, Vakarian. Be a fucking asshole if I didn't." She closed her screen.

He didn't voice his immediate thought, which was more or less, Do you, Shepard? Since when? "...Well. I'll take it."

"Good idea. One time thing." She leaned down to retrieve her mug and drank. He went to copy her on instinct, then stopped himself. He didn't need another damn hit. He needed to understand why she wasn't pushing. "Anything else?"

"That's—that's all. Thanks, Commander."

She nodded. "I should go. Got a backlog of paperwork as per fucking usual. Dinner at 18:00?"

"18:00. Right."

She rose, headed for the door. Routine sign-off. Neutral affect. Like this was nothing.

But it'd never been nothing, and as she reached the threshold he said, "Shepard, wait."

She turned, sipping. "Forget something?"

"...Did you?" he asked.

"Not as far as I know. Coffee, check. Paperwork, check. Something still in the docket? I walk in here with anything else?"

He stared at her, then shook his head. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Something happening right now? Still on my first cup, buddy—haven't been up since zero dark thirty like some people. You're gonna have to be a little clearer with me."

"Damn it." He paced, involuntarily, two steps. Stopped and willed himself still. "Are you—are you being disingenuous right now?"

She stopped, mug halfway to her mouth, then lowered it. "You're gonna have to loop me in on that conversation you seem to be having with someone, Vakarian. 'Cause whoever you're talkin' to, it's not me."

"Shepard. I called you down here to say I needed help assassinating a civilian target, and you just nodded along and signed off on it."

A pause.

"Lemme get clear on this. You're upset because I approved the assignment you requested, with the parameters you set?"

"Yes?"

"Why and how?"

"Because I know this isn't the last I've heard on this," he said, too sharply. "Who died and made you amenable?"

Her eyebrows climbed. "I died. And if you wanted the assist and I agreed to give it, I'm not really seeing what the problem is."

"The problem is that you're not being transparent. And I can't get to the bottom of why."

Her expression flickered. "How exactly can I be more transparent? You want me to copy you on the paperwork? Take you blow by blow through the line items? I could unsend the request I just transmitted and have you watch over my shoulder while I write an identical one, but I'm feeling like that'll be a waste of time much better spent trying to figure out what the fuck is going on right now."

"I'm not in a joking mood, Shepard."

"Yeah, clearly. Unfortunately, jokes are all I've got since you won't tell me what you need for me to close out this interaction in a manner satisfactory to you."

"Fine." He stepped towards her. "I'll spell it out, since you won't."

"Love to hear it. Hell, maybe I'll learn something, 'cause I'm pretty sure the word's not in my lexicon." She angled around him, returned to his crate, and sat. "Well?"

He watched her lean down, set her coffee on the deck. Took a breath, and said it. "I want to know the damned catch. I want to know if you're consenting now so you can pull some intervention later. If I'm going to reach the Citadel, put this traitor in my reticle, and have you turn Sidonis into another Saleon and force me to let him walk."

She stopped, fingers encircling the mug's rim, and looked hard at him. He could see her mining the interaction for data. Reevaluating the terrain. "Wasn't the plan," she said evenly.

"How sure are you? You've never not tried to remediate me, Commander. And I've reconciled myself to that. Hell, I've welcomed it. But this is different, and I need to take preventative measures if this is something you're not comfortable letting me handle my way."

"To repeat it back," she said, "you don't think I trust you. And you've got the evidence of two years ago to prove it. That right?"

He leaned against his console. Straightened. Turned away and braced himself on the guardrail. "Whatever this is, it isn't you, Shepard," he said to the guns. "You don't have to agree with me, but I'd appreciate it if you came clean and said so. I'm not in the headspace to hear a lecture, but if I have to, let's hear it the hell now. Not later, in the field, when I should be able to trust that you have my back."

Seconds ticked up on his readouts as he stared into the battery, picking out the designation on the cannons, their length and breadth. Reaching for a stillness he couldn't find. He felt like a live wire, heart hammering, nerves alight.

Ceramic clinked. Footsteps.

