Normandy lifts off into the red-tinged space surrounding Omega's docking bay, the frigate soon to be thousands of kilometers from the galaxy's premier hub for vice and degeneracy. Though the distance between Garrus and the built-up asteroid increases with every passing second, he somehow gets the feeling that he'll never really leave the place behind.
He can still smell the claustrophobic atmosphere on his hide. The sweat and grime of a dozen different alien races intermingling with exhaust fumes to create an unforgettably nauseating effect – the station's ancient circulation system too weak to truly filter off Omega's foul, desperate stench. The stench of failure. The thought comes out of nowhere, but Garrus finds himself unable to disagree.
The sharp sensation of recently treated wounds – I'm getting way too used to that sensation, he thinks – pulls him out of his funk as the anesthetic begins to wear off; the damage to his face still too fresh to really be referred to as scarring.
In spite of the permanent reminder now etched onto the right half of his head, Garrus vows to himself to try not to dwell on the past, on could-have-been-differents. He'd had too many of those lately, and he'd get nothing done if he took the time to give each poorly reasoned decision its due consideration.
Instead, he quickly moves to exit the Normandy's med-bay with a polite thank you to Dr. Chakwas, hoping to head off any complaints about his prematurely leaving the sickbed. Despite counting as one of his few remaining friends, she feels closer to a stranger these days. Garrus moves quickly enough that he's cleared the med-bay before realizing that he has no idea where he's going.
Thankfully, the ship's resident artificial intelligence – EDI, my new bunkmate, he thinks sardonically – offers him a tour of his new home, and he accepts for lack of anything better to do. The AI is represented by a digitally projected eye that never seems to close, always seems to be watching, and the symbolism does not escape him. Guess Cerberus doesn't have much of a liking for subtlety.
As Garrus crosses the ship's deck toward the area set aside for a mess hall – EDI dropping technical specifications for the cook's station the whole way, describing the logistics of stocking dextro-compatible fresh food even as he walks – the turian can't help but notice the human crew staring at him when they think he isn't looking. That wouldn't normally surprise him, as he was used to distrustful looks from aliens even before his Omega days, but these humans seem to have an entirely different purpose in staring.
They're Cerberus, Garrus thinks. Pro-human terrorists. They want to see me astonished by the NormandySR-2, flabbergasted at its obvious superiority to the turian-human collaboration that was the original Normandy.
Instead, he finds criticisms. It is quite a nice ship, probably technically superior to the original, but a little bit of humility never hurt anyone.
"Too small a mess area for a ship of this size," he says. "Not enough storage space to isolate the dextro and levo-amino acid rations from each other." Loud enough that the mess sergeant can hear him.
He'd always been good at pissing people off. His drill sergeant during the Hegemony's mandatory basic training. His senior detective at C-Sec. His father. Best not to travel any further down that line of thought right now, he decides.
But Garrus continues to put his exceptional skill to use, criticizing the ship from bottom to top as the AI guides him through the ship's decks, heading to the elevator to start in the cargo bay and work their way up to the Combat Information Center, where Shepard awaits.
"This large of a cargo bay, with absolutely no ground vehicles to speak of? Just this shuttle?" He tries not to feel disappointed at the lack of a Mako to spend his time working on.
Wandering around the Normandy finding little things to nitpick was easy; he could probably do it all day if he felt like it. But those few moments of silence in the elevator, completely alone with his thoughts? Omega's stench seemed to reemerge the moment the doors slid closed and intensified with each passing second until he could escape, gasping for breath.
"Why does the waste disposal room need to be this large?" The AI offers some technical counter-argument that he doesn't care enough about to bother listening to.
"Why waste space on bunks when sleeper pods are more space efficient?" I'm in rare form today, Garrus thinks as he realizes that even the AI seems to be getting annoyed at his antics.
"A bar?" EDI has no retort for that one. Though in truth he can see himself putting that particular feature of the Normandy to great use.
They skirt around the Executive Officer's quarters, where that woman Shepard was with bunked. She'd been there during the mercs' siege on Garrus's position, and he'd noticed how her icy blue eyes seemed to be evaluating Shepard's every action in much the same way she found targets. Best to avoid that one for now.
As the last stop on the crew deck, EDI guides Garrus into the main gunnery room, where he finds himself shocked. He scans through Normandy's surprisingly short list of armaments, finding that the ship doesn't even have a spinal cannon, armed only with disruptor torpedoes. Typical for a frigate, but he could imagine that whatever enemies Shepard was planning on facing, they would be armed with anything but the typical.
He declines to comment here, instead making a mental note to speak to Shepard about adding a main gun – turian-designed, of course – that would give them an edge in a straight-up fight.
By the time EDI shepherds Garrus back onto the elevator again to head to the Combat Information Center and the final stops on his tour, he can practically feel the white-hot rage from the crew's gazes burning into the back of his head, contrasting with the fading coolness of the anesthetic.
He prefers their barely concealed hatred to their smug side glances.
The CIC is remarkably similar to the old Normandy, and Garrus had caught faint glimpses of it as Shepard and company had dragged his barely conscious carcass onto the ship. Not wanting to dwell on that particular memory, he pushes the AI to move the tour along, offering a brief nod to Joker before walking back from the ship's helm.
As fun as annoying the crew is, he can feel the anesthetic's numbing effect fading with every passing moment, and he'd seen everything he really needed to on the ship. Besides, I've accomplished my mission of making everyone hate me in record time today. Something to be proud of.
A quick stop in the lab, where EDI briefly introduces Garrus to Mordin, the only other non-human on the ship, then the AI guides him to the armory. It seems to be just as eager to get this ever-so-friendly tour over with as I am.
Here, he has to admit, he can't find any complaints. Cerberus had stocked the frigate with every sort of death-dealing implement he could imagine. Pistols of every variety. Automatic weapons from limited production submachine guns to assault rifles dating from the Relay 314 Incident. Cryo weapons. Even a massive device labelled with a radiation hazard symbol – not actually a nuclear weapon, the gunnery chief named Jacob assures.
Would've killed for a tenth of this kit on Omega¸ Garrus thinks, before shutting that thought down. Trying to move on, remember?
Even with the throbbing in his face, he could stay here inspecting and fiddling with the weaponry all day, but he'd probably kept Shepard waiting long enough. With the tour concluded and the definitely-not-annoyed AI gone silent, Garrus glances back at the yellow and black trevoil with a longing flicker of his mandibles before heading off to meet the Commander.
Notes:
Haven't written Garrus before, so let me know if this portrayal is terribly offensive. As always this story ended up being completely different from what I had originally planned on.