Sorry for the heavy text in the beginning of the chapter. I promise, it gets lighter and more dynamic. This first part is more of a world building tool than anything else. Not that you are unfamiliar with the universe, but it still helps to establish some ground rules.

PART I

Violet Oceans

"Chance has its own logic. To encounter someone you do not expect, in a place that seems unsuitable, at a moment that feels wrong—this is not chance but a pattern we are simply incapable of understanding. All meetings are predestined; all paths cross exactly where they are meant to, even if it seems to defy all logic."

— Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Lindor.

What a shithole. Once home to the most vicious ring of batarian slavers and their largest base of operations, now reduced to a trans-shipping harbor for all sorts of criminals and scumbags from across the galaxy. The mostly abandoned compounds and underground tunnels, designed to withstand extreme temperatures and shield their dwellers from harsh environmental conditions on the surface, lay dormant. A huge network of mazes, hard to navigate without a map and impossible to clear without risking civilian lives, sprawled beneath the planet's desolate landscape. He knew all about it.

The feeling of unease stirring deep within him was more than just a soldier's instinct. It was a primal reaction to a place that represented everything he despised and had fought against for so long.

Batarians, the four-eyed biped natives of Khar'shan, had earned their reputation as the galaxy's most notorious outlaws. Self-isolated from the civilized galactic community, they lurked in the lawless Terminus Systems, infesting them with pirate gangs and slaving rings. To Garrus, they embodied everything wrong with the frontier—a cancerous presence that thrived on suffering and chaos.

And it was his job to clear them out. It took time, but eventually his crew and other captains aligned with his objective had chased them out to the furthest reaches of turian space, with only occasional slave grabs at distant colonies. That's when the batarians turned their many eyes to humans, a newly discovered species. Humans colonized worlds in a manner so different from that of a turian. Despite their remarkable ability to adapt, they needed planets with more favorable conditions. Their worlds were stretched across the Alliance systems further apart—harder to control, to patrol, to protect. Perfect for slavers.

The integrity of human borders had never been his concern, even less so after the First Contact. However, occasional reports coming from raided human planets would turn even his stomach. They took everyone they could work, killing children and the elderly, burning bodies, leaving scorched earth in their wake, and leveling entire settlements to the ground. That kind of devastation he wished on no one, not even his enemies. But then there was the War. There were other duties he had to perform. Other places he was needed.

And now Garrus found himself standing on the command bridge, his gaze fixed intently on the galaxy map that dominated the room. Lindor flashed ominously on the screen in an angry shade of red. A deep, festering wound on the body of the Hourglass Nebula that would never fully heal no matter how many times one attempted to cleanse it.

They never let him finish the job…

"Captain?"

Lieutenant's voice brought him back from his memories. Garrus eyed him with a cold stare.

"You heard me right, lieutenant. I'm dropping down with you."

The turian gave him a momentary glance. The mandibles on his white-marked face twitched in surprise, but he didn't say anything else. However unexpected, these were his superior's orders.

He saluted his captain, turned around sharply, and went to fulfill his immediate duties on making sure the shuttles were ready for drop-off and the team was instructed. Lieutenant Kryik was a good turian.

When the officer left the bridge, Garrus turned his blue avian eyes back to the map. The feeling of unease was steadily growing.

Lindor. Of all places. Why there? What would a human vessel be doing in this system? Sure, it was a neutral territory and they were not breaching the Council's Border Treaty. This was as far from the turian and human space as it could be. And that was exactly what bothered him.

The Terminus sprawled across the galactic map like a dark stain, a lawless frontier beyond the reach of Citadel space and the Systems Alliance. This vast expanse of stars and shadowy nebulae teemed with a patchwork of minor species and rogue colonies, bound together by their fierce independence and disdain for Council authority. Here, the Citadel Conventions were little more than distant whispers, ignored in favor of might-makes-right politics and cutthroat commerce. It was a haven for the desperate and the ruthless—perfect for batarian slaving rings.

So what would a human vessel be doing there?

The turian's mind raced through possibilities, each more unlikely than the last.

A scientific expedition? Doubtful. The Terminus were far too dangerous for civilian research. A cargo ship? Possible, but what goods would be worth the risk of traveling through such treacherous space? And none of these possibilities explained the crash landing.

