Garrus Vakarian is having a hell of a night off.
One minute he's heading to Flux to unwind—not his idea, but he's gotten enough comments that he should "put down the badge for five minutes"—and the next he's hearing screams. He could have called for backup, probably should have, but it was Chora's Den. By the time anyone felt like sending an on-duty uniform into that place, whatever was happening would have happened already.
So he drew his pistol and charged in. Alone against the world. Same as it always was.
And after wading through a strangely bloodless war zone, still conscious bodies moaning on the ground, he found not the typical gangland hit squad he expected, but a single woman. A human woman, at that.
Garrus isn't racist. Or sexist, for that matter. But there had been a number of krogan among Fist's bodyguards, and whatever else humans were, a match for a number of armed, adolescent krogan in close quarters wasn't one of them.
Or so he'd thought. The full-bodied smile she'd given two of them on the way out said otherwise. But considering how she'd blown Fist away as casually as one would swat a bug, maybe he shouldn't have been surprised.
Now she's cuffed in the back of his car, whining about how long it's taking to get arrested, while he's answering any close calls that come through. It's not like he could have kept his radio off in good conscience—if he was bringing in a perp, that meant he was on duty. And Vakarians didn't do anything halfway.
The skycar passes through the artificial atmosphere above one of the ward arms for what even Garrus hopes is the final time for the night. The human in the back hasn't spoken in a while, thank the spirits, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been pouting and sighing like a petulant child.
He sets down a few dozen yards up the street from the single patrol car outside the address he's been given. Its lights are flashing, and the two turians behind it have weapons drawn. Another car, unmarked, looks like it landed rough near the front door of a small market. The officers had apparently taken the time to at least set up a perimeter—a thin strip of holograph imploring passer-by "DO NOT CROSS" stretches across the width of the street on both sides. A small crowd has gathered, but at least seem content to gawk from a safe distance.
"Is this what I think it is?" the human asks behind him.
Garrus' mandibles twitch into a frown as he regards the scene. "Three two one niner. Shots fired, hostages taken."
"Hostages?"
"More than one, anyw—"
"Then this could go on all night!"
He spins to glare at her. She's leaning forward, eyes wide and imploring.
"Look, you said you're not on duty, and I am dying on these goddamn bench seats. Have you people even heard of cushions?"
"'You people?' "
"How about you drop me off and then come back to do your obsessive compulsive civic duty? It wouldn't take you more than a few minutes."
She's ready to keep bargaining, but Garrus raises his hand, one finger pointing up, and she quiets.
"I've got a better idea," he says.
Then he opens his door, steps out, and slams it shut.
"How about you just let me out here and I fucking walk the rest of the way?" she shouts through the skycar's closed window.
"Keep asking and I'll do it mid-flight," he retorts, rapping gently against the glass before walking away. She shouts something about his parentage, but he hums to tune her out until he's well out of earshot.
The two turians behind the patrol car look relieved to see him as he passes through the holographic tape.
"What's the situation?" he asks.
"Four, maybe five batarians," the taller, older one says. "We were flying behind them when the scanner said the skycar wasn't ID tagged. We hit the siren, they hit the throttle, and we chased them down here."
"They're all inside?"
"Far as we know," the other turian says, tugging at the collar of his uniform. "Central says they're already wanted for trying to smuggle illegal firearms through customs earlier today."
"When did you call for backup?"
"A full three minutes ago," the older one grumbles. "I told them they're surrounded, and to turn themselves in, but it's just the two of us. We can't cover all the exits. If they called our bluff, they might not even be in there anymore."
Garrus curses quietly, sizing up the storefront. The windows have been shaded and the cages dropped. This isn't a great neighborhood, and the store did have some basic security measures.
"When's tactical going to get here?" the younger one asks.
After a moment's consideration, Garrus draws and unfolds his pistol. The barrel clicks into place. "Not soon enough."
The old one looks at him like he's crazy. "You can't be suggesting we storm the place."
"No," he replies, keying his visor for batarian biometrics. "Just me."
"Are you insane?" the younger one asks, glancing back and forth between Garrus and the door. "We should... we should wait for backup. This is tactical's job."
"They're not here." Garrus weighs the gun in his hands. He finds it comforting. "Stay out front. Splitting up won't do either of you any good. Wait for tactical, and make sure they actually assess the situation before they charge in."
"What, like you?"
"Four to five hostiles with possible hostages and clear escape routes, no backup and no other options?" Garrus smiles. "Yeah, like me."
He moves quickly, breaking from the cover of the skycar and moving up. The front door is the most obvious entry point, and so he avoids it, skirting around to a side exit for deliveries and service personnel. When he decrypts the lock and the door slides open, he crouches and spins inside, checking his corners.
Nothing but an empty storage room. Boxes and cabinets of canned goods both levo and dextro.
The next two rooms are the same, to varying degrees of cleanliness. It's not until he draws up next to a set of double doors leading into the store proper that he hears voices.
"We're screwed," says one, nasal but clearly batarian, "We're screwed, we're so screwed—"
"Shut up, Tobin," barks another. "Ancestor's breath, I can't take any more of your whining."
"What are we waiting for?" asks a third. "We've got weapons. We can fight out way out of here and—"
"And what?" A fourth. "Run through the streets until they gun us down from their skycars?"
"Better than cowering here with a bunch of hostages."
