Purgatory, Shepard had decided, needed to be renamed. The term 'purgatory' suggested a place you might one day escape, there was no escape from this...hellish arse-hole of the known galaxy. Gritting her teeth in restrained frustration, Shepard listened to the self appointed 'Warden' Kuril harp on about the galactic benefits of his facility, and the benefits to his pocket by extorting the homeworlds of his prisoners.
'Yes, yes, you self aggrandizing moron, just get on with it' Shepard thought to herself, as Kuril explained his penchant for spacing random victims to maintain order. The biotic they were here to pick up had better be worth the trouble it was taking to procure her, she scowled to herself, or Shepard was going to come back and jamb the muzzle of her shotgun right up the warden's left nostril.
"We already have Jack out of cryo," Kuril gestured down the hallway with a casual talon, "my medical team is currently prepping her for transfer. As soon as I have ascertained that your credit transfer is genuine, she will be brought to the docking area." Kuril blandly ignored the furious stare from Miranda at the suggestion that the Cerberus funds were circumspect, "feel free to tour the facility in the meantime if you wish, commander." The gold eyed turain gave them a sharp nod, a smug expression of greed flickering across his craggy, unmarked face. Shepard vaguely remembered Garrus explaining that, socially, turians without the colonial face markings were viewed as untrustworthy. First Saren, now this clown...yes, if ever there was a shining example of that particular stereotype at work it was Warden Kuril.
Wandering the halls of a super-max penitentiary was about as exciting as Shepard had thought it was going to be. Endless lines of cells, well stocked with an assortment of criminals: from the wild eyed and insane, to some who looked so lost and confused Shepard had to wonder what they had done to end up here. Grunt seemed to be getting some kind of perverse enjoyment out of the whole thing though, he was currently watching a fight between two inmates, bouncing a little on his toes and smashing his fists together with all the enthusiasm of a human kid at a carnival. Eventually a guard roughly separated the combatants with a well placed baton, and Grunt grumbled a sullen complaint, stumping away to look for more 'entertainment.'
With a bored sigh Shepard wandered after the young krogan, finding him standing next to a helmeted turian, practically vibrating with deranged glee at whatever was going in the glass fronted cell he was facing. Shepard could hear the rhythmic impacts before she reached the cell, and wasn't terribly surprised (once she had shoved Grunt's considerable bulk out of the way enough to see) to be an unwilling witness to a brutal interrogation. Or at least she had assumed it was an interrogation, but after a few moments it became apparent that there were no questions being asked.
The turian being beaten was curled up on his side, left arm flung across his face in an attempt to shield it from his tormentor; as the guard in question rained blows down with a weighted baton. Turians were a generally slender race, but even from this side of the glass Shepard could tell the prisoner was at near starvation weight, the ridges of bone down his spine standing out in sharp relief. His right arm flopped limply with each blow, and through what looked like the tattered remains of combat under-armor weave, Shepard could see the protruding bones and twisted plates in a ruined shoulder. The damage looked to continue up his neck and across his face, but it was hard to tell with his emaciated left arm raised to protect himself.
Wincing as the guard in the cell brought the baton down across the turian's sensitive fringe, Shepard turned to the helmeted blue-suns merc who stood impassively watching the proceedings. "Is this really necessary," she hissed, surprised at herself by how bothered she was. It wasn't like she hadn't borne witness, and participated in, countless interrogations before; perhaps it was the fact there were no questions, just this pointless silent brutality.
"Warden Kuril's orders," the guard muttered with a shrug, "its not like we're doing it for fun." He shifted his weight uncomfortably under Shepard's heated gaze, "well, Decker may well enjoy it," he tilted his helmeted head in the direction of the guard in the cell, "a little too much actually."
The aforementioned Decker had apparently moved on to a different technique, whatever it was caused the prisoner to voice a horrible wet scream that trailed off into a shrill keen of torment. "All right Decker, that's enough for today," the helmeted guard waved the other out of the cell, "I'm not sure I can watch that again anyway," he muttered under his breath.
