*****Author's Note*****
CW/Trigger Warning: Suicidal thoughts/attempt, Drug use, Drug Overdose. This chapter is as dark as it gets.
Devon never really leaves. And I never really ask him to. In a way...it's kind of nice to have someone around.
I came here seeking total anonymity. To live out the loneliness that weighs unbearably heavy in my chest. I couldn't have Shepard, so I wanted no one. Now I realize that I just didn't want anyone who could see that on me. Who knew her, who knew how she made me, who would force me to think of her. On the Citadel, I was constantly surrounded by Shepard and all the ways I failed her.
On Omega, I can be new. Even if Devon knows my name, he doesn't know who Garrus is. And he doesn't know what Shepard did to Garrus. I have anonymity, and I have...a friend.
This feels like starting over. A fresh start. A new life without Shepard and without the person she made me. Except that all of a sudden, I'm Omega's Archangel, and I can't manage to keep myself away from all the fucking crime around here.
No one other than Devon knows it's me stopping burglaries, potential kidnappings, and whatever other bullshit I come across around here. I try to ignore it every time, and every damn time, I think about Shepard's fondness for my sense of justice. And every single Spirits forsaken time, I can't help myself. I stop the crime.
Anonymity. Archangel. A new life, but one still not free of Shepard. Maybe even one that revolves around her more than before. Her Christmas present sits in my closet, and her life purpose drives me, and that woman just will not leave me be.
It's nearly enough to choke me. Within a week, more time just sinking further into it, I stop sleeping. It becomes too hard to face my dreams. Those have been full of her for a year now, but when she's gone and still running my life...my subconscious is too pathetic for me to deal with.
Devon is my only saving grace most of the time. Sure, his drug habit makes me sick - mostly because I feel like I'm somehow feeding into it by not actively stopping him. But I have no idea how to do that anyway. I can't keep him safe during detox, I can't keep him clean. So Devon gets high. And he keeps his...night job.
But he stays. He's Archangel's ear to the ground among the people who know more than anyone else around Omega, and he only ever calls me Archangel now. Well, that and some horrible nickname for it that he's created, but I choose to ignore that.
I feel better with Devon around. Less unmoored. There's obviously something that he's getting out of it, too, if he chooses to stay with me, but I choose not to question it. We're both fine for now.
More than I can say for this punk ass Blue Sun Vorcha who has been literally assaulting women in public - and deliberately choosing women who couldn't do anything about it. Devon heard about him groping an Asari while she was holding her infant child. Now the Vorcha is very dead, and the women of Omega can rest a little more easily again.
Archangel. Fuck, I need a drink.
My apartment is a hell hole, and the building is the hell in which that hole sits, obviously. But I've managed to clean the thing thoroughly, and it usually smells pretty good thanks to candles Devon has purchased and placed everywhere. I'll never admit I like them, of course.
Tonight, I can smell something sour and burning from the hallway. I nearly gag when I open the door and it hits me like a ton of bricks. "Devon, are you aware of how strong a Turian's sense of smell is?" I demand, covering my nose with my hand and trying to soak in the smell of the leather on my gloves instead.
No response, and whatever is burning on the stove is making a too-loud sizzling sound.
"What are you trying to do, burn this place down?" I hold onto my stomach contents and wave smoke away from my eyes on the way to the kitchen. It's nearly suffocating, all the smoke near the stove, but I manage to shut it off and then throw a pan that is definitely ruined into the sink. And Devon is nowhere to be found.
Coughing, I check the living area again. He sleeps on the couch, but it's empty. I learned the hard way when I walked in on him naked that Devon naps in my bed, so I check there as well. Still empty. Why the hell would he leave with something on the stove?
"I swear, if he's high…" I growl and quickly use my Omni-Tool to call him. He's one of only three contacts saved in here anymore, which will probably always upset me. Especially considering one of those three people is dead.