It all felt wrong.

An urgent transmission had come straight from the Primarch himself, cutting through the normal chatter of turian communication channels. High priority.

Apprehend the crew of a human ship crash landed on Lindor, Sector Five. Capture alive at any cost.

The message was terse and to the point, with no further details or explanations provided. Human crew unknown, reason for the crash landing unknown, no other intel. If it existed at all, it was highly classified, even for his level of clearance. The orders were coming from the Turian Hierarchy, marked as 'captain's eyes only.' Garrus felt his plates itch with agitation. Whoever was on board that vessel, the command wanted them bad.

His ship was the closest to the Lindor system. Fully equipped, with fresh and eager crew returning from a much-needed shore leave. Ready and itching to kill some humans. Except this time, it was capture only. The survivors were to be delivered straight to Palaven for interrogation, no questions asked.

While the squad was preparing for the mission, checking their weapons, ensuring their equipment was in top shape, Garrus kept scanning the galaxy map. As if it could give him answers.

Lindor. He always knew he would return to its surface one day. Just never thought it would be so soon—amidst the chaos and destruction of the war.

The First Contact War, a sudden conflict between the human Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy, also referred to as the Relay 314 Incident, had raged on for eight whole years, escalating far beyond what anyone could have foreseen—least of all the Citadel Council. At this point it didn't even matter how it started, though Garrus knew that his people fired the first shot.

Humans stumbled upon the Charon Relay and couldn't help themselves—had to touch everything, activate anything they found. Like children with no concept of consequence. Their reckless activation of Relay 314 forced turian intervention. It had been sealed for a reason; the Rachni Wars had taught the galaxy harsh lessons about blind exploration.

For turians, it had been simple law enforcement— flex military might, expect submission, maintain order. That's how things worked in civilized space. But humans proved different. These newcomers, drunk on their first taste of space freedom, were unwilling to bow to an unknown alien force, refused to back down when fired at, meeting the turian aggression with equal determination and force. One of their ships escaped, brought reinforcements, destroyed the turian patrol. And just like that, that first contact devolved into war.

Humans, the word left unpleasant taste in his mouth. A smaller, weaker species, too brittle, too squishy. Soft-skinned creatures, barely evolved enough to master space travel yet already expanding far too aggressively. They knew nothing about the galaxy and cared even less for its rules. It was this last part that turians found most disdainful.

Garrus remembered the first reports that came in after the Relay 314 Incident. Humans had no technological edge, no biological advantages—a lesser species, no doubt. For Spirits' sake, they had no kinetic shields and were using chemically powered weapons! A laughing stock for any turian at the beginning of the war. But that laughter died down pretty soon. Savages that they were, humans demonstrated remarkable abilities in adapting to every environment. What they lacked in technological advances, they compensated for with extraordinary resilience and bravery. Their tenacity in the face of overwhelming odds was something that could not be ignored, and it forced the turians to reevaluate their initial assessment of this so-called lesser species.

Eight fucking years. His people were tired of the war.

Both sides had been full of spirit and mutual resentment at the beginning, but everything changed after the Battle of Shanxi. That day would be forever etched in galactic history as the most devastating battle of the First Contact War. Tremendous casualties on both sides. Thousands dead within the first 40-hour cycle, both on the ground and in space. The turians lost a large number of frigates, five destroyers, and two cruiser ships. Humanity paid an even steeper price when an Alliance dreadnought was obliterated in the battle—which barely served as any consolation for the turian military.

That footage was seared into Garrus's memory, its images having been broadcast across Council-affiliated space. Despite such devastating human casualties, it became clear that victory was not at all at hand. Even far from the front lines, back home on Palaven, where news of turian wins and human defeats tend to be exaggerated, people began to ask questions. They wondered if it was worth the loss of turian lives. There was no sweeping victory over a lesser species as promised by the Hierarchy. Only death and ever-growing tensions with the Citadel Council, which finally decided to intervene after the tipping point that was Shanxi.

Attempts were made to arrange negotiations and peace talks, but neither party would budge. Both sides remained stubbornly entrenched in their positions, unable to let go of their grudges and unwilling to make the necessary compromises. Pride stood in the way of peace, and so the war raged on.

