Garrus lingered before the entrance to the Consort's Chambers, located in the heart of the financial district. His mandibles twitched with uncertainty, and he found himself taking a step back, his resolve wavering.
He had sworn never to return. And yet… Here he was, drawn back by circumstances he could not have anticipated. He knew by coming here he was opening himself up to potential hurt and disappointment. But the alternative was no longer bearable. The need to know, one way or another, was overwhelming.
Garrus took a deep breath. Leaving behind hesitation and embarrassment, he stepped inside the familiar, perfumed interior, silently hoping that this time, his visit would bring clarity rather than pain.
In the spacious hallway, he was immediately greeted by the Consort's personal assistant Nelyna, who inquired if he had an appointment. He didn't. And he didn't need one. He told the asari his name and waited for her to message her employer. He was of course allowed inside right away with a polite nod. Garrus followed a small corridor and through the lounge where the Consort's acolytes tended to the needs of clients that she had no time to see. The place was packed. He walked straight through to a set of stairs at the back leading to the private rooms.
The asari stood in the center of her chambers the way she always did when greeting her visitors. She was undoubtedly surprised to see him, but her century-old face betrayed nothing as she spoke in her usual composed tone, "Major Vakarian. Welcome."
She was, of course, aware of his recent promotion. Sha'ira kept close tabs on all her clients, both current and former—she was that good.
The Consort was a well-known and a very influential asari. She could assist with a wide range of favors, most of them personal. A large number of famous and powerful individuals would see her daily for a variety of reasons. Each person's needs were unique, and Sha'ira always managed to accommodate. She would provide guidance, conversation, and entertainment, and was mostly known for the value of her advice. Discreet and respectful, she cared for her reputation and customer satisfaction, and remained a powerful and highly esteemed figure on the Citadel for a hundred years.
The asari studied Garrus intently.
"I must admit you are the last person I expected to see," she said, stepping closer.
Garrus met her eyes, seeing the genuine care there. It was both comforting and unsettling, reminding him of their last encounter and what had followed.
"What brings you back to my chambers after all this time?" she asked gently.
He hesitated, wondering if it was a mistake after all.
She took another step closer, her movements fluid and graceful. "Perhaps you would like to sit?" she offered, gesturing to the plush armchairs. "We could share a drink, and you can tell me what's troubling you."
"Thank you," Garrus finally managed, "but I'm not here for that kind of visit."
Sha'ira's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. In all her decades as the Consort, she had become accustomed to reading between the lines, to understanding what her clients truly needed, often before they knew themselves. But Garrus's presence here, coupled with his obvious discomfort, left her feeling uncharacteristically uncertain.
"I see," she said. "Then may I ask again why you've come?"
His mandibles flicked in what Sha'ira recognized as a turian expression of anxiety. "I need a favor."
"A favor," she repeated, her voice careful. "That's an unusual request from someone who was so adamant about never returning here."
Garrus faltered at her words, shame crossing his features. "I know. Believe me, I wouldn't be here if there was any other way. But I... I need your help."
Sha'ira took a deep breath. She could feel the weight of his request even before knowing its nature. Whatever he was about to ask, it was clear that it went beyond the comfort and counsel she typically provided.
"Garrus," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "you know that my position here is built on trust and discretion. Whatever you're about to ask... I need you to understand the delicacy of my situation."
He nodded, eyes finally meeting hers. The intensity she saw there took her aback. This wasn't just need—this was something deeper, something that spoke of a hurt she had glimpsed during their last encounter.
As she observed the turian, she was struck by how his expression mirrored that of his first visit to her chambers. It had been almost a year ago when he came to her, desperate and broken, having exhausted all other options. The moment she laid eyes on him, she recognized the look she had seen in many men's faces—the deep-seated pain of heartbreak.
Their first session had lasted an hour, with Sha'ira offering gentle yet firm words of reassurance. Her guidance lightened the heavy weight on his chest for the first time in months. Recognizing his fragile state, she refrained from offering a meld, knowing he wasn't ready. Garrus left her chambers that day feeling more functional, unburdened, and able to take deeper breaths. The start of his healing process filled them both with hope.
"I understand," the turian said, bringing her back from recollections into the now. "And I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. You need to do this for me."
"Why?" she was surprised by the confidence of his tone.
"Because you owe me," his answer was simple and sharp, it spoke volumes to the Consort. So this is it. He is here to collect.