Garrus sighs. Hostages confirmed.
"They're good stock," said the second. "If we can get them back to the ship—"
"You really think they haven't impounded the ship by now?" the fourth asks. "There is no ship. There is no profit. We have to find another way off this station and be thankful we still have our lives."
"There is no way off this station!" Tobin shouts. "There's cameras everywhere, C-Sec everywhere, all the docking bays are guarded! I knew this was a bad idea, we were fools for ever coming here—"
A smack, fist on flesh. Garrus winces sympathetically.
"Enough!" barks one.
"What?" says the second. "I warned him. And his whining wasn't getting us anywhere—"
Quietly and carefully, Garrus pushes the door open just far enough to poke his head through. No sign of the batarians, but he doesn't have a full view of the supermarket from this position. Their arguing continues unabated as he quickly dashes from cover and ducks behind a stand advertising Eez-O's.
He had to make a move soon. One of them, the fourth one he thought, was starting to take charge of the situation.
Moving smoothly from cover to cover, he eventually finds them by the checkout counters: two still standing, one on his back who must be Tobin, and a third trying to revive him. Looks like machine pistols and shotguns, though one might have a rifle. Nearby, huddled in a corner, is a small group of civilians. Probably those present when they stormed into the place. Several humans, asari, volus... and a child.
Garrus swallows as his mouth goes dry. Stay calm and be rational, he thinks. There's not too many. If he can get the batarians' attention, they could make a break for the front door. It isn't far. There's cashiers among them, they'll have the keys for the locks and cages. He just has to think of a way to approach that doesn't get him killed.
Tobin's head lolls to the side and his four black eyes blink blearily open. Garrus freezes.
He's looking right at him.
And suddenly, all planning goes right out the window.
(possible scene break)
Tobin has barely shouted the word, "Cop!" before Garrus steps out, aims a shot, and puts one round through an eye of the batarian kneeling over him. Protocol says he should have made himself known and demanded they drop their weapons before discharging his own. As he slides into the cover of the next aisle over, he realizes he's going to have to do a lot of paperwork tomorrow.
Rounds explode into the metal shelving and tile floor. He chances a peek and catches some dried pasta shrapnel in his face. All three remaining batarians have their attention on him, not on the hostages.
Three on one. He can work with that.
He blindfires several rounds down the aisle to suppress, then sprints down the length of the store, slipping into the last aisle and racing down to the opposite end. There's still some gunfire, probably at his last position, covering the echoes of his steps, and he rounds the corner directly into Tobin's face.
The batarian yelps—actually yelps—and tries to raise his machine pistol. Garrus catches it in his free hand and presses his Phalanx into the man's neck.
"Don't even think it."
Tobin swallows loudly and releases his gun.
"Drop your weapons," Garrus calls out as the other batarians turn on him.
The two of them look at each other briefly. Then they look back at him.
Tobin's body catches most of the rounds, though one snakes through and catches Garrus in the thigh. He throws down the riddled batarian and slips back into the aisle, checking briefly to make sure his body armor stopped the bullet.
He hears footsteps. One of them is falling back, the other is moving down the next aisle over. Then he starts shooting, bullets spraying from what must be a rifle straight through the metal shelving, splintering boxes of crackers and pulping produce in the refrigeration unit against the wall. The stream of bullets starts moving in a horizontal line heading straight for Garrus.
In a fit of what would later be called 'reckless stupidity' by his superiors, Garrus grabs Tobin's machine pistol and throws it to the other end of the aisle. The bullet stream stops, and while the batarian redirects his fire towards the sound of the clattering pistol, Garrus ignores the pain in his leg and clambers up onto the top of the shelving unit itself.
By the time the man sees him, Garrus has put two rounds in his chest and throat. He catches another round in his back and dives for the ground, landing heavily and knocking the wind out of him, but he rolls onto his back and before his assailant can turn into the aisle to finish him off, his visor has calculated his probable angle of entry. He takes a round smack between all four eyes.
Garrus hauls himself to his feet with a groan. He can't check his back, but since it hurts a lot, he's pretty sure it didn't pierce the armor. Still. Bruised plating will make sleep a lot more difficult for the next week.
He exits the aisle and finds the front of the store deserted. It looks like the hostages had taken the opportunity to escape. Crisis averted, situation resolved. When Garrus gets back to the car, he is turning off his damn radio.
Suddenly, there's a scream.
"Don't move!"
He spins. The child screams again as the last remaining batarian presses a gun against her temple and squeezes her tighter against him.
Four, maybe five, the officers had said.
"Drop it!" the batarian shouts. "Or I drop her!"
He's half-considering taking his shot anyway when there's another, very different scream behind him. His visor's rear-view camera helpfully informs him that one of the hostages has returned.
"No!" the asari shouts. "Please, don't, she's just a girl—"
"Make him drop the gun!"
Garrus quickly throws down his weapon. Reckless, maybe. But not that reckless. Not like this.
"Alright," the batarian says, still agitated. "Alright, now you're going to help me get out of here!"
Garrus opens his mouth, ready to stall for time until tactical arrives, but he freezes. His eyes go wide and his mandibles flare. The batarian spins slightly to face the newcomer as her footsteps echo in the sudden quiet of the supermarket.
The human woman tucks her red hair behind her ear with an entirely unbound hand and gives them both a full-bodied smile.
"I can do that."