Garrus knew this only added to an ever-growing concern among the galactic community, and the increased animosity towards both their species. Where humanity's first contact with an alien race created a bad reputation for them on the galactic forum, the turian unwillingness to accept the blame and start reparations made them seem rigid and somewhat imperialist to the Council.

The Primarch himself was deeply concerned with this development. Although they never discussed it, Garrus had heard whispers that he was speaking to the Hierarchy behind closed doors, trying to find a solution to their precarious position. Ever since the disastrous Battle of Shanxi, turian standing with the Citadel government had been shaky at best.

His species was the third race to join the Council, earning its place through blood and sacrifice. However, the current state of affairs threatened to undermine all progress and tarnish their reputation as a reliable and respected member of the Citadel's governing body.

All because of the humans and the needless war. Feeble space monkeys who somehow managed to muster galactic travel and stumbled across a mass relay in their system. Succeeded to activate it by mere chance and found their way to the Citadel. Outrageous as it was, some Council members believed that this questionable achievement warranted them a chance to be welcomed on the Citadel. On the condition of negotiating a truce, but still. Unthinkable. It took his people centuries to earn their rightful place among the many races of the galactic community, and these lesser bipeds thought they could swing it in a decade.

But that's what humans ultimately were. Arrogant, greedy, impatient, and way too demanding of their place. A place which was not yet earned, not by a long shot.

All this troubled their Primarch, no doubt. And rightly so. If there was a chance turians could be moved on the galactic arena, their military dominance threatened, well, it was the Primarch's direct responsibility to play the inter-galactic political games.

Garrus personally simply dismissed all that nonsense. People like him never dealt in chances, never relied on rumors. Not his domain. What he was interested in were proven facts and clear objectives. Courtesy of the turian military training.

He missed the days when he was a mere grunt, before the burden of giving orders fell on his shoulders. Those were simpler times, devoid of ambiguity or the need for nuanced decision-making. Back then, he wasn't the one holding a gun—hewasthe gun. All he needed was to be pointed in the right direction, all he wanted was to fire…

Climbing the ranks had never been his primary objective. His father would occasionally rebuke him for lack of ambition. But they both knew that wasn't the case. Garrus had plenty of ambition; his just lay elsewhere.

Certainly not in the boring chambers of the Hierarchy leaders nor in those endless halls his father would walk day-in and day-out. The Primarch of Palaven, ruler of free turian space. What could be better, huh? Well, Garrus could think of a thing or a dozen.

He knew he was high up in tier. Last time he checked, he was tenth in line. It was right before the Shanxi incident when he rose up the ranks and was promoted to a captain in the Sixth Fleet. Tenth in line. Impressive, indeed, though he never really cared about it himself. And to be completely honest, it was his younger sister Sol who informed him of his tier. She was checking the Hierarchy lines religiously, wondering if one day her smug elder brother would rise to the top, and she would actually have to follow his orders.

Ever since the battle of Shanxi, that one day Garrus wanted to erase from his memory forever, people were saying he was on his way to becoming their next Primarch. But those were the sort of things that bordered on rumors, so he dismissed them for what they were.

Service with honor. Valor above all. That was its own reward for any good turian. And Garrus was exactly that.

There were rare moments in time when he was entertaining an idea of his life after the war. He knew it would not be politics. He always thought, once he'd be done with all the slaver rats in turian space, he would move to the private sector. He imagined himself going to Omega.

The place would be just perfect, Garrus mused with a self-satisfied smirk. With its population of nearly eight million souls, he knew he would never run short of marks for his target practice. Omega's lawless streets and shadowy alleyways offered endless opportunities for a certain type of justice the turian favored above all.

He would have a team of like-minded individuals, of course, each driven by the same burning desire to reshape the station's chaotic landscape. Together, they would embark on an audacious mission—to cleanse the streets of Omega and finally provide those who wished for a peaceful civilian life the chance to have it.

He could almost feel it: the cool metal of his rifle pressed against his mandible, his eye peering down the scope as he would scan the bustling crowds below. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat would serve as a metronome, keeping time as he patiently waited for the perfect moment. With practiced precision, his finger would gently caress the trigger, unleashing his judgement upon the unsuspecting criminals who had long held Omega in their iron grip.