Sha'ira regarded him for a long moment, weighing her options. Her instincts told her that whatever the young turian was about to request could potentially put her in a tough spot. And yet, the part of her that had been feeling guilty ever since she had last seen him sought to help, to heal.
"Very well," she said at last. "Tell me what you need. But know that I reserve the right to refuse if I feel it compromises my ethics."
Garrus nodded with visible relief.
"But I insist you sit first. Whatever it is you need, it's going to be a long conversation."
He settled into one of the soft chairs. She took the seat opposite him, her posture open and inviting.
"So tell me. What is it that brings you back after all this time. Especially, given how our last session ended."
Garrus winced slightly at the memory. "I... I'm sorry about that. I know it wasn't your fault. I just couldn't..."
Sha'ira held up a hand, stopping him. "There's no need to apologize. Pain like yours... it's not easily contained or controlled. I've often thought of you, wondered how you were faring."
"I've been... managing." His subvocals betrayed the inadequacy of the word.
Sha'ira leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. "Have you? When you first came to me, you were carrying a weight that seemed almost unbearable. Has that burden eased at all?"
Garrus was quiet for a long moment, his gaze remained fixed on his hands.
"I thought it had," he finally spoke. "I thought I was learning to live with it. But now..." He trailed off, seeming to struggle with the words.
"Now?" the asari prompted gently.
He looked up, meeting her eyes. "She's here. On the Citadel."
Sha'ira's eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning. "The woman."
Garrus nodded with a small, pained trill.
In their sessions, Sha'ira had never pressed the turian for details about the object of his longing, understanding his need to keep those memories buried deep within his mind. She took only the crumbs of information he offered, respecting his boundaries and the anguish associated with his past.
However, during that fateful melding, Sha'ira had accidentally touched upon a hidden memory. What seemed at first like a benign recollection—crystals of water in endless oceans of violet—quickly spiraled into something more. Before she could withdraw, the memory engulfed Garrus, seizing him completely. He broke the meld, collapsing to his knees, trying to catch a breath.
In that moment, Sha'ira realized her grave error. She had unknowingly uncovered a severed bond—something Garrus himself hadn't been aware of—the memory reopening a wound that might never fully heal, undoing months of progress. He was infuriated with her, never even letting her explain what she had stumbled upon, and he stormed out despite her attempts to calm him down. She never blamed him—she had felt his agony. The damage was done. Sha'ira believed Garrus would never return after that day, and she could only hope she had provided him with enough guidance to continue his healing on his own.
And now, as Garrus spoke, she realized another mistake she'd made.
She had encountered many turians over her century as the Consort and prided herself on the ability to read their subtle cues. But what she was sensing from Garrus now caught her completely off guard.
The intensity of his emotions, the mixture of longing and distress, the almost physical pain that seemed to radiate from him when he spoke of her—it all pointed to one inescapable conclusion.
Garrus's bond was still intact. He could never put it to rest, could never get closure.
Sha'ira had assumed, given the depth of his grief during those visits, that the bond had been severed—likely by the woman's passing. But now, seeing him like this, she realized her error. The bond hadn't been broken; it had merely been stretched across time and space, lying dormant until it had been reawakened with full force.
"You reunited with her…" she spoke out loud, but still deep in her thought. "After all this time."
"Yes," he admitted. "It's like... like no time has passed at all. Like I'm right back…" he paused.
"…in that dark and devastating place… holding her in your arms, promising her it will be alright," she finished for him. Despite the fact that he had never told her anything, the Consort knew enough. During their meldings she had caught glimpses of torment he and that woman had endured.
He was silent for a long while. Sha'ira waited patiently, giving him time to collect himself.
"Every time I see her, it's like I can't breathe," he finally said. "But I can't approach her, can't talk to her. There's too much at stake."
"At stake?"
Garrus gave her a long and heavy look, before he finally spoke the words that signified the point of no return in their conversation.
"She is human."
Human? The word cut through the Consort's practiced composure like a knife. Could that really be? Another mistake she had made. Far graver then the first... The thought worried Sha'ira immensely. Too many mistakes. It wasn't at all like her… But what Garrus was saying was simply impossible. Turians did not bond with other species. What was she missing?
The Consort gathered herself from the initial shock. The unexpected and seemingly improbable development was in fact shining more light on the complexity of the situation. "The peace talks. Your position in the turian delegation."
He nodded. "Her father is the human admiral leading their side." His tone was laced with frustration. "If anyone found out about our history..."
"It could jeopardize everything," Sha'ira concluded. "And so, you're here. Seeking a favor that I suspect has something to do with her."
