"Ow." A voice complained in a flat tone.
Garrus glanced up from his omni-tool, peering over his shoulder back toward the treatment area. Their search of Chora's Den hadn't yielded anything particularly interesting and he had rejoined Shepard at Michel's clinic, though the investigator was going through the files they'd recovered from Fist's console a second time to ensure he hadn't overlooked anything.
One of Shepard's crew, the young soldier who'd been injured in the alley, sat on the end of an exam table, bare above the waist aside from a pair of metal tags that dangled from a length of chain.
Doctor Michel was at his side, dabbing an antiseptic wipe at the edges of the wound on his shoulder. The dark-haired medic was speaking to him in a low voice, her lilting accent lost amidst the hum of the clinic's machines and instruments. The human was tolerating the physician's probing, barely, and was expressing his discomfort with a range of grimaces and a few of choice words that the turian knew from experience were obscenities.
Griping aside, the trooper's injury seemed minor at best, even if Garrus' strong sense of smell was overcome by the metallic tang of blood even from halfway across the room. His was coloring was still good and despite the long streaks of dark crimson running the length of his arm, the turian reminded himself that humans were fairly robust, despite their soft appearance.
Admittedly, he found himself interacting with only a few humans in the course of his duties. It wasn't a matter of dislike, Garrus simply found that his investigations generally took him away from the parts of the Citadel where humans were prevalent. On the occasions that he found himself arresting a human suspect, they were quickly handed off to other officers, typically an asari or another human. Given that many were averse to cooperate with a turian for one reason or another, and that it was all too easy for a talon to slip and puncture skin during a struggle, it was better for all involved. Signing on with Shepard would be the first time he'd really worked alongside humans for any extended period, there weren't too many in the Investigation Division.
For her part, the commander leaned against the doctor's desk nearby and kept out of the way, seeming a bit amused by her subordinate's colorful vocabulary. The redhead had occasionally chimed in to instruct the injured soldier to "sit still" or to inform him he was acting like a newly born infant, though the detective suspected the last part hadn't translated quite correctly.
Inspecting the wound from afar, the investigator's plated brow furrowed. It was a clean laceration across the upper part of the man's deltoid, six, almost seven centimeters in length, according to his visor. The quarian carried a knife, the turian surmised, moderate length, probably single-edged. It might present a problem when the time came to take her into custody.
Garrus frowned, turning his attention back to the case file open on his omni-tool. He was overthinking things again. He wasn't arresting the quarian, he was looking for her—she was a material witness in his investigation against Saren, and a crucial one at that.
The turian gave a huff, closing his omni-tool and raking the points of his talons across his crest. This case had been nothing but a long series of frustrations. Even if they weren't saying it, the Council wanted nothing more than for the allegations against Saren to quietly disappear. They were unwilling to entertain the possibility that one of their elite had gone rogue, evidenced enough by the fact only a single C-Sec detective had been assigned to investigate the top agent in Citadel Space.
Whatever data this quarian had was Garrus' best bet. So far, he'd uncovered nothing but unsettling rumors and a few correspondences that hinted at just how well-connected the veteran Spectre had become. Everything else was hearsay. Missions to distant worlds nobody could name. Reports sealed away in archives with the greatest of secrecy.
Spectre seemed a fitting title for a turian so impossible to nail down.
But he had his reputation.
Ruthless. Uncompromising. Effective.
Garrus understood perfectly why the Council must've thought he was the perfect Spectre, the perfect turian.Garrus understood, and it appalled him.
But the detective was out of his element. He operated better in the shadowy parts of the station, where the red tape could be discretely brushed aside when necessary. Following leads across the Presidium with the Executor breathing down his collar had been something akin to hell.
And to be honest, he was exhausted. Pallin had put this case on his desk three days ago and he hadn't slept a wink since. But he didn't have time to sleep. Every minute was spent chasing leads and reviewing evidence. He wasn't chasing small-time crooks through the Wards anymore. This was big. Maybe the biggest thing to happen in his lifetime, and the galaxy couldn't afford to waste time while C-Sec sat mired in bureaucracy or he got his beauty sleep.