"Don't need to be in the headspace." She joined him on the rail, looking out at the cannons. "I'm an all-terrain vehicle, Gunnery Officer. It was plain as day you needed me to drop the sermons, so I dropped 'em. I'm not gonna stand in your way. Not for something like this. Got my word on it." She pushed off the bar. "Assignment's approved, and I should get going. Need anything else, just shoot me a message."

The door cycled shut.

Garrus closed his eyes. He would handle his XO. He would check this off, and then his docket would be clear. 'Til then—'til then, everything was on hold. If Shepard was harboring reservations about his decision, was choosing not to disclose them despite opportunity and invitation, that was her prerogative. The important thing was that permission had been granted, objectives set; and short of her changing her mind, stepping into his sightline, and interposing her body between his reticle and his target, Lantar Sidonis was a dead man walking.

But he replayed the conversation anyway as he wrote code, and erased it, and wrote it again, because he apparently couldn't do anything right, from the damn job he was paid for to the damn responsibility he'd taken on as Archangel to the damn deference he owed his commanding officer.

He shouldn't have second-guessed her, despite his misgivings. Not in that way. Shouldn't have taken a hostile tone or accused her of deceit. Twice. Three times. Shit, four. It was unacceptable conduct under any circumstance and unprofessional as hell.

His fault. He'd asked to speak to her as his CO then engaged her as a peer, collapsed what should've been two discrete conversations—crewman's request for assistance, airing of personal opinions—into one. She'd held the line, and he hadn't, and friendship that traversed ranks only worked when both people clocked in for duty. An apology was owed.

Time passed. 07:00 rolled around. Garrus scrubbed through the interaction, again, and logged the reversion to rank and title in her sign-off, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

No. Scratch that. What the hell was wrong with her? Why the fuck hadn't she tried to stop him?

He deleted a line. She had to have been biding her time, waiting for an opportunity to reengage. The alternative didn't make any damn sense. Didn't adhere to the evidence of anything he had on file from two years back.

She'd never let a thing slide, not when it ran against the grain of her principles.

His reasons had never passed muster, from his decision to join her crew to his intention to leave the force permanently.

He ought to be grateful that this was apparently the exception to her rule, but it wasn't goddamn lining up, and he couldn't kill the uneasiness in him, the near certainty that the mission parameters were still in flux. If Sidonis escaped justice because she rescinded her orders…

He realized that his console had entered sleep mode from inactivity, nothing entered for full minutes. He woke it and reapplied himself to the job. Deferred doubt to later. The question of whether he'd have to choose between duty to his CO and his duty as CO was out of his hands. But he hoped like hell it wouldn't come to that.

08:00 arrived.

'I'm not gonna stand in your way. Not for something like this. Got my word on it.'

She'd given her assurances.

The commander shot straight. Too straight, sometimes, historically. It was why he'd been braced for an argument to begin with. When she had convictions, everyone knew them. She didn't manipulate her people, didn't maneuver them. Which left him asking what the hell had happened earlier today, and if there'd been a misunderstanding, and if so, who'd misunderstood whom.

He cursed under his breath, a blended run of turian and human swears. Queued up one program in his code-proofing utility for the thousandth damn time, and turned to another.

08:30.

'I've got your back on this, Vakarian. Be a fucking asshole if I didn't.'

'I'm not gonna stand in your way. Not for something like this.'

'On this.' 'Something like this.' Specific. Pregnant with meaning, clearly. Allusive, but to fucking what? It was straight back to his days in the force, deconstructing every sentence issued from the mouth of a nonturian, chasing meaning with a flashlight and a manual written in someone else's first language when what he needed was one damn person to drop the specialized discourse, bypass the intepretive exercise in orthography, and verbally explain what the fuck was going on.

What was special about this scenario? If this was the exception to the rule, to her rule, why and how and what the actual—? When had there ever been a single exception to her rule?

Oh. Oh, Christ. Oh, shit fucking fuck.

Akuze.

Shepard knew. She knew better than anyone what the massacre of your entire command put you through, and what you'd do and who you'd become to make it right. She understood. She'd understood all along. She'd put a bullet in the heart of an unarmed scientist from the Akuze Project in incontestable proof of that understanding. Which meant she'd intended to render aid, without commentary and without reservation, for reasons opaque and incomprehensible to him at the time but crystal fucking clear now, and he'd been too much of an asshole, too in his head and too zoomed in on his own damned issues to take what was given with due gratitude.