A sharp ringing sound startles me, unexpected and muffled. It's only then that I realize the bathroom door is closed, and the sound is coming from in there. "Devon?" I call. Walking in on him in the bedroom is bad enough, but the bathroom? No, thanks. I never want to know a human well enough to know how all that works.
No answer, though. "Devon. What are you doing?" I demand, banging on the door. Nothing.
And then I start to get worried. Devon is an addict, but he's not irresponsible or an idiot, and he's definitely not the type to play a joke like this. "Devon, I'm coming in. Please don't have your dick out."
I push the button for the doors to slide open, and the sight inside my bathroom sends my stomach tumbling into my boots. Devon is sprawled out at an odd angle on the tiles, a puddle of green bile mixed with dark blood under his partially open mouth. His skin is an off color, and he's almost soaking wet in what definitely smells like sweat. The only other smell in the room is red sand.
Devon overdosed.
I move for him immediately, pulling him up from the floor and into what would be a sitting position if he weren't unconscious. He's covered in vomit and smells worse than the kitchen, but my heightened senses are the least of my worries. He is breathing, but it's shallow, and his pulse feels barely there. "Don't you fucking dare, Devon, wake up."
He's all I have now.
I shake him, smack his face, and get no reaction. He's too thin; any harder and I could do permanent damage. But I can't do nothing.
My heart races and I let Devon slump against me while trying to clear my head; his body is hotter than any Turian I've ever felt, and it makes me feel cold inside. I catch sight of his Omni-Tool flashing, and it reminds me I have one other number saved.
After Devon was injured by the rapist last month, the clinic he went to gave him medicine for the pain. Devon had a weird reaction to it, and he asked me to call and talk to the doctor. I still have the doctor's number, and I know exactly where the clinic is. It's not far.
"I'm gonna get you help, Devon, just hold on." He weighs next to nothing, so it's not an effort to pick him up and carry him out, even lock our door and make it down the stairs. No one on Omega bothers to give us more than a glare because of the smell or maybe because we're interspecies. I don't care, shoving through crowds and barreling down the station toward the clinic.
It's late, so the doors are locked. The only people visible are a few homeless Batarians and Vorcha sleeping outside. But I know the Salarian doctor who runs this place has a reputation; he never stops working, and he should never be fucked with.
I start kicking the door hard, holding Devon against my chest still, and shout for the doctor. It only takes a small dent in the metal before a Salarian comes running into view, staring at me with his mouth open.
"Please," I shout. "He needs help." My voice cracks, and I can feel something inside me daring to do the same. I can't lose someone else, not now. Not like this. Not Devon.
The doctor comes running to the door, finally affording me some kind of relief. He unlocks the door with a code and then steps aside, motioning for me to come in. It feels like forever before he turns to me after locking the door again while I stand like a smacked ass with an unconscious friend.
"What did he take?" the doctor demands, marching past me and clearly just expecting me to follow.
"Red sand."
"Do you know how much?"
"No, but I know he's careful. I've lived with him for a month, and I've never seen him overdo it." I hate admitting that, especially now. I feel like I enabled him, letting him use at home and not forcing him to get clean or at least making it harder for him. Now this.
"Are you high?" the doctor asks, leading me into a room and motioning for me to put Devon down on a table. I do so, gently, and then stay close. "Need that," the doctor says, pointing to a tray of instruments behind me. He doesn't exactly ask for them, but the message is clear.
"No, I'm not high," I answer, pulling the tray over. "I don't use anything."
The doctor looks up at him, pauses for the first time. "Must be new here," he mutters before going back to Devon. "Need to give med to counter drugs. Here." He hands me a syringe. "In the thigh."
"In the…" I hesitate, pretty sure I'll screw this up. I've never used a syringe on anyone, for any reason. The sight of the doctor standing behind Devon's head and feeding a tube down his throat while Devon isn't even reacting makes my stomach churn and gives me the courage to complete my task. It's simple to use, at least.