"I need to talk to her. Privately."
Sha'ira sat back, considering his words. "Tell me, Garrus, what do you hope to gain from this conversation?"
"To know if she still feels the same or if I'm holding onto a memory that has nothing to do with now."
"Why is it that you can't discuss it in a more appropriate setting? What is it that you want to say to her?"
Garrus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What happened between us… I can never tell you," he answered. "The secret is not mine to share. And I gave her my word."
Sha'ira raised her eyebrows. "I respect your discretion. But you know I can't just take it on faith."
"I know," he rushed to admit. "But it's the only way I can get the answers I need without compromising everything else." He took a deep breath. "Katie and I... we shared something intense. Something I thought was lost forever. Now she's here, and I'm torn between duty and... and something I can't even name."
A bond.
Sha'ira's lips parted, the word on the tip of her tongue. She could see Garrus's confusion, his struggle to understand the depth of his own feelings. A part of her longed to explain, to help him make sense of the overwhelming emotions he was experiencing.
But as she looked into his eyes, she hesitated. Knowledge of the bond might bring him comfort, help him understand why the woman's presence affected him so profoundly. Yet it could also be a burden, adding pressure to an already delicate situation.
The poor soul, she thought. Bonding was a strange process, subject to various interpretations both by turians and by other species. The complexity of the phenomenon had fascinated xenobiologists and sociologists for centuries, yet it remained shrouded in mystery and misconception.
In simplistic terms, it was often described as a chain reaction in a person's body, triggered by another person's chemicals. When compatible, these chemicals and pheromones would mix and bind together, creating a tight, unbreakable tie between the two individuals. It required full compatibility from both sides, a completely mutual connection that defied logical explanation.
Many scientists reduced it to a violent reaction process on a cellular level, viewing it as a purely biological occurrence. They spoke of neurotransmitters, hormones, and genetic markers, trying to quantify and categorize something that seemed to defy such rigid classification.
But Sha'ira witnessed firsthand the effects of bonding over her many decades as the Consort and believed it to be something more. To her, it was a spiritual connection that transcended the physical realm. She'd seen enough to know it was powerful, going far beyond chemistry. It ran too deep, surpassing the heated desires of one's heart and the cold logic of one's mind.
It was not merely physical attraction or emotional attachment, but a fusion of the two that created something greater than the sum of its parts. Bonded individuals often described it as feeling complete, as if they had found a missing piece of themselves they hadn't even known was absent.
Turians were indeed the strangest creatures. Possessive and territorial, casual in their sexual intercourse, they were, at the same time, one of a few species to mate for life, giving themselves over and completely to that one person.
But never someone from another species. Humans were levo-based. There could be no chemical reaction with dextro amino acids. No compatibility was possible. And yet...
As she looked at Garrus, Sha'ira knew it wasn't her place to reveal such a deeply personal truth. Turian bonding was a sacred, intimate process. If the major hadn't recognized it himself, perhaps he wasn't ready to face its implications.
With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she made her decision. She would keep this knowledge to herself, at least for now. Instead, she offered him a gentle smile, her eyes filled with compassion.
"Your feelings for her are very strong, Garrus," she said softly. "Perhaps stronger than even you realize. But whatever happened between you two in the past—"
Garrus leaned forward, his eyes locked on Sha'ira's. "I understand your hesitation. Believe me, I wouldn't ask this of you if there was any other way."
Sha'ira nodded, her expression neutral. "Her position makes this request... complicated."
"I know. But I swear to you, I would never cause her harm. I just... I need to talk to her. To understand where we stand."
He wasn't lying—of that she was absolutely certain. In her time, Sha'ira had witnessed every shade of deception imaginable, yet turians remained unique in this regard. In their culture, dishonesty wasn't merely shameful—it was a transgression against the very foundation of their society, a stain that tarnished not only the liar's honor and dignity, but that of their entire clan or unit. For Major Vakarian, these weren't just some vague ideals. Yet his integrity wasn't the only factor at play. Of the woman who haunted Garrus's thoughts, Sha'ira knew dismayingly little.
"And if she doesn't want to speak with you?" she probed.
Garrus's mandibles tightened against his face. "Then I'll respect her wishes. I'll walk away and never bother her again. But I need to hear it from her. I need to know."
She studied him for a long while. "And what of the consequences if you're discovered?"
"I'll take full responsibility," Garrus said without hesitation. "I'll make it clear that you were not aware of the full situation. Your reputation won't be compromised, I promise you that."