"Detective?" An inquiring voice shook Garrus from his thoughts. Snapping up from where he'd been blankly staring at the floor, he found that Dr. Michel had joined him in the clinic's small waiting area. "I've finished with Mr. Vandas. I imagine you may want to speak with him."
"Oh, of course," Vakarian managed. "Thank you, doctor."
The physician smiled brightly, seeming pleased, though Garrus wasn't altogether sure why. He'd realized early on that humans were an easy bunch to read, but they were much more difficult to understand.
Giving the doctor a nod, he stepped around her and headed back into the exam area.
The wounded crewman, now bearing a white medical pad across his upper arm and shoulder, still sat perched on the edge of the table, inspecting the shredded sleeve of a dark blue shirt spread across his lap.
He looked a bit younger than the other members of the Normandy that Vakarian had met so far, though the turian didn't know humans well enough to guess by how much. Still, his body wore the marks of combat, Garrus' keen eye picking out several unobtrusive scars along his side no bigger than the point of his talon. Shrapnel wounds, he surmised, not recent, but still visible.
"What's your name, soldier?" The detective inquired.
The man looked up with a start, appraising him with a wary eye.
Garrus did his best to look friendly. Admittedly, turians weren't as easy on the eyes as the asari were, and the officer had heard before that it was their imposing statures and sharp, angled features that humans tended to find so disquieting. He imagined the fact his race had a smile like a mouthful of daggers didn't help.
"Private First Class Nickeli Vandas, Alliance Marines." The trooper answered stiffly.
"I'm Detective Vakarian with C-Sec. I had a few questions for you."
The young marine glanced to Shepard and the detective watched the man relax slightly when the commander gave a nod of her head.
"Uh, well, what do you wanna' know?" Vandas asked meekly, lacing his fingers in his lap.
Garrus ran through his standard battery of questions, followed by a few regarding the quarian, though they did little aside from reaffirm what Doctor Michel had already told him.
Roughly 1.8 meters tall, dark-colored environmental suit. The fact she clearly had some degree of combat training was a new detail, but hadn't been a surprise. It at least confirmed they were on the trail of the right quarian.
Closing the report and syncing it to his remote backup, Garrus gave the human a nod and thanked him, giving him the usual reassurances that he'd been a terrific help and passing along his contact information in case he remembered anything else. The enlisted man looked rather unconvinced by this, but flashed a polite smile.
The detective had put out an alert through C-Sec channels when she'd disappeared into the markets, but that was far from a guarantee she'd be found. The Citadel had one of the highest quarian populations outside the Migrant Fleet, and they largely tended to pass beneath notice. Even with every officer on the station looking for her, they still might not find her in time. If that girl had any sense under her helmet she'd walk into the first C-Sec office she came across.
But Garrus was a realist. The quarian was scared. She'd hide, probably try to find passage off the station. She'd been quite resourceful up to this point, but her luck was bound to run out, and soon.
The turian frowned grimly. He'd give it two days before he started checking morgues.
"Welcome back, Private," Chakwas greeted as she looked up from her console in the infirmary, a hint of expectation in her voice. "The commander called ahead to inform me that you had run into a bit of 'trouble'."
From the doorway, the guilty young marine flashed a lopsided smirk. He tugged at his sleeve, pulling it back down from where it had crept up to reveal the edge of the white self-adhering bandage that clung to his left shoulder. His navy blue shirt had disappeared into a waste bin shortly after he'd arrived at the clinic. The bright, floral-pattern t-shirt he'd appropriated from the lost and found had served its purpose adequately, though he risked the wrath of the ship's sergeant major if he wore it around much longer.
"Well, Shepard suggested I go and see the sights. I just figured if I didn't get stabbed in an alley than I wasn't getting the full experience."
"Yes, she had mentioned something along those lines," The doctor replied flatly, sounding rather unimpressed with Nick's sense of humor. She nodded towards one of the cots. "Now take a seat. I'm sure they used to just pack gauze into any injuries you accumulated where you're from, but this is the twenty-second century and we have proper standards of medicine."