"Will breathe for him. Should work soon." The doctor speaks in shotgun sentences and super rapidly, but I get the idea. He screws an airbag onto the end of the tube and squeezes, Devon's chest moving with the air pushing in. "Do this."
"Is he going to be okay?" I ask, following the order and taking over.
"Fifth overdose this week," the doctor tells me. At least, I think he's talking to me. He walks over to his desk, and I'm not sure he's actually paying attention to me. He definitely has my interest, though. "More than usual. Drugs laced."
"Laced?" I repeat, trying not to squeeze the bag too hard. I look down at Devon, wondering what the hell is coursing through him and who had the balls to give it to him.
"Poisons. Toxins. Chemicals. Drugs bad enough. Together? Deadly."
My throat nearly closes altogether, and I have to hold my breath for a beat before I can speak. "Deadly. Is he gonna die?"
It's the first time the Salarian looks at me directly when he hears how gruff my voice got. "No. Don't lose patients. Squeeze!" The doctor is now officially the only person who has ever made me jump at an order.
I squeeze once, twice, and then again. Before I can squeeze another time, Devon's body shudders. For a moment, I panic, afraid that it's the bad kind of shudder.
And then he coughs.
Devon coughs, and the doctor rushes over, pulling the tube back out of his throat smoothly. On his own, Devon coughs again. He inhales, then exhales. No more shallow gasps; he's breathing. All on his own.
"Worked quickly. Going to be fine."
I'm finally back to breathing myself after the doctor's news, and then Devon's eyes flutter open slowly. I brush his cheek to get his attention. After a beat, Devon focuses on me. "Archangel," he murmurs, voice hoarse and words still a little slurred. "Saving the day again."
"Who would make terrible food and snore on my couch if I didn't save your ass, huh?" My heart is thumping hard with relief, and I look up at the doctor, who is taking blood from Devon's other arm.
"Needs stomach pumped. Then rest. Should stay here. Tonight, at least."
"I can pay," I tell him. Devon has credits saved, so do I. And Devon has been smart enough to collect from people who have asked Archangel for help.
"Whore," Devon rasps out. I manage a laugh and feel gratitude for this pain in the ass human swell inside me. Last week, I was lamenting over greasy dinner out that I hated being a merc, paid for jobs that involved violence. Devon suggested that I think of it as prostitution, instead; after all, I have a lot more respect for sex workers than I do for mercs.
"The doctor wants you to sleep," I tell him. He nods and blinks slowly, his eyes seemingly too heavy to open again. "Sleep." One more cocky little smirk, and then Devon is out. There's a quick moment of panic like my brain is remembering the last time I saw him passed out. I don't think I'll be letting Devon out of my sight for a while.
"Archangel." My gaze snaps up to the doctor. "Heard of you. Good work." He stops moving for the first time, pulls off his latex gloves with a snap, and then extends a hand. "Mordin Solas."
The name registers, from Devon and other people here. I accept his greeting, wrapping my hand around his forearm as he does the same. Salarians are larger than humans in general, but I still dwarf his limb. His skin is also almost uncomfortably cool compared to mine. "This is your clinic. I've heard of you, too. Good work."
"Necessary."
"Agreed. Who else would on Omega?"
Mordin watches me for a moment and then nods. "Exactly. No charge. Pay with help." I release his arm when he lets me go, and Mordin turns away. He moves to a desk, and yanks open a drawer, pulling out a small vial of what I recognize as red sand. "Laced. Deadly. Need to stop it."
I don't need full sentences to know what the doctor wants from me, and it's a mission we have in common. Someone on Omega is manufacturing and selling laced sand, putting countless lives at risk considering the rate of use on this station. And if the drugs make it off this station, the damage could be devastating.
Devon stirs, his hand nudging mine. They aren't similar, but I'll never be able to look at Devon without thinking of Shepard. That makes this whole thing twice as personal.
I haven't been alone in my apartment in a month. From the day I met Devon, he's been a fixture in my life, and in this shitty hellhole I'm forced to live in on Omega.