Fucking damn it. He didn't owe an apology. He owed her his person in shackles and a top of the line rifle with which to shoot him.

09:00.

The mug she'd brought him sat on the deck, untouched. The mug she'd brought herself sat beside his container, half empty. If they stayed there another cycle, or another, or another again, the coffee would evaporate and he'd be looking at stains and a reaming from Gardner for adding to his backlog. He had to clean up after himself. He wasn't the brand of person to leave a damn mess for someone else, except when he was.

This was what happened when you cracked the seal on something you'd buried. No telling what would seep out, what damage it would deal to the people you cared about and the daily operation of your life. Every sense was so alert for danger, dissent, and disagreement that he'd apparently fabricate it himself just to cut the tension.

He gave up on coding, gave priority to the reset. Breathed, and counted, and grounded, and pulled out every tool he'd been trained to reach for when mortar shells were pounding and your skull was screaming and you needed to lock it all down and get back to your unit before you all got blown away. When the hour hit 09:55, he picked up the mugs and walked out.

A handful of crewmen were leaving the mess when he entered. Garrus dumped and refilled the coffee, then loaded a tray with rations for one dextro and one levo crewman. "EDI, do me a favor."

"Listening, Gunnery Officer."

"Check feeds and get me the CO's location."

"Commander Shepard entered her quarters at 09:03 following a meeting with XO Lawson. She is still there. Would you like me to inform her that you have something to discuss?"

"No, I'll show up unannounced. Thanks."

"Very well. Logging you out."

He took the elevator to Deck 1. Shepard's door was closed but unlocked, pulsing green. Clocked in for duty come hell or high water or her third officer metamorphosing into a selfish belligerent asshole.

He shifted the tray to one hand, reached for the switch. The door cycled open and Shepard strode out.

"Shit—!" He twisted out of her path.

"Oh fuck the hell—" She grabbed his arm and skipped aside. The tray tilted. The mugs slid. He grabbed one and coffee splashed his glove, splattered the deck.

Shepard's hand had shot for the other. She hissed as boiling coffee slopped over her fingers. Kept hold, let go as he straightened the tray, and stepped back. Her eyes fixed on his as she flexed her hand and shook it out.

"...Vakarian."

"Shepard. I, uh. I brought lunch. And a refill."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"You mean you feel that. Do you…do you need Chakwas?"

"I'm good. Run some water over it, should be fine." A beat. "Guessing you've got more to say. You wanna come in while I get this under the sink, we can pick up where we left off." She turned back into her quarters.

He stepped in. Shepard was unbuttoning her cufflinks, rolling up her sleeve. He set the tray on her desk and followed her to the door of the head.

She sealed the drain, flicked on the tap, and slid her hand under the flow. "Go ahead."

He leaned against the doorway. Water sluiced over her fingers, the blunt crescents that were the human equivalent of talons. Scars criss-crossed the back of her hand, welts and pockmarks laid down somewhere between the day she'd woken in a Cerberus facility with newly polished parts and the present.

Her fingers closed, opened. Her hand rotated palm up beneath the spray.

"Gunnery Officer, what do you need?"

He looked up. Shepard was watching him. He thought about what he'd say if he weren't compromised, if he weren't fighting the undertow of Archangel, spinning down into dark thoughts and darker emotion every minute of every hour since the watchlist had turned up a lead.

He could do this. He could be a damn person for five damn seconds for her.

"I need to apologize, Commander. I shouldn't have gotten short with you. Asked hostile questions, blurred the lines, or any of it." He paused. Went on. "I'm sorry. I'm here to accept my sentence, make restitution, and otherwise eat the shit."

Shepard shook her head. "Apology accepted, noted, and filed. No sentencing necessary." She checked her hand. Looked up again, sliding it back under the flow. "I don't need details to see that this is your Akuze, Garrus. I'm sorry you've got a thing like that weighing you down, and I promise I'm not gonna stand in your way when the time comes. All right?"

He worked his larynx. Pushed back against tightness, gratitude, and shame. "All right."

She nodded. "You're gonna survive this, Vakarian. It feels like shit right now, but you're gonna be okay."