Sha'ira's eyes softened slightly. "Your word means a great deal. But are you prepared for the personal consequences? The potential impact on your career?"
He nodded solemnly. "I am. Some things are worth the risk."
The Consort leaned back in her chair, her brow furrowing slightly as she contemplated Garrus's request. Her reputation was built on discretion and trust carefully cultivated over the years. Helping Garrus arrange a secret meeting with the woman, especially during such delicate peace negotiations, could potentially jeopardize everything she had worked for. If word got out, it could be seen as interference in diplomatic affairs, or worse, as taking sides in the fragile human-turian relations.
Yet, as she looked at the blue-marked turian, seeing the raw emotion in his eyes, she felt compelled to help. Her role had always been to offer comfort and guidance to those in distress. And rarely had she encountered someone so profoundly in need of both.
She closed her eyes briefly, weighing the risks. The scales tipped back and forth in her mind, each side presenting compelling arguments. When she opened her eyes again, she had made her decision, hoping that her instincts, honed over the century, were guiding her true.
"Very well, Garrus," she said, her melodious voice carrying a note of finality. "I will help you arrange this meeting. But understand this: my assistance comes with a warning."
Garrus leaned forward, relief and gratitude evident in his posture. "Of course. I'm listening."
Sha'ira stood up from her chair and the turian immediately followed. She moved closer, her blue eyes locked on his. "The path you're choosing is fraught with danger, not just for you, but for the one you so desire. The heart that has known loss can be a treacherous guide. Be certain that what you seek is worth the risk you're taking."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in before continuing. "And remember, Garrus, that time and circumstance change us all. The woman you knew may not be the same woman you meet now. Be prepared for that possibility."
Garrus's jaws clenched tight, but he nodded in understanding. "I've changed too. But I need to know if there's still... something there."
Sha'ira placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Then go into this meeting with an open heart and an open mind. Listen not just to her words, but to what remains unspoken. And above all, be prepared to accept whatever outcome awaits you."
She stepped back, her demeanor shifting subtly as she slipped on her usual Consort mask once more. "Now, let us discuss the logistics of this meeting. We must ensure absolute discretion for both your sakes."
As they began to plan, Sha'ira couldn't shake the feeling that she was setting in motion events that would have far-reaching consequences. She only hoped that her decision to help would bring healing rather than further pain to the troubled turian before her.
Stepping out of the Consort Chambers, Garrus felt lighter—for the first time since the peace summit began. The war, the talks, the weight of it all hadn't vanished, but for a moment, he could breathe. He tried to hold onto that feeling. Then his omni-tool buzzed.
He glanced down, brow plates drawing together as he read Vega's message. Whatever ease he'd carried out vanished in an instant, replaced by the sharp edge of alarm.
J.V.: Need to talk. Urgent. Meet me outside Flux. 1 hour.
What trouble had the human managed to stumble into? Vega wasn't one for dramatics; if he said it was urgent, it probably was.
Changing his course, Garrus made his way straight to the club through the neon-lit streets of the Citadel. He spotted James lurking in the shadows of a nearby alley of the nightspot. The lieutenant's usual jovial demeanor was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an anxious, almost furtive energy that set his instincts on high alert.
"James," Garrus called. "What's going on? Your message—"
James glanced around before gesturing for his friend to join him in the shadows. "Finally, man. What took you so long."
"Had some things to take care of..." he answered vaguely not ready to share the details of his meeting with the Consort. "I'm here now. What's this about?"
James ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, a clear human sign of agitation. "I overheard something, Prince. About the peace talks."
Garrus's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Not here," James said, more urgently this time. "Inside. I've got us a private booth."
They made their way into the club and settled into a secluded table, the music providing a cover for their conversation.
"Alright, Vega," Garrus said. "Now tell me what's going on. What did you hear, and where?"
James leaned in close, his voice barely audible over the thrum of the bass. "You're not gonna like it, amigo."
Garrus chirped, encouraging him to continue.
"Last night," James began, "I was... well, I was somewhere I probably shouldn't have been... The Crucible."
Garrus made a clicking noise of disapproval, mandibles tights against his face. "James, that's illegal. What were you even doing there?"
The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his friend's gaze. "Well, you see... there's this asari who works there, and I—"
"Spirits," Garrus shook his head. "Only you, Vega. Only you would risk a bust for a female."