"I'm fine, ma'am, it's just- "
"Sit."
Nickeli gave a reluctant sigh but obeyed. As a rule, military doctors were famously stubborn, and he had no doubt arguing the point would be an exercise in futility. Still, he was corpsman himself, and made for a rather ornery patient.
He settled on the end of the narrow cot with a huff, removing his off-color shirt and tossing it in the direction of bin of dirty linens toward the rear of the infirmary. The garment unfurled mid-flight and landed several feet short, earning the marine an exasperated look from Chakwas that went unnoticed.
The doctor donned a pair of disposable gloves, the synthetic rubber making a squelching sound as she stretched them over her wrists. Handing the corpsman a small, kidney-shaped dish, she set to work.
"Now," The silver-haired physician began as she started to roll one corner of the adhesive patch on his shoulder. "I'm told you were in a bit of a daze when the commander found you."
Nick sighed, having a good sense of where this conversation would lead. "Yes, ma'am. A grenade went off a few feet away and knocked me off my feet."
Chakwas peeled the bandage off his arm, carefully using her index finger to keep the dressing in place as she deposited the adhesive pad in the dish Vandas was holding. "I see. And did you have any headaches afterwards? Or dizziness?"
"A little bit." The marine said, wincing slightly as the dressing pulled at his cut when the medic removed it. "Doctor Michel treated me for a ruptured ear drum, but said it didn't look like anything more serious than that."
"Well, it seems Doctor Michel does good work," Chakwas remarked, studying the neat line of medical-grade instant glue the young physician had closed his laceration with. "I expect this will heal nicely over the next couple of days. Keep it dry and don't do anything too strenuous with this arm. Now, if there are any signs of infection—"
Redness, tenderness, discharge. Nickeli knew the symptoms, of course. The last four years as a corpsman had been a crash course in practical medicine. Even while he was being reviewed by a medical board after he was wounded, he'd spent a boring couple of months assigned to a battalion aid station at an installation in North Carolina. He might've lacked the specialized knowledge of some of the commissioned officers, but a lot of things were second nature by now.
All the same, he nodded along dutifully to the doctor's instructions as she applied a fresh bandage.
"—want you to see me immediately. Am I clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now, I recommend you get yourself cleaned up, you look a sight."
Nick nodded in agreement, rising stiffly to his feet. A shower and a nap seemed like an outstanding idea right about now.
The bruised corpsman smirked wearily. "You should see—"
"Attention!" Sergeant Major Ouder's gruff tone echoed out of the ship's public address system. "All marine detachment and security personnel are to report to the comm room for briefing."
Vandas shot a pained look toward the intercom and gave a defeated sigh.
Right. A briefing.
He rose from his spot on the end of the bed and headed to retrieve a new shirt from the barracks.
It seemed his nap would have to wait.
"Officer on deck!"
The comm center was filled with the scuffle of boots and the sound of folding chairs scraping across the deck as the room quickly got to its feet.
From the door, Kaidan fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment as nearly two dozen sets of eyes fixed themselves on him.
"As you were," The biotic managed, and the room quickly returned to their seats. Heading toward an open chair, he gave a nod to the man standing before the assembled crew. "Thank you, Sergeant Major."
The man returned the gesture before turning back to his audience. "For any of you who are unfamiliar, this is 1st Lieutenant Alenko, the officer in charge of the security detachment.
"As I was saying, once we embark security detail will be divided into three standard watches—red, blue, and white—Staff Sergeant Khang will be posting the detailed schedule shortly. Moving on to the CIC watchstanders…"
In the second row to the back, Nick shifted in his seat, reclining into a subtle, but more comfortable slouch, the sergeant major's coarse baritone fading into the background.
As the medic had discovered over the last twenty minutes, even for all of the leaps forward in culture and technology, pre-deployment briefings hadn't changed a bit in the last century and a half, right down the uncomfortable folding chairs and slideshow presentations.