They looked at one another. The sound of the tap echoed through the head. And he didn't know what else to say that wouldn't make him sound like a rookie or a kid, afraid of his own thoughts and desperate for comfort, so he drawled, "About the sentencing."

"What about it?"

"How about a little of it? I think I deserve some form of punishment for fully failing to clock that you'd understand the situation. And my turian ass seconds that for speaking out of turn to a superior officer."

Her mouth twitched. "Guess my ceramic could use a buffing. You wanna take that off my docket, feel free."

"You've got it, ma'am. Just wait. When I'm done, you'll be able to use your cuirass as a mirror if the occasion calls for one."

"And how exactly am I gonna do that when I'm wearing it?"

"Good point. Should I buff mine instead, or would you like help taking yours off?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm getting mixed signals here, buddy. Are we doing levity or are we doing a heart to heart about traumatic incidents in our respective service histories and social interactions?"

"Precedent shows we skip usually the heart to hearts, Commander. Maybe that's why I'm so damn bad at them."

"So what was that session after Horizon? Total fluke? Alcohol-induced sentiment?" She switched off the tap and submerged her hand in the basin.

"More like a relatively recent development in the magical friendship of Commander Shepard and Gunnery Officer Vakarian. The possibilities haven't really sunk in yet. And while it might not be evident from the level of innate talent I possess in most things, I tend to need a little practice before I can really say I've added a skill to my loadout."

"Got it." She shifted, resting her hip against the sink. "Well, all-terrain vehicle, like I said. You need to be cracking wise, we can do that. You need to dig up some skeletons, we can do that too."

He tilted his head. "What about what you need, Shepard?"

"Meaning?"

"You've excused me for being an asshole, and thank you for that, but that doesn't mean you're necessarily clear on your end. Is there anything you need to get off your chest?"

She scoffed. "Yeah, that's not how this works. You of all people know that."

"Doesn't it? If I'm not mistaken, the standard pattern of conversation between two sentient beings is for one of them to share, and then for the other to take a turn. To be fair, I've traveled more than negligibly afield of reality in the last few hours. So maybe I'm getting this wrong."

"Chain of command, buddy." She flexed her fingers. Ripples eddied out from her point of entry into the water, circling her wrist. "Emotional labor travels up, not down."

He studied her. "Does the chain of command circumscribe that magical friendship we were talking about? And if it does, is it able to flex?"

Her hand stilled in the water, and her eyes flicked to him.

"—That was a real question, to be clear," he added. "I'm not being condescending, and I'm not pushing. Or it's not my intention to, anyway. You're the CO, Shepard. You call the shots."

He could see her thinking. Assessing risk, probably. Running it through regulations filters, not that those weren't wide open on this ship.

She nodded, slowly. "It can flex here if you want it to. I'm not gonna tell you this is a topic of discussion we need to open. It's not mission-critical; it's not gonna affect our working relationship, friendship, or anything in between for you to never engage on this."

"Understood. And I want to hear it."

"All right." She stopped. Continued. "Then I'm gonna need you to take me through what happened this morning. 'Cause I've got a theory, and I think I need to debunk something for you, but I don't know yet. Got messy as hell in there."

"Sure." He reviewed what he'd said. The hours spent forward planning before she'd walked in. "...I was anticipating a fight. I expected to have to demonstrate need, get clear of your principles in order to secure your help on this assignment. And when you didn't ask, when you just assented, knowing the mission parameters…it felt too good to be true. I thought, she must be waiting for the right moment to reengage, to talk me around. It was only after you'd left that I remembered why you of all people would…well. Not raise objections. Not over this."

"Got it. Lines up with what you said before. So you thought I was gonna be a holdout. Try to stop you from handling this as you see fit, regardless of promises made."

"I'm not proud of the sentiment, even if I can explain the reasoning of it." He shrugged, crossing his arms. "You have opinions, Commander. Principles. And I respect them, you know I do, but we haven't always seen eye to eye."

She nodded. "I hear you. Understand your concerns. Would've had 'em in your position too, if my CO'd been the kind of person I was in '83."

"Conscionable? Hands-on?"

She snorted, unsealing the drain. "Hands-on, sure. Try replacing 'conscionable' with 'fucking officious'?"