He never shared his thoughts with his father, as he knew exactly what Castis would say. His son, Garrus Vakarian, captain of the Sixth Fleet—a vigilante and an outlaw! Unthinkable. Garrus smiled at the vision of his father's flared mandibles and the sound of his subvocals.

Yet the very first thing he imagined himself doing after the war was going back to Lindor. Leveling that place to the ground, reminding the batarian rats and whoever found sanctuary in that hellhole what the Vakarian name used to mean for every slaver in the Terminus.

And here he was. Going back as he had always wished he could. But not quite. This time, there would be no retribution kills, no raiding their facilities or smoking the filthy rats out of their dark cozy tunnels. It was a simple grab-and-deliver operation of the highest priority, but there was something gnawing at him. The instructions were clear: ignore everyone except the human crew. Let the batarians go about their business as usual. Do not interfere. Do not engage.

He realized the implications of these orders. Garrus knew firsthand the horrors that took place deep in Lindor's dungeons. But he was being ordered to turn a blind eye, and it went against everything he believed in.

The feeling of unease was undeniable as he was standing in front of the galaxy map, hands behind his back, in a perfect military posture, eyes zeroed in on the screen. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the mission ahead.

There was no room for his personal feelings on the bridge. He had his objective, and he planned to deliver.

No heavy weapons or armor of any kind. Those were the first things Garrus noticed with utter surprise. Only a small handgun holstered at the hip. Non-adjustable handle, standard-issue Alliance. Too small for his large three-taloned hand. One of the many somewhat disappointing things he had learned about humans early on on the battlefield—no usable weapon trophies.

The lack of combat suit was even more perplexing. Simple black attire, also seemed like standard issue, designed to withstand environmental hazards like Lindor radiation. The fabric rippled as the human ran, occasionally catching on the branches. A light black helmet provided UV protection. No Alliance insignia or military rank indications—none that he could see while chasing his target through the planet's dense forest growth.

The human had no chance, their speed could never match a turian's. Garrus's kind evolved as natural sprinters, able to outrun most of the indigenous predators inhabiting Palaven. Millennia of evolution had honed their bodies into perfect pursuit machines, with powerful leg muscles and a respiratory system built for endurance. Even now, as he vaulted over fallen logs and ducked under low-hanging branches, Garrus felt the thrill of the chase singing in his blood.

The survivor he was pursuing, however, was getting tired quickly. Their movements grew unsteady, each step less sure than the last. Breathing was labored, a ragged sound carrying even over the rustling leaves and snapping twigs. Yet, to Garrus's surprise, the softskin exceeded his expectations. He chased the human deep into the forest, leaving the rest of the turian squad behind as they pursued the others. Shots echoed in the distance.

Despite the exhaustion, the human continued to flee, driven by a primal instinct for survival. Garrus admired his determination, even as he closed in on his prey. The forest around them grew denser, the underbush thick and tangled. The human darted between trees, weaving through the foliage with an unexpected nimbleness. Garrus followed close behind, his heart pounding in his chest...

Five of them. All wearing featureless black attires and helmets. The turian squad found them camping near the crash site of what seemed like a human scouting vessel. The wreckage was still smoldering, smoke rising into the alien sky. From their position, the cause of the crash remained unclear. The twisted metal and scattered debris indicated a severe impact, explaining the handful of survivors.

His team crept closer, their movements silent and stealthy, their black armor blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. Garrus surveyed the scene through the scope of his rifle, reading the heat signatures. He signaled to his lieutenant to proceed with a circular flanking maneuver uttering a subvocal sound—turian communication completely undetectable to human ears.

Kryik acknowledged with a subtle nod, gesturing for the squad to spread out. They began their approach with calculated, precise moves. The tension in the air was like a cord pulled taut, ready to snap.

And snap it did.

The world erupted in a cacophony of sound and fury. The ground beneath them heaved, as if the planet itself was trying to shake them off. A bright flash rendered Garrus momentarily blind, and a thunderous roar shattered the air. The shockwave hit him like a krogan charge, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back into the ground.

For a moment, everything was chaos. Dirt and debris rained down, pinging off his armor. The smell of explosives filled his nostrils, mixing with the earthy scent of upturned soil. His auditory canals rang, the high-pitched whine drowning out everything else.