When I first moved in, I hated the place with a passion. The apartment building always smells, ranging from varren shit to someone cooking vile crap, and those smells seep into my apartment. The carpets and walls are stained, the sink in the kitchen drips constantly, and the shower runs barely lukewarm.
At the very least, Devon has given this place some life.
And now, I'm here alone. Dr. Solas wanted to observe Devon overnight, and he made it clear that I wasn't welcome to stay. I didn't want to be in his way anyway, and Devon needs the rest. But being alone…
I forgot how suffocating four walls can be.
When I'm busy, I think about how she would react to what I'm doing. When I'm working, I can think about her being there. When I'm alone...all I can think about is the fact that she's gone.
I clean up. The kitchen took some damage to the countertops and the air quality from what Devon left on the stove; it's ruined beyond all recognition now. Whatever it was is a pain in the ass to clean up, but the bathroom is a million times worse. Blood, vomit, drug paraphernalia. None of it grosses me out. It's the reminder of what happened to Devon that gets to me.
Someone on Omega is dealing laced drugs. Drugs that have killed people, and could have killed the only person I have left. My friend.
I keep all of the drugs and shit that I find in the bathroom. Dr. Solas told me that he could tell me what exactly is in it if he had samples. I can take the samples to him. I can get whoever is doing this and put an end to it.
But right now, alone in this apartment and haunted by people who are not here...I can't give a fuck.
I don't want to be Archangel. I don't want to find this dealer, I don't want to find anyone else overdosing in a bathroom ever again. I don't want any of it.
All I want is Shepard.
The dog tags feel extra cold around my neck in the shower, and they stay cold when I get in bed, but I can't take them off. I can't bring myself to do it. It's all I have left.
Except…
Shepard's Christmas present is still in my closet, still sitting in the now-empty bag that I brought with me. I didn't have room for it - I had to leave my only spare pair of boots behind - but it didn't feel right not to keep it with me. And maybe now I know why.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to load it. It's what the gun shop owner called a revolver, a classic human style from Earth, even though it still uses a heat sink for compatibility. A hybrid. There's no doubt in my mind this would have been the perfect gift, the perfect gun for her.
She'll never use it. But if I do, I could finally finally get rid of all this fucking pain.
The calm that washes over me when I hold the gun, fully loaded, is terrifying. I've never felt anything like it before. For a moment, when I consider what the gun could give me, the numbness and the pain in my chest both fade. And that should be comforting.
Except that in that same moment, the dark little cloud that's been at the back of my mind since the funeral storms and surges, overwhelming me. It feels like my mind is trying to drown me, a sandstorm of memories and emotions hitting me. But they're warped, all of them. Moments that I know were happy feel wrong, even the sad ones are broken.
That cloud wants me to die. And it makes me want to die. The solution is right in my hand. And then it's in my mouth, the metal bitter and cold on my tongue.
My body succumbs to the storm before the rest of me. I can't hold myself up any longer. My knees give out, and I hit the floor, falling over the gun, and I throw up over and over until I can't breathe and my throat is raw. The gun never leaves my hand; it's like I physically can't put it down.
My arms give after what feels like forever, and I collapse onto my forearms. A clink, metal on metal, echoes through the room and reverberates through me. It repeats slowly, rhythmically. The tags. Shepard's tags, swinging from my neck and hitting the gun.
Shepard.
A bitter laugh escapes me. "If you could see me now, Kid."
I would bring her such shame like this. And I worked so hard to make her proud, to make her like what she saw when she looked at me. We never had any compatibility issues in the field. She trusted me. This would be betraying her.
I still can't let the gun go far. The pain in my chest gets too bad when I try to part from it. So I put it on the table beside my bed, and I lay down facing it.
My escape is there, it's right there. When I want it, when I need it...I'll have it. But I have to be ready to disappoint Shepard first. And that's a fate worse than living.