He blinked at her. "I never meant to imply—"

"You didn't. I'm saying it now." She dried her hand on her trouser leg. "Back it up. Let's eat that chow."

He stepped aside and let her through. She sat on the deck in her office, not bothering to remove to the seating area a few feet away. "Chair's yours."

He took it and handed down her tray, the utensils in slightly damp packaging.

She peeled off the lid and thrust in her chopsticks. "Sorry for whatever the fuck was wrong with me two years ago. Makes sense you'd be worried about operational autonomy with your XO after what happened with Saleon. Guy was your suspect in your case. What happened to him shoulda been your call."

He stopped, a forkful halfway to his mouth, and set it down again. "I was an officer on a leave of personal absence, Shepard. If I'd have killed Saleon, I could have been prosecuted for gross misconduct and violation of my oath. I might have been dishonorably discharged, and permanently."

"Was still your mistake to make, not mine." She chewed and swallowed. "I'm not proud of it," she said after a moment, "but with all due disrespect, I was a self-righteous dumbshit before I got spaced. Sometimes I wonder if people believed me 'cause I believed me, instead of considering if I had any fucking right to get involved. I sure the hell didn't think about it. Short version?" She shrugged. "I don't have the conviction or the moral prerogative to tell you what to do, Garrus, least of all to your own man. I probably never did."

Garrus stared at the top of her head. Her tone was matter of fact. She was just sitting there, eating her damn lunch on the floor, rolling back every certainty she'd ever steered by. And he didn't know why, but that was categorically more concerning if less aggravating than the alternative he'd anticipated at 06:24 this morning, where he'd have asked for an assist and then been compelled to engage in philosophical debate for one to two hours while she stood her ground and he tried to stand his, the foundation of his argument slowly eroding away.

"All right. So you did a few things," he said, cautiously. "Believed a few things. You're still my CO, Shepard, one who's earned my respect and the respect of your people time and again. I think that gives you a little license to counsel, whether or not I or anyone takes your feedback under advisement like an adult."

She huffed out a breath, half laughing. "I'm not talking about the chain of command."

"Then what are you—"

"I'm talking about the fact that ever since I woke up on Lawson's operating table, I've got no idea what's right, wrong, or in between."

She stopped. Ate another bite, and another. The silence that followed seemed more ellipsis than period, so he waited, working through his meal, watching her pulse on his readouts.

"I've got my gut, the memory of what I used to think, and a certainty that I wanna put more good than harm into the world," she said eventually. "But…I'm gonna be honest with you. My way through to that's not clear anymore. So, hell if I'm gonna advise you on the ethics of bringing a murderer to justice. I dunno what balances the scales." She set aside her plate, slid her chopsticks back into the sleeve. "You want my input, it's to do as you see fit. You were a soldier and a detective, Vakarian, then a company commander, and now you're my third officer and a damn good one. If you can't be trusted to call it right, nobody can."

"...Thanks, Shepard." He cleared his throat. "Means a lot. I'm not sure I believe you, but thanks."

"Credit where due. Just telling the truth as I see it."

He returned his empty plate to the tray. "I have to say. I think you think I'm a hell of a lot more self-actualized than I am, if you believe you can praise me that highly without activating the Hierarchy-owned part of my brain that craves validation from authority."

"Uh oh."

"That's right. Under this veneer of confidence, competence, and style is just a turian kid who wants a sticker. And speaking of which." He reached for his coffee. "So, I'm great. Unparalleled, even. Endorsed by LC Shepard herself. How do we navigate the inevitable occasion on which I want to solicit your opinion? I value your judgment, Commander, whether or not you think it's flawed."

She unfolded, stood, and settled against the desk beside him, pushing her hands into her pockets. "...You ask for it?"

"Impossible. Too simple. Definitely a trap." He swiveled to face her, sipping.

She snorted. "I take it you're done with the serious part of this conversation."

"Keep up, Shepard. I'm asking genuine questions disguised as witticisms."

"My bad."

"Yes, your bad. In no way an indication of any issues on my end."

She cracked her neck. "So, just to get clear, are you asking me for advice about Sidonis right now? Thought that was a no-go."