As his vision cleared, Garrus saw the devastation around him. A massive crater gaped where one of his men had been standing moments before. The unfortunate soldier was sprawled nearby, his combat suit dented and scorched but intact. Thank Spirits for turian military tech. Their kinetic shields had absorbed most of the blast, but were now disrupted, leaving turian armor more vulnerable. Another explosion like that and the consequences would be far more dire.

"Landmine!" Garrus roared, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his head. "Batarian tech! Watch your step!"

Fucking landmine. Courtesy of the slavers, former owners of this place. A remnant of the times when the thugs had controlled these woods and scattered numerous traps and tripwires throughout the dense Lindor growth to ensure that nobody would stumble upon their dirty secrets.

The element of surprise was gone. Shouts of alarm and gunshots came from the human camp. Survivors darted into the forest—heavy bushes that served as allies for turians just moment ago now obscured their targets covering humans' retreat.

Garrus scrambled to his feet, his tactical mind racing. "Damn it! Lieutenant, engage in pursuit! We are not losing them!"

Kryik wiped the dirt from his mandibles with his gloved hand, nodded curtly, and gave orders to his men.

The turian squad sprinted after the humans, moving deeper into the forest, quickly closing the distance to the five targets right in front of them. Garrus felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the undeniable thrill of the chase. This was a primal sensation, one that reached back through millennia of turian evolution. Almost in their grasp, he thought, mandibles tightening in anticipation.

One of the humans broke away from the group, scrambling to the side. Garrus followed them, signaling his men to pursue the rest, and dove into the bushes where the softskin had disappeared. As he emerged on the other side, he felt something was wrong.

A prickling sensation at the base of his fringe, an instinct honed by years of combat. A split second reaction saved him from the blast that followed, as he fell flat on the ground, pressing his heavily armored body down with all his weight. The air above his head turned purple, as the ground shook beneath him, reverberating through his armor.

Garrus glared at the human ahead, his blue eyes narrowed with fury. A low warning growl escaped his chest as he slowly rose to his feet, preparing to attack. Fucking biotics, he thought, his talons open and twitching.

The human ahead—likely male, as was the case with most human biotics—faltered, taking a step back. Turian fighting growls were not to be trifled with. It was a distinct sound that reached into the primitive parts of most species' brains and triggered an instinctive fear response. The male turned and darted off, diving into the green.

More chase it is, Garrus thought, ready to sprint after him.

It was a smarter move for the human, as he knew he couldn't take a turian in close combat.

Garrus heard a crackling noise from his comms and glanced at his omni-tool. The signal appeared jammed. Still, he started moving in the direction the human had run, pursuing but not yet giving full chase. His instincts told him to be cautious, to anticipate any further surprises. After all, he was dealing with a biotic, and biotics were unpredictable.

"Status report, lieutenant," he commanded through the comms as he activated the motion scanner on his omni-tool.

"Captain…" Static fractured the transmission. "… engaged in pursuit… four human targets… you need... assistance…"

One tiny human posed no threat requiring assistance. The scanner displayed exactly where the male was heading.

"Negative. Continue pursuit. No lethal force."

Their orders had been clear from the beginning; he didn't need to repeat them. Not to his team. But things might happen in the heat of battle. Better safe, than sorry.

"Copy that…" More crackling sounds. Then the connection died.

Damn it. He opened the map of the terrain to assess the best way to intercept his target. The human was going to back himself into a corner, Garrus saw that now, heading straight toward a cliffside. The turian looked for a more direct route and found it. Though a natural sprinter, he still had no desire for too much heavy lifting with all his armor and weapons. Besides, the human was biotic, there might be some dancing involved once he caught up.

He resumed his pursuit, watching the scanner and preserving his energy.

Sudden sounds of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. Different from before. Too many firearms. Coming from the direction of his men. Turian rifles. Retaliation fire. Different rifles, not human… This wasn't good. The cacophony of battle spoke of an engagement far beyond what they had anticipated. Garrus's mind raced, analyzing the sounds, working to piece together what was happening.

He slowed down to open the comm line again.

"Lieutenant, report!" Silence. More gunfire. "Lieutenant Kryik!"