"Hey, it's not just that!" James protested, though his sheepish expression betrayed him. "I was... uh... gathering intel. Keeping my ear to the ground, you know?"
Garrus raised a brow plate, clearly not buying it. "Any other excuses you'd like to try?"
James sighed, shoulders slumping. "Alright, fine. I might have also been there to... settle a bet. With some of the guys from the academy. They didn't think I could still hold my own in the ring."
"So you decided to prove them wrong by participating in an illegal fighting match," Garrus deadpanned. "Brilliant."
"Look, I know it wasn't my smartest move," James admitted. "But I'm glad I went. Because what I heard there... it's big, man. Really big."
Garrus leaned forward, his irritation giving way to curiosity. "Alright, I'm listening. What did you hear?"
James took a deep breath. "It was during one of the breaks between fights. I was at the bar, nursing my wounds, when I overheard this group of non-humans talking..."
The underground fight club pulsed with a restless energy, its dim glow broken by the flicker of neon signs reflecting off metal walls. The air was dense—a volatile mix of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor that clung to the skin. The makeshift arena at the center was surrounded by spectators. Humans, turians, krogan, batarians, and more—all rubbing shoulders, united by the promise of violence.
Vega leaned heavily against the rusted metal pillar, the adrenaline still pulsing through his veins as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The crowd at the Crucible was still buzzing from the fight he'd just won. His muscles ached, but it was a satisfying pain, the kind that came from knowing he'd walked away victorious.
The bar at the back of the club was dingy, just like the rest of the place, but it served its purpose. James walked to an empty seat and flagged down the bartender, a weary salarian who barely glanced at him before sliding over a glass of something strong and cheap. He took a long swig, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. The taste was harsh, but it helped dull the throbbing in his knuckles and the ache spreading across his ribs, where bruises were already forming.
He leaned against the counter, letting the noise of the crowd wash over him, his eyes wandered around the room. The Crucible was a place where the desperate and the dangerous came to blow off steam, to forget the troubles that plagued the galaxy outside its grimy walls. For James, the place was a welcome distraction from the frustrating idleness of his stay on the Citadel. Sidelined by a war injury, forced to endure endless wait for full recovery, he was restless for the rush of combat and the satisfaction of serving a greater purpose. The underground fight club promised an outlet for his pent-up energy.
He wasn't looking for much trouble tonight—he'd had enough of that in the ring—but trouble had a way of finding him. As he downed the last of his drink, he caught a snippet of conversation from a nearby table. It was a low, urgent murmur, the kind that cut through the noise of the crowd and set his instincts on edge.
"You really think they can pull this off?" a turian was saying, his voice tinged with skepticism.
"The peace talks are a joke," another voice, single-toned and hoarse belonging to a batarian, pitched in. "They wouldn't make a move if they weren't sure it all goes to hell."
James's senses sharpened at the mention of the peace summit. He turned slightly to see the table in question with his peripheral vision.
"Or they are really worried that the talks will be a success after all," the turian said grimly.
"Either way," the second batarian interjected. "Much like the rest of us, they need conflict to stay afloat. If they are making a move, it means we'll be back in business soon enough."
The turian leaned in closer to the batarians. "Starting a war is a dangerous game. The Council's not stupid—they'll trace it back to them."
The first batarian shook his head, his expression grim. "Not if they're smart about it. They've got operatives in place, deep inside the talks. People who can steer things in just the right direction—enough to cause a collapse, but not enough to get caught."
James's grip tightened around his glass.
The turian's voice was barely above a whisper now, his eyes cautiously darting around the room. "What if the Syndicate screws up? They'll stir the hornet's nest, and C-Sec won't discriminate—they'll be out for blood, and we're all targets."
The batarian leaned back in his chair, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. "But if they pull it off. Just think of all the profits. Chaos is good for business."
The second turian, who had been silent until now, finished his drink and spoke with an air of authority. 'This peace is fragile enough. The Syndicate will shatter it, and when they do, we'll be back in business."
A rowdy group of krogan mercenaries burst through the entrance, their booming voices drowning out everything else as they argued about someone cheating in their last job. Two of them shoved each other, sending a table flying. The crowd parted, drinks spilling, as the krogan's argument threatened to turn into a brawl. The bouncers moved in quickly, hands on their weapons. For a tense moment, it seemed the situation might explode, until the older krogan barked a laugh and clapped his companion on the shoulder, declaring they should settle it in the ring instead.