As the glass door slid back to release the guard, he strode forward, grizzled saturnine face set in a scowl of displeasure. "Whats your fucking problem Tarkus, I was just getting started!" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the shivering prisoner, "don't tell me you're having some kind of twisted cuttlebone sympathy for this pile of varren shit?"
"Actually," Shepard interrupted coldly, "I wanted to inquire what exactly this...truly intimidating convict has done that deserves your attention. Surely a strong specimen such as yourself," her voice was rich with sarcasm, " could at least pick on someone who could fight back."
Decker have a kind of snort, scrubbing away the sweat on his forehead, a smirk curling his thin lips. "That," he gestured dramatically to the turian in the cell, who had managed to scrabble to a corner, and was hunched into it, head resting on his bony knees. "That is the great and fearsome Archangel, scourge of Omega."
"What?" Shepard managed, in a slightly strangled voice, "I thought he was dead."
"Nah, he just wishes he was. Isn't that right, ugly?!" Decker reached over to rap the bloody baton against the glass, snickering as the turian prisoner flinched, hunching down further. "The merc groups had some fun with him for a while, then Tarak had him shipped up here about six weeks ago. Warden Kuril gets us to treat him real special," Decker leered over at Shepard, hitching pointedly at the crotch of his fatigues, "if you get what I mean."
Miranda made a wordless sound of disgust, and Shepard felt a roil of sickness in her gut. "Oh I'm sorry, you poor bastard," she whispered to softly for Decker to hear. Guilt flickered through her as she remembered the ruined apartment back on Omega "you really would have been better off dead."
Oblivious to the disgust of his audience, Decker continued. "Yeah, funny thing is, we all figured he'd be some hotshot general, what with the way he had half of Omega pissing themselves." With a wheezing laugh, Decker leaned his hip against the cell door, "turns out he's just some stupid kid from the Citadel, thought he was pretty tough too...well until Garm had him a few days anyway.
That krogan really doesn't think too much of uppity cops fucking with his business"
"He's a cop?" a slow coil of dread was uncurling in Shepard's brain, rawly ugly puzzle pieces starting to slide into place.
"Ex-C-Sec apparently," Decker shrugged, "Kuril says his Daddy was some high-up detective; he's been posting rewards all over the extranet for news on his kid. Ain't that sweet?" the merc scrubbed dark navy blood off the baton onto a sleeve patterned with similar stains. "Warden had us cut one of those head spike things off and send it to his Da," Decker mimicked the sweep of a turian fringe with one hand, "never heard anyone scream like he did when we cut him."
The red cybernetics in Shepard's half healed skin felt burning hot, a sharp contrast to the cold sickness spreading through her. Stepping forward she tapped sharply on the filthy glass of the cell, "hey" she rasped, getting no reaction; "hey, HEY" she banged the heel of her hand hard against the barrier.
With a slight swagger, Decker turned to slam the baton against the glass, "Oi ugly! The lady apparently wants a look at your pretty face, head up." When the turian hunched his face harder against his knees, the merc's voice turned coldly ugly, " I said head up, cuttlebone, else I have to come in there, and then we got a real problem."
As the turian jerkily raised his head, turning his face towards her, Shepard had a brief moment when she honestly thought her hunch had been wrong. The last she had seen of Garrus was him waving from the Citadel dock, pale eyes bright, mandibles flared in that distinctive, sharp toothed, turian smile that had taken such a long time to get used to. This turian prisoner had dull dead eyes, one half of his face was a chewed up mess of burns, twisted flesh, and the dull gleam of exposed bone. The mandible on the damaged side flopped loosely against his jaw, that coupled with the sheared off spine of his fringe served to give his thin face an oddly lopsided appearance. But even through the injuries and gore, the sweep of his navy blue facial tattoos was unmistakeable, the dull haze of his eyes was still pale blue, the damaged plating and hide a familiar blend of silver-grey and tan.
"Oh fuck" Shepard tilts her head to rest her forehead against the filthy, stained glass, ..."Garrus."