"Captain!" Kryik's voice broke through, drowned by the shots fired around him. "… ambush… multiple targets…"

"Come again, lieutenant! Status report!"

Static. By the Spirits! Ambush? The word echoed in his mind. Would explain multiple shots. Humans? Was this all a setup? Were they at the crash site to lure the squad deeper into the woods to their stronghold position? It had all seemed too easy from the beginning. Five targets without armor. Crash-landed vessel…

Garrus growled at the thought. Fuck. But he had done his research. He never went in blind. Intel showed no human presence on Lindor. Multiple surface scans came in negative. Negligible presence of other races' factions. Not in Sector Five, though. This side of the planet was mostly rock, uninhabitable. Or so they thought. Now, surrounded by the sounds of battle and the oppressive silence of his malfunctioning comms, Garrus was beginning to question everything he thought he knew about this mission.

"Kryik! Come in! Nihlus!"

Silence remained his only answer.

The lieutenant had mentioned something about multiple targets. Garrus looked at his screen. Just one dot, his designated human, still following that same doomed trajectory. No one else. More sounds of gunfire in the distance, a symphony of violence that contrasted with the peaceful forest around him. The intel was wrong. Someone had seriously fucked up. But who and at what point? He had no time to dwell on it now. A decision had to be made.

Static broke into crackling for a couple of seconds.

"Captain Vakarian!... jamming our signal… hostiles…"

The line went dead, unlike the raging sounds of the fight. Garrus tried to open comms with his ship but received only the same static noise.

He hesitated for a mere second, weighing his options. There was no point in returning to his squad. If this was indeed an ambush, he might be too late. Besides, if he turned back now, he would lose the only lead he had—the human he was chasing. Whatever was happening here, he had to trust that Kryik and the rest of his men could handle themselves. And if for some reason they couldn't, it all rested on him now, to capture at least one and figure out what was going on. Oh, he would make that human talk.

Garrus had to remind himself of the mission objective. Capture alive at any cost. He growled again, the sound rumbling in his chest. The cost was getting higher by the minute.

The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began, leaving absolute silence. The comm lines were dead. Whatever jamming devices they used, nothing came through. He was completely cut off from his team and the ship. But his motion scanner functioned just fine, showing the tiny red dot. If he increased his speed, he would catch up with the human in ten minutes or less. Garrus activated his visor's enhanced tracking mode and sprinted.

"That's far enough!"

The turian voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the humid air of Lindor's forest. His talon squeezed the trigger, sending a warning shot past the human's right, splintering bark from a nearby tree.

For a second, Garrus considered firing at the male's lower limbs to finally end this chase. The thought of having to carry the softskin all the way back, however, was not appealing. The armor already felt heavy, and muscles burned from the prolonged pursuit. And the turian still had no idea what chaos he would be returning to. The unknown fate of his squad gnawed, a constant worry at the back of his mind.

The shot was accurate, right at the level of the small alien head. The near miss had the desired effect. It made the human stop. Slowly, he turned to face the turian, still wearing the helmet that obscured all features.

Sharp, predatory eyes took in every detail. The smaller chest heaved up and down rapidly, clearly struggling to catch a breath. The black jumpsuit clung to the strange form in a way that highlighted how alien his physiology was to Garrus. The human leaned forward, bracing his arms on the upper legs in a weird way that seemed slightly disconcerting.

He was small. Not too short, but not that broad in shoulders either. Thinner, slimmer than most humans Garrus had encountered on the battlefield. The proportions of the body were all wrong somehow, like a turian hatchling yet to grow into its carapace. Perhaps the lack of armor threw the assessment off. Combat rarely revealed humans without protective gear. Their unplated bodies proved no match for turians in hand-to-hand.

Even fully armored humans were rarely known to best one of his kind in close encounters. With the exception of heavy mechs, of course. The reason became clear now, watching an unarmored opponent.

Garrus towered two heads over the human, turian frame imposing and predatory. His arms and legs were way more massive and muscular, built for both speed and power. Underneath the heavy battle suit lay protective metallic plates, forming a natural exoskeleton.

The human straightened up, took another deep breath, and reached upward. A taloned finger twitched on the trigger, muscles tensing in anticipation. Then relaxed slightly, recognizing the motion of removing a helmet.