He considered, wrapping his hands around his mug. "Let's call it asking for your thoughts. I don't know if I plan to act on what you say. I, uh. I don't know if I'm in the headspace to make adjustments or even can be. But I want to sate my curiosity. And I'll think about it. I always do."

She nodded. Reached for the remnants of her coffee. "Sure. Well, with the caveat that I don't know the details of your situation and didn't come back from the dead with an operational moral nav system…"

"Of course."

Her gaze slipped off him. "Guess it's like this when I look at it. There's no justice in the criminal legal system. It's rife with bias—classism, race supremacy, all of it. I see places like Omega and Illium, think about what I left behind back on Earth, and I dunno if there's justice anywhere. If it even fucking exists or's just a thing we fabricated to help us sit with the galaxy being unfair. If that's what we're working with, maybe if you want justice, you gotta define it for yourself, get it for yourself. So you kill him."

"Sure. I've had this thought too, evidently."

"Same time—" She sipped. "Good's gotta outweigh the harm? You can't get justice for your team without hurting a whole lot of other people on the way, I don't necessarily think you should get to have it. So maybe you don't kill him if the conditions aren't there."

"Mm-hm. Consider collateral."

"Not just collateral in the sense of crossfire. I mean repercussions for other people—social, financial, legal." She shrugged. "Does taking him out create more good or harm, and for who, and for how many? Does it wipe out the threat of future damage or deny the galaxy a little good it could've had otherwise?"

He nodded. Waited for her to go on.

"Last thought." She met his eyes. "I dunno, Vakarian. Maybe death isn't always the worst punishment. Maybe it's situational. It's one thing if we track 'im down and he's living well, enjoying life. That's the case, fuck that. Take it from him. But if you catch up with him, find out he's a wreck? Terminally ill, forsaken by all his friends, I dunno, deep the fuck in debt or running from the law? You kill the lights on someone already spiraling down the drain, that's not much of a sentence."

"Hm. So, to summarize, kill him if I should. And don't kill him if I shouldn't. And the lines for 'should' and 'shouldn't' aren't immutable."

Her mouth twitched. "Yep. Told you I wasn't worth jackshit for moral reasoning anymore." She looked forward again, fixing on something that wasn't there, and raised her cup to her lips.

"That, uh. That doesn't sound easy. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, swallowing. "Sorry not to know. Wish I could help you work it out, believe me. Wish I thought there was an answer."

Her tone was the same as always. But she looked—tired. Burnt, until she glanced down and saw him watching her.

He let his gaze slide to the in-tray behind her. Gave her time to conceal it if she wanted. When he looked back, she was sipping, expression smoothed out.

"It's all right." He sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees. "We have some time before we get to the Citadel. I'll think about what you said. Think about what he did. Figure it out. Probably still land on 'just kill him' because I'm pretty sure the bastard is supposed to die."

"Sound. Good reasoning."

"Yeah." He hesitated. "I should warn you, Shepard. I may or may not be not acting like it, but there's no way in hell I'm not emotionally compromised for this one."

"I know, buddy. Or I clocked that. No offense."

"I'll do my best. But I trust you to stop me if I step over a line."

She nodded. "Done."

He studied her. Her shoulders were down, fingers slack where they wrapped around her mug. "Can I ask you something personal? For my calibrations?"

"Shoot."

"It's, uh. It's pretty damn personal."

"Sure. Shoot."

"What was your reasoning when you killed that scientist from the Akuze Project? Doctor Wayne?"

Her fingers twitched, tensed on the ceramic. She saw him see it and slowly relaxed.

"Wayne had already had his chance. I didn't detect any contrition, even a shadow of accountability in his confession. And…I dunno. Maybe I could've seen him sentenced by an Alliance court, found a way to live with that. But I got extracted. Had a chance to get help and move on. I wasn't held and tortured and experimented on like some kind of animal. You were there, Vakarian. Toombs—couldn't let him walk. Needed him gone and badly."

"I remember."

She fell silent. Her throat worked. "I guess I thought if I sacrificed Wayne, I could save one soldier." She raised the cup to her lips, then set it on the desk without drinking and crossed her arms. Her fingers pressed in.

"You did save one, Shepard," he said quietly.

"...You know how it is." She looked over and smiled one-sidedly. "It wasn't the right one."