Fortunately, he'd be spending most of his duty hours in the infirmary rather than standing watch. However, since he was essentially the only medical clerk for a crew of nearly sixty, he probably wouldn't find himself with too much idle time while he was on duty.
Folding his arms across his chest, the bored corpsman scanned the room. The eight members of the Normandy's Marine Detachment, including himself, were present, and he'd had the opportunity to exchange hasty introductions with two he hadn't met before, Furlong and Grenado, before they'd taken their seats.
Private 2nd Class Grenado, or Caroline, as she preferred, was apparently who the medic would be hot bunking with. Not the Nick was complaining.
She was a year or two younger than him, with skin the color of mocha and raven black hair that she wore in a neat bun. During their brief chat, she'd explained the detachment's Field Electronic Warfare Specialist, and since they were already in the process of moving to their seats, Vandas had just nodded along as if he understood perfectly what that meant. Still, Caroline certainly seemed nice enough.
His introduction to Corporal Furlong had been even briefer—the marine had paused in front of Nickeli's seat just long enough for him to shake the man's hand. He was lanky, maybe six foot three with a lean build and wiry limbs. His blond hair, buzzed to adhere with standards, was groomed forward into a short fohawk that Nick was surprised hadn't earned the man the sergeant major's ire. The marine also wore a pair of simple, black-rimmed eyeglasses, which came as something of a surprise to the medic. From what he'd read, gene therapy had become advanced enough that most hereditary conditions, including vision problems, had been virtually eliminated. Maybe he'd asked about the glasses, if he got curious, but that was neither here nor there.
The other dozen or so people in the room were members of the ship's Navy Armed Security Team, crewmen from other sections of the ship that were cross-trained in combat arms. They didn't enjoy the same variety of equipment nor would they go planet-side with nearly the frequency that the marines did, but the security teams would still be called upon to repel boarders and provide extra manpower when the need arose. Sergeant Scarpasky might've insisted on referring to them as "Nasties" to get a rise out of them, but the team seemed to know their stuff.
The briefing dragged on for another hour, plenty long enough for every niggling ache and pain to wriggle its way into Nick's awareness as Ouder and then Staff Sergeant Khang droned on about more administrative monotony. When they were finally dismissed, Nick made good time to the crew deck. Being blown up and subsequently stabbed in an alley had put something of a damper on the day's itinerary. It was still fairly early in the evening and he wasn't scheduled for duty in the infirmary until later tomorrow, but by the time the elevator had reached the third deck the medic had resolved to make a quick stop in the galley and then rack out for the night.
Vandas frowned, rubbing lightly at the tender spot on the back of his head. It was a shame that the rest of his afternoon had been something of a waste after his firefight in the alley. He'd sort of been hoping to find his way back to that food stand in the markets.
"Detective Vakarian, joining us for the night shift, I see." The C-Sec officer sporting a sergeant's insignia remarked from his cubicle, sounding a bit amused by himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Sergeant Bailey," The turian greeted with a nod. "How're things?"
The man reclined in his chair, stretching and giving a loud groan in the small station's otherwise silent office area.
Garrus had become acquainted with the blond-haired human when one of his earlier investigations into a black market operations had seen him working closely with the Customs division. Bailey was one of eight humans in a station of fifty officers, and the only one Garrus knew above the rank of corporal. C-Sec was an establishment almost as old as the discovery of the station itself, and it had had millennia to fortify itself in bureaucratic prestige. Humanity's maverick and aggressive nature made them something of an anomaly in the system, and as a result human officers often found themselves relegated to C-Sec's dark corners like Customs and cybercrimes.
"Ah, well, the lieutenant's up my ass that the precinct isn't intercepting enough smuggled goods and I'm not gettin' half as many reports from the day shift as I'm supposed to, but that's nothin' new." The man groused. "But I don't expect you came all this way for the coffee and chit-chat. What can I do for ya'?"
During the course of his time with the Division of Investigations, Detective Vakarian had, as matter of course, gone out of his way to garner goodwill throughout the rank-and-file of C-Sec. He'd found that a small favor now and then or the occasional cup of "coffee", the pungent brown drink that human officers consumed in astounding quantities, paid off down the road when it meant that he never lacked for a friendly acquaintance when he needed something.