The Lindor sun dipped toward the horizon, its radiation levels dropping from lethal to merely hazardous. During this season, only the midday hours posed serious danger—at least to unprotected species. For turians, solar radiation remained a minor concern, as their metallic carapace contained trace amounts of thulium, a natural radiation shield evolved under Palaven's harsh conditions. Turian homeworld's weak magnetic field had forced this adaptation, as its twin suns bombarded the surface with radiation levels that would kill most species within hours. What had once been crucial for survival on Palaven now served as convenient protection on dozens of hostile worlds like Lindor.

The human removed his helmet, and by the way he panted it was clear to Garrus that he couldn't breathe in it properly. A golden mane broke loose the second it was taken off, cascading down around a face that made Garrus reassess everything he had assumed about his quarry.

The flushed human face was squinting at the sun, full fleshy lips opened slightly, drawing in the air. He wasn't a he, the turian realized, studying the more delicate features of the human face. Definitely a female. Young too. Interesting.

He wondered if she was the one the Hierarchy wanted. Somehow he doubted it. He hadn't met that many human females—they were not common on the battlefield—but he had met enough to know that this one was clearly a civilian. Everything in her posture, her movements, even her look was telling him she had no military training. So it couldn't have been her. But then again, she was a strong biotic, could they want her for that? No. He dismissed it, as he was well aware turian military looked down on biotics, and were never much interested in them or their potential. Biotics were too unstable, too unpredictable for cold calculus of the Hierarchy. Turian military strength relied on brutal force and full-scale frontal attacks, not the dark matter manipulation or dirty tricks that biotics employed.

Someone else in her party then? One of those humans his men were chasing? He could not know for sure. His orders were to bring in everyone who survived. It was for the high command to figure out the rest.

Still everything about her being here was intriguing. Why was she on Lindor? Why did she break away from her companions to escape, if their purpose was to lure them into a trap? Was it their purpose at all? Too many questions he needed her to answer. And unfortunately for both of them he was ready to hurt her to get those answers.

But first thing's first…

The space around them crackled with energy, a sudden shift in the air that made Garrus's plates tingle with warning. Before he could react, a force unlike anything he had ever known slammed into him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground with a tremendous weight. If not for his armor, his keel bone would have shattered, meaning certain death to any turian. He couldn't breathe, his hand lost the grip on his rifle, searching for it instinctively in the vacuum that the world around him felt at that moment.

Spirits, she was powerful! He didn't even see her preparing her biotics. Got caught completely off guard.

Humans were new to the whole biotics thing. Their solar system had no element zero present, so they were exposed to it later on in their development, after discovering the Citadel and other races. And boy, were they catching on fast! It was the asari who thought it would be a good idea to teach them how to use 'eezo', mostly curious at the limits of human potential in the biotic it was indeed vast, it went far beyond simple asari curiosity in some cases. Many biotics were sold on black markets as slaves and cost a lot of credits for anyone who could afford their own personal biotic warhead. Humans were just perfect for it. Easily trained, easily subdued. He knew all about asari-batarian alliances on training, handling and selling biotics to the highest bidder. But that was way after his time as a slaver hunter.

Garrus had heard many stories, insane stories, about humans and their aptitude for dark matter manipulation, but never had a chance to witness anything like this. The female in front of him wrought mass effect fields with ease, immobilizing him with but a slight strain in her hand. She was small, delicate even, but there was something about her, the way she moved, the way she held herself, that was incredibly powerful. It was a strange combination, one that the turian found both intriguing and terrifying.

Fuck. He tried to move and failed. She was holding him tight, advancing slowly, cautiously. One hand extended in a biotic grip, another holding a gun, unholstered and ready.

How could she maintain the field for so long?

She came even closer and hovered over him. Her face was strained, eyes blinking fast. Well, at least it wasn't that easy for her as he thought. She pointed the gun at his large head, and Garrus wondered if that was it. Bested by a tiny human female biotic, in the bushes of fucking Lindor of all places. That was almost hilarious. Not what he wanted in his eulogy. He should've shot her in the limbs when he had a chance…

Her eyes zeroed in on him. Her hand, the one with the gun, was shaking, unsteady, but he knew there was no way she could miss at this range. Her eyes… Her face faltered right the moment when she had to pull the trigger. What was wrong with her eyes? He accepted the barrel of her gun, and his pathetic defeat. Death was not something he feared. The circumstances could have been better, of course, something more dignified maybe. But, well. Her eyes, though. He couldn't stop looking in them. Was it the angle of the sun? Reflected light, perhaps? He doubted it.

