Chapter Text
“So what’s your type?”
The human looked bulky and had a typical Alliance-trained posture. Tall, muscular, with broad shoulders that stretched his prisoner uniform taut. His skin, not too dark, not too light, seemed to glisten under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Brown eyes, calm yet cold and calculating, bore into the turian, sizing him up. Eyes of a killer, just like his own. Despite the composed look, there was something dangerous lurking underneath, almost challenging.
They both knew the human was in no position to challenge. He stood behind thick metal bars of a cell, deep within a turian war prisoner holding facility located on Menae, one of Palaven's moons. As far away from home as it was possible for a human to be. Judging by the haggard appearance, he had been there for a while. Yet, despite the circumstances, his demeanor exuded confidence. He had spirit, that's for sure.
“My type?” He didn’t know what that meant. Some human expression, no doubt.
“Well, you know,” the male’s voice trailed off pensively. “You dig blondes, brunettes, or redheads...”
Garrus immediately understood.
This sort of thing was not uncommon in turian holding facilities. Something he had learned with time to his utmost disappointment and dismay. It turned out the turian military community had a newly found taste for human females, and prison camps had become twisted playgrounds for those looking to indulge.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he couldn't deny the truth anymore. Garrus would love to think these were rare occurrences, just a few broken soldiers, scarred by war, who’d lost their way, who just couldn’t handle the stress the way a good turian should. Who would confuse a scared and meek human female for a willing one. And, upon realizing what they’d done, would come clean to superiors, accept their dishonor and demotion. But the reality was far worse. For one, there were too many of them—more than Garrus wanted to admit. And secondly, most weren’t low-ranking officers but members of the high command, the very ones who should have embodied the principles of discipline and valor.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Turians, known for their strict adherence to order and rules, were now indulging in behavior that was a disgrace to their very nature. It was repulsive, a betrayal of everything he believed it meant to be turian, no matter one’s rank. Major Vakarian wouldn’t stand for it.
Garrus knew he had to act. The task was daunting, but inaction wasn’t an option. The war had shown him enough horrors to last a lifetime—comrades lost, lives destroyed. The weight of it all bore down on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility for the suffering on both sides. So, he made it his mission to maintain some semblance of decency and respect, even in the darkest of times. It was a small act of defiance against the cruelty of war, but it was all he could do.
He owed it to his people, first and foremost. He’d seen how war could corrupt even the best soldiers, and letting these abuses continue would erode the very values the turians held dear—something he could never allow.
He wasn’t alone in this belief. Officially, everyone agreed such behavior couldn’t be tolerated, even in prison camps. But in reality… There were more pressing concerns than the dignity of some human female, captured while killing turian soldiers. The Hierarchy was too focused on winning the war. It was up to vigilant citizens like him to ensure the Citadel Dignity Act, which also applied to prisoners of war, was upheld. They had enough problems with the galactic community as it was.
Such was the official version. Yet, deep down, he knew there was another reason for his vigilance. A more personal one.
Prison camps weren’t as numerous as they had been early in the war, but Garrus made a point to visit them as often as his duties would allow. It was always an official visit to 'check the standards of prisoner care,' though his arrival would inevitably raise some brow plates. Everyone knew inspections like these weren’t a major’s responsibility.
His presence was usually met with thinly veiled displeasure. The guards and administrators knew their actions were under scrutiny. They’d stiffen their mandibles and stand a little straighter, trying to appear as professional as possible whenever he reminded them, "You wouldn’t want the Hierarchy hearing about any violations under your care. It won’t look good on your record. And you certainly don’t want it sparking another inter-galactic scandal."
With that, they had no choice but to let him in, allowing him to inspect the conditions of the prisoners and the camp itself. No questions asked...
The human kept staring with those cold assessing eyes. To him, Garrus was yet another turian predator.
"I don't have a type," he said calmly, holding the male's gaze with an unwavering look.
The prisoner scoffed, eyes narrowing as he retorted, "You certainly do."
Garrus’s curiosity was piqued. "Now why would you say that?" He tilted his head slightly, mandibles flexing in anticipation of a response.
"Seen you here before, birdy." The human's grin was tinged with contempt as he used the slur to try and rattle Garrus. "You clearly haven't found what you want. Something very specific. Some sick turian kink, for sure."
The male leaned forward, elbows pressed against the bars, hands gripping the thick rods with white-knuckled intensity. His posture, seemingly composed, wouldn't fool the turian.
"Want to have some fun tonight?" the prisoner continued, voice almost threatening now. "I can help you with that." Anger seeped through the cracks of self-control, evident in his tone. The male was brave, Garrus gave him that. But rash too, that much was obvious.
There was a certain truth to his words, though: the major had never found what he was looking for.
How long had he been doing this? Walking through endless corridors of cells, each one housing a living, breathing being with their own story written in suffering? He scanned their faces, searching for the one that plagued his thoughts. He saw exhaustion, anger, fear, hatred, defiance, hurt, and pleading—all those emotions she’d taught him to read so well. Seeing into their eyes—well, eyes of those who would dare to look back at him—irises of every color, but never hers.
He inhaled deeply, the air thick with sweat, fear, blood, and despair. But the scent he sought, that sweet, earthy fragrance, was never there. She was never there.
He longed to see her among them as much as he dreaded it. But the alternative of never finding her was equally unbearable. Garrus wrestled with these conflicting emotions as he scanned the countless faces that passed him by, each one a blur of colors and features that seemed to meld together.
The monotony of it all was almost intolerable. The endless search, the constant disappointment, the ache in his heart that refused to subside. How long had he been doing this? Too long, he thought, as he trudged on, hoping against hope that today would be the day he finally found her.
