Chapter Two:
Garrus Vakarian was having a bad day. Except, that didn't really cover the scope of how bad things were. It would be more fitting to say that he was having a bad month.
When Garrus left the Normandy two months back it'd been so he'd be ready for the next fight – because there was always going to be a next fight. Saren wasn't the end of this war: the Reapers were. And they were still coming, whether the council wanted to admit it or not. He'd told the Commander that the Citadel needed him now, needed someone to keep the truth alive. The Commander had just grinned carelessly, giving Garrus a pat on the back and sending in a letter of recommendation to the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance office behind his back. Within a week he was in line for spectre training.
"We could use more specters at our backs, Garrus," he had written. "I can't think of anyone else I'd want at my six."
So, he'd accepted. It was what the Commander wanted, after all, and the Commander was an intimidating man. You didn't say no to him – or, if you did, you had better hope he liked you.
Balancing life at C-Sec and his spectre training was difficult, but so worth it. He couldn't think of anything else he'd rather do. He just kept thinking that one day he would be the one flying in to help the Commander, that he would be one of the specters responsible for saving the galaxy.
It didn't take much for reality to come storming in like a krogan in an antique shop.
The Commander was dead now. Spaced, if the reports were to be believed, by nothing more than geth. Geth! Garrus didn't believe that for a second. The Commander was too good to be taken out by a rogue faction of geth. The Normandy was too good to be destroyed like that.
But the Council's word was law, and their word was that the Commander had been killed by geth out in the terminus systems. The fact remained that no matter how it happened, the end result was still the same.
The Commander was dead, and Garrus couldn't help but think that it was his fault. If he had been there, maybe he could have pulled him to safety. Maybe they could have made it out to laugh about it later. 'Hey, remember that time the geth tried to kill us? Haha, those were good times.'
Except they weren't, and the Commander was dead, and now Garrus was sitting on a commercial ship headed towards Omega – home of the scum and filth that infested the deepest corners of the galaxy. What was he thinking when he bought that ticket?
Oh, right. His best friend was dead, the ship that had acted as a home destroyed, and that if he didn't leave the Citadel that instant he would find himself on the opposite side of the prison cells. He could only take so many people badmouthing the Commander before his patience snapped. It would be better to get away where no one knew his name, no one knew that yes, he was the Garrus Vakarian, and yes he still believed in the Commander's mission.
If he felt like lying to himself he would say that he came to Omega to honor the Commanders memory – crime was the number one job opportunity on the hell hole they called a station, and if there were any sort of leads on the Reapers he would probably find it there. He knew that was only a small truth. Really, he was sick of sticking to the red tape. He was sick of letting people he knew were rotten go because their lawyers could weasel their way out of every little charge. He was sick of staring evil in the eye and being unable to kick them where it hurt.
Omega was different – Omega had no law. He didn't have to tip toe around the lines. Here, he made his own lines. Here the only thing keeping him back was himself.
Garrus was early to the boarding zone – so early that he watched as the cruiser docked and the flood of humans disembarked. The ship was from Earth, meaning that the Citadel's human-to-alien ratio just went up.
He got on board just after the last stragglers left, his bag tossed over his shoulders and the vague schematics of the ship floating around in his head. Finding his bunk was easy enough, though the idea of leaving his things in a room he shared with three other unknowns unsettled him in the worst way. He would rather carry his things around, thanks.
He scanned over the mostly-empty observation deck, trying to find the best seat he could. He hated cramped quarters, preferred to have some breathing room. The Normandy had really spoiled him, and maybe not in a good way. There were no electronics to fiddle around with while they travelled, so he settled with finding a seat with the best view.
The bench he eventually settled on was small, nestled slightly away from the others with a good view out the glass and through the crowds. The likelihood of someone sneaking up on him from there was slim to none. With a satisfied hum he tossed his bag on the floor and settled himself in to the less than comfortable seat. It wasn't as bad as some of the cruisers he'd been on, but it was still pretty miserable.
The scent, however, was distracting. Someone from the last trip had claimed it as their own – he almost thought that it was another turian or even a salarian with how studiously they'd marked the area, but if there was one thing he'd quickly learned it was how to differentiate between the basic smells of the different species. Turians always had a vaguely metallic scent to them, whereas salarians had a more watery scent – oceanic or swampy, depending on which area of Sur'Kesh they hailed from.
This scent had the earthy smell of human stamped all over it – petrichor, the smell of dust after rain. From there the scent was floral, though his brain struggled to place a name to anything specific. He wasn't entirely familiar with human agriculture aside from a few of the Earth-based poisons that inevitably snuck their way onto the Citadel.
For a few minutes he considered searching the other deck – maybe they had a seat just as safe without the distracting musk of human. In the end it didn't take long for him to get used to the smell, and he figured that leaving was more trouble than it was worth. It was a long trip and the scent would fade eventually.
He stayed awake as the rest of the afternoon passed, keeping his eyes on the people who abandoned the caves they called rooms to investigate the view. When the night cycle started he allowed himself to relax slightly – even with the influx of species, the carrier was still predominantly human and this ships sleep cycle was very clearly based on the humans 24-hour one. That would be weird, but he'd get over it easily enough. It wasn't like Omega had a sleep cycle.
He was about to get up and see what dextro-food they had in stock when he spotted a human making her way towards him in the reflection of the glass. He watched her curiously – she certainly didn't seem to be changing direction, and she was looking very pointedly at his bench. For a moment he worried that they would have trouble, but as she passed under the ventilation the fresh air rustled her hair and her scent languidly wafted towards him.
Ah. This was her bench.
He continued to watch her through her reflection as she finally reached the bench and sat herself down right next to him. She stretched out, taking up more room than a human rightly should, and he was surprised to realize that she was doing it on purpose. He nearly laughed (and considering the recent state of his mood that was a miracle in and of itself). He'd never known humans to be especially territorial (at least, not to the degree of turians) but this one seemed rather perturbed that he dared ignore her claim.
Had it been a turian, he would have apologized and let them have the damn seat. It wasn't worth getting in a – how was it the Commander had always phrased it, a 'pissing contest'? It wasn't worth fighting over, at least. But the fact was that a human was the one throwing a tiny temper tantrum over the bench and she'd had the quad to march right up and challenge him.
Spirits knew he needed some form of entertainment while he was on this damned vessel – it looked like he'd just found one. He avoided looking directly at her reflection, but he could see her eyes boring into his – she wasn't even being subtle about it. If he moved even an inch his knee would brush against hers.
He idly pressed a button on his visor and started a timer.
Lets see just how long this human lasts.