"Actually, I was hoping you could help me with a case," The turian began, "I'm looking for someone. A young quarian, female."
"Alright," Bailey prompted, tapping at his console. "Got any more details?"
"Around 1.8 meters tall, dark purple environmental suit. She would've come aboard the Citadel less than two weeks ago, and she was wounded in the arm in a shooting a couple days ago."
Garrus watched the man work, mandibles tight against his face. The Citadel was an enormous place, and its migrant population of quarians was large enough that the woman they were looking for wouldn't stand out—a rough description wasn't enough to go on if they were going to have a chance.
"Was that all ya' had?" The sergeant asked after keying the information into his workstation. Receiving a grim nod, the man shrugged. "Well, the database should have something on a quarian, one way or the other. Either a visa with Customs, or an arrest record," Bailey shot the detective a meaningful look. "You know how it is."
Garrus just gave a snort, nodding.
"Alright, let's see…three-hundred-thirty-two quarians have passed through Customs in the last fourteen days, looking at the females brings it down to one-hundred-sixty-eight. Do you know if she came to the station alone?"
"She's by herself now as far as I can tell, but I don't know if she came alone."
Bailey gave a grunt. "Well, from my experience the groups of quarians coming here generally stick together for the first couple of weeks while they're finding work or booking passage elsewhere, ya' know, 'safety in numbers'." The sergeant paused, taking a sip from a white mug emblazoned with the C-Sec logo. "If she's by herself now, I think we can safely say she didn't come to the station aboard one of the Pilgrimage transports."
The detective quirked his plated brow. "Pilgrimage?"
"It's a, uh," The man started, one hand stirring circles in the air as he struggled for the word. "…cultural thing. When they become adults, they go out in search of…uh, I dunno' what, but, it's apparently the only time most of them ever leave their fleet."
"Anyhow," Bailey continued, "That takes a couple dozen names off the list, leaving us with…" He glanced at the screen, "One-hundred-and-seventeen, and C-Sec's only got arrest records on about thirty of 'em."
One hundred and seventeen. Garrus gave a low sigh.
He'd certainly chased down worse leads during his time as a detective, but not by much, and certainly not on such a short timetable. He had someone at Customs and Immigration Services that could pull the visa information for everyone on that list, but he'd have to call-in a few favors to get it done at this time of night.
Still, it was his best bet. With those visas, he could cross reference the description he had with their biometric profiles and hopefully come up with a name. More importantly, once the Vakarian found her visa, he'd have the quarian's biometric identification number, and he could set every security scanner on the station looking for her.
But all of that would take time, and he'd still need help making a positive identification once they found their quarian. Collecting the datapad the sergeant had transferred the list of names to, Garrus skimmed through a couple of lines and tucked it under his arm. He had a hell of a lot of ground to cover tonight if he wanted to find this girl alive—but at least he knew someone who could help ID her if he did.
"Thanks, Bailey." The detective said, though the gratitude in his voice was sapped by exhaustion. "This helps a lot."
"Happy to help." The man replied with a slight nod. Watching the turian rub at his tired eyes, he spoke. "There's a little coffee shop a couple blocks down. It mainly serves humans, but they've got a dextro blend a few of the guys swear by." Bailey gave a shrug. "Seems like you've got a long night ahead of you."
With a weary grin, Vakarian gave the sergeant a grim nod as turned for the door.
"Coffee" was an interesting idea, but what he really needed was a fresh set of eyes.
Garrus gave a thoughtful hum as he left the station. Shepard seemed equally determined to bring down Saren and she'd offered to help to his investigation any way she could. Maybe it was time to take her up on her offer.
Climbing into his patrol vehicle, Garrus activated his omni-tool and keyed in her comm code. "Commander, it's Detective Vakarian. I need a favor."
A/N: I was originally going to have this chapter run through another section of about two thousand words, but ultimately decided against it and moved what progress I had over to the start of the next chapter, since progress was a bit slow and this seemed like a more natural stopping point.