By the time the commotion settled and the krogan made their way to place their bets, Vega realized the conversation he'd been eavesdropping on had slipped away. The turians were already heading towards the fighting ring. The batarians made their way to the other end of the bar, elbowing through the crowd.
James's mind raced, processing the weight of what he'd just overheard. He knew he needed to follow them, to gather more information. Pushing off from the bar, he winced as his bruised ribs protested the movement. Trying to appear casual, Vega edged closer to the batarians, but they didn't linger. Taking their drinks with them, the two headed for the ring area, vanishing into a sea of spectators jostling and cheering on the fighters.
The chaos of the Crucible worked against him. The betting station was a mess of holographic displays, flashing odds, and eager punters. The pulsing music, the shouting crowd, and the dim, smoky atmosphere made tracking his targets nearly impossible. James scanned the alien faces, searching for any sign of them, but they had melted into the throng. As the minutes ticked by, James realized he'd lost them. The thugs had disappeared into the bowels of the Crucible, leaving him with nothing but fragments of a conversation and a growing worry. He clenched his fists, ignoring the ache in his knuckles. He might have lost the bastards, but he wasn't about to let this go.
"The Syndicate," Garrus said, his tone edged with concern. "I've heard that name before. This isn't just some upstart gang, James—they've been a major player on Omega for decades."
"Are they spreading roots on the Citadel now?"
"Not necessarily," Garrus said grimly. "But they might have interests here that need to be tended to."
His eyes narrowed as he pieced it together. "Makes sense. If they've been benefiting from the chaos and instability, they need the major powers distracted..."
"Hijo de puta," James cursed. "So they might be funding the never-ending discourse, keeping the conflict going..."
"Exactly," Garrus confirmed. "It would allow them to exploit war-torn regions for smuggling, slavery, or any number of illicit activities. The longer the war drags on, the more power they accumulate."
The unbidden memories of Lindor came rushing back. "… you are pretty preoccupied these days, aren't you?" he heard Balak's mocking voice. "So, the business is booming."
He leaned back, processing the information James had shared. "This is big," he said, mandibles tightening. "If there's really a coordinated effort to sabotage the peace talks..."
"Yeah," his friend agreed. "But what do we do with this info? It's not like we can just walk up to the Council and accuse a bunch of non-humans of conspiracy."
"No. We need more evidence. Hard proof."
"Where do we start?" James asked.
Garrus made a thoughtful trill. "We need to listen closely to the chatter. If there's a conspiracy, there must be a trail."
James chuckled. "That's not exactly legal, is it?"
"Not strictly, no," the turian admitted. "But neither is plotting to sabotage galactic peace talks."
"Fair point. But how do we do that? I'm no tech expert, and I'm guessing neither are you."
Garrus shook his head. "No, we'd need someone with serious skills. Someone who can crack encrypted channels without leaving a trace."
James leaned back, his brow furrowed in thought. Then his eyes lit up. "Wait, I might know someone. Well, know of someone."
"Go on."
"There's this quarian tech wizard I've heard about," James explained. "One of my Alliance contacts mentioned her work during a mission in the Systems. Said she could crack anything."
"Why is she on the Citadel? That's unusual."
"Yeah, well, she's not exactly here officially," James said, lowering his voice. "She's been helping some of the lower Wards residents with tech problems, staying off C-Sec's radar."
"Sounds risky," Garrus mused. "But if she's as good as you say..."
"She's better," James assured him. "And from what I hear, she's no fan of the current galactic status quo. She's been trying to build connections outside the Flotilla. Helping expose a conspiracy this big could open some doors for her people."
A quarian, Garrus thought. This nomadic species was known throughout the galaxy for their technical skills and famous—or infamous, depending on who you ask—for their resourcefulness and flexible interpretation of property laws. Might be exactly who they needed.
"It's worth a shot. I can contact my Alliance friend, see if he can set up a meet," Vega offered.
Garrus nodded. "Alright. Do it. But James," he added, his tone serious, "be careful. If the Syndicate is as connected as they seem, we can't risk tipping them off."
"Yeah, I know," the human said grimly.
While James worked his omni-tool, Garrus felt the weight of their discovery settle over him. He sifted through the pieces, threading them into a web of threats. Saren's unnerving presence at the peace talks sessions had already put him on edge. The Spectre's interest in Katie only deepened his unease further. Now, with the Syndicate looming over the summit, the risks multiplied exponentially.
James looked up from his arm devise and met his friend's gaze. In that moment, a silent understanding passed between them. Whatever storm was coming they would face it head-on.