She hesitated just as she should have taken her shot, as if paralyzed by his gaze. Perhaps it was the lack of fear in him that threw her off balance, or maybe the fact that she had never taken a life before. Her expression betrayed her; it was clear she had not once pulled that trigger. Garrus saw she wasn't a hardened and trained Alliance soldier. Just a scared civilian, in way over her head.

Her moment came and went. Her face twisted with pain, as she suddenly realized she was wearing herself thin. But it was too late. Her hold on him loosened. His moment now. Even pinned, the turian's combat training proved decisive. One swift motion of a powerful leg was all it took to sweep the human's feet from beneath her, sending her crashing down. She uttered a loud yelp—a high-pitched sound, so unlike turian females, was almost comical.

Her concentration was gone and so was the biotic pressure on his body. Garrus scrambled on all fours and was right on top of her in one leap, his powerful form looming over her smaller frame.

She screamed in a mixture of anger and fear, squirming and kicking beneath him with all her force. They both knew she was no match for him, yet she kept fighting, a desperate energy fueling her movements.

He held both of the female's hands over her head in a tight grip, probably tighter than he should have. But Garrus saw what she was capable of, and Spirits be damned if he would give her another chance. With quick precision he unhooked a set of turian military restraints from the belt to bind her wrists. She made a sound, which he could only characterize as an angry human female growl, and doubled down on her attempts to wiggle her hands from his. She almost succeeded, her wrists being so thin, her skin too soft and slippery.

"Stop resisting or I will hurt you," he growled in return attempting to restrain her with one hand.

"Like hell!" she hissed with so much venom in her voice it almost startled him. He looked at her, she looked back at him. Her eyes were angry, defiant.

Her eyes...Why were they like that? Violet. Vibrant. Unnatural. Almost inhuman in their intensity. They captivated him, defying everything he thought he knew about humans.

Not that he was an expert on human anatomy. His knowledge was practical, born of necessity and conflict. He knew where to strike to incapacitate, which areas were most vulnerable to gunfire. The weak points in their armor, the places where a well-aimed shot could end a fight quickly. He even knew how to prolong an interrogation, a skill he used more than once.

Garrus learned it all like any other turian soldier, alongside tactics and weapon specifications. He assumed his enemies did the same, studying the vulnerabilities of turian physiology.

He knew humans were diverse in appearance. Their skin could be of different hues, much like turian hide and plating. The mane on their heads—there was a human word for it—could be of different length and shape much like those of turian crests and fringes.

And their eyes... Though, not as diverse as turian, they could be of various color. But not violet. Never violet. No species in the galaxy had eyes like that. They were unsettling, almost beautiful in their strangeness.

How did you get those eyes?

The concussive shot hit him straight in the back. The force of it made Garrus fall on her, almost crushing the human's chest with his weight. She cried out in pain. The turian quickly managed to steady himself on his elbows above her, mind racing to assess the new threat.

She kept very still, not sure what just happened. She knew it was nothing good. Their faces were so close now, her strange violet looking into his piercing blue. He breathed in what seemed to be her human scent. Something sweet, earthy, with a slight tint of fear and confusion. He agreed with her on the last part. Who the fuck would even use concussive rounds, except for turians or...

Shit. He smelled them from afar, his heightened senses picking up scents that made his plates crawl with revulsion. The familiar smells he had come to despise—sweat, soggy clothing, mold, and rat poison. The realization hit him like a ton of thulium, and suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The ambush, the jamming signal—wasn't humans. And he of all people had played straight intotheirhands.

He looked at the female beneath him with urgency, as if to say something important. But nothing came to mind. Nothing he could say to her to make it better now. He got too distracted, let them get too close. And unlike her, he knew what was to follow. So maybe it was better she didn't know. With sudden clarity, he realized his people were dead, hers were likely captured. You stupid turian!

Then came the second shot. Last thing Garrus could do before darkness took him was to make sure he fell on his side and not on top of her.