He had scoured every source imaginable—turian reports, intelligence gathered over the years, human open databases, official Citadel records, anything that might hold a clue. He delved into intra-net military archives, but there was nothing. It made sense, she wasn’t military, so she wouldn’t be in their system.
To his dismay, no human civilian data was available. There was nothing on the Dobrovalski colony, no record of a Katie matching her description. It left him wondering if that was even her real name. There were days when he was taken by despair, thinking that if she had been indeed the one the Hierarchy wanted, she would have never revealed her true identity.
But there were also days when he was filled with hope. When he believed she was indeed Katie, and he held onto the dream of seeing her again.
“If I indeed have a type, believe me you are not it,” Garrus answered to the male.
The human smirked, “Oh, that’s a real shame, ‘cause you know, I’m not allergic.”
Under different circumstances, the joke might have been even funny. But in that moment, it only deepened the gnawing unease in Garrus. Allergic—another grim reality he had come to know all too well. The dangers for human females in those camps went beyond the obvious. Humans had violent reactions to dextro amino-based substances, making turian bodily fluids potentially lethal. This became painfully clear when female prisoners started suffering 'accidental' allergic reactions, going into anaphylactic shock, some even dying.
There were various levels of dextro-sensitivity among humans, and turian offenders were getting smarter, making blood screens, and choosing those with higher dextro-tolerance to avoid casualties. But accidents kept happening. Bastards just couldn't help themselves. That's how Garrus knew where to look. Where to go first. The prison camps with the highest rates of prisoner deaths were the places he needed to investigate.
This place fit the profile. At least a dozen humans deceased within the last couple of months, all under suspicious circumstances.
“… I would happily show you and your friends the best time.”
Garrus was suddenly alert. “My friends?” The human could be useful after all. The chatty softskin had been here long enough, seen turian personnel come and go. He could identify potential offenders.
“That white-faced captain and his two lieutenant pals. They come here quite often. You know who I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” Garrus said with ice-cold notes in his voice. “I know exactly who you mean…”
***
That conversation had happened almost eight months ago. Today, Garrus and the human were sharing another one. This time over a drink on the Citadel.
“C’mon, Prince. Jus’ tell me.”
James’s slurred words carried an air of challenge. His brown eyes danced with mischief as he leaned in closer, the dim lighting of Flux casting a warm glow on his face. Garrus, seated across from him at a small table, couldn't ignore the curious glances their odd human-turian pairing drew from the patrons around them—gazes ranging from bemusement to outright irritation.
The turian couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction in causing such a scene. He was well aware of the tension it provoked, yet the idea of breaking down the stigma, even just for a night, was exhilarating. James seemed to be enjoying the attention as well, his eyes gleaming as he downed another shot of tequila.
The club itself was bustling with activity, filled with the sound of laughter and music.
“Everyone has a type,” the human prodded, his tone playful.
Garrus looked at him over his drink. James Vega was like a varren with a bone, or whatever that human expression was.
“Someone not as chatty, that’s for sure. So you know you’re out of luck.”
James raised his brow fur, feigning shock. "Wow! Was that a turian attempt at a joke?" he asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
His friend would always tease him, whenever Garrus said something even remotely amusing, as turians were generally pretty bad with humor.
His friend—a term Garrus never thought he'd use for a human. What began as an accidental conversation with a prisoner had evolved into something more meaningful. Their unlikely friendship was rooted in shared experiences that bridged the gap between their species. The disciplined turian and the energetic human had formed a connection neither had anticipated.
Garrus regularly checked on the prisoner during his visits to the camp, enjoying the conversations with the cocky, confident James. They would chat for hours, the turian intrigued by human customs and relationships, the intricacies of how they conveyed their emotions, and the meanings behind their facial expressions. While Vega, a soldier through and through, focused on battlefield tactics and turian technology. Despite their different interests, their discussions were always engaging. Vega’s willingness to give credit where it was due, especially regarding turian starship prowess, was something Garrus appreciated deeply.
And so they spent their time in suddenly civil dialogues, forgetting about its awkward circumstances of one being a prisoner and the other being his captor. They treated each other as equals, with mutual appreciation and camaraderie, despite fighting on opposite sides of the same war—the war of mistakes. They both understood the stakes and their duties to their respective peoples, but that never diminished the respect they had for each other.
Garrus never pressed Vega about his capture, only knowing the human was taken after his whole platoon had been destroyed in the battle of Hahne-Kedar. Vega's leg had been badly injured, causing him constant pain visible in occasional winces. That's actually how James ended up on the Citadel.
With the Citadel’s growing interference into the turian-human conflict, the Council proposed an amendment to its Dignity Act which stated that both parties would release injured prisoners deemed nonessential or not eligible for prisoner exchange to Citadel care—an act of good faith to demonstrate to the human Systems Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy the Council’s concern for their people’s well-being and investment into conflict mitigation.
Lieutenant James Vega became one of those soldiers. After countless hours of interrogation, he was finally released to the Huerta Memorial Hospital for a rehabilitation treatment at the Council’s expense. And so continued Garrus’s visits to his friend—this time on the Citadel—as did their talks and friendship which, if he had to admit it, the turian enjoyed deeply.
About a month ago, Vega was released from the intensive rehabilitation program, with still a lot of miles to go before his leg would properly heal. The human was offered an option to return home, as the worst was now behind him, or stay on the station and continue his treatment under the local doctors’ supervision. Vega chose the latter. He remained on the Citadel until such time when he would be able to rejoin the Alliance ranks and the battle. To the turian’s question why not go back to his homeworld, James would joke and say something along the line of “Are you mental? To miss the chance to mingle with all the blue babes?” Garrus didn’t know what a ‘babe’ was, but got a pretty good idea.
The lieutenant meant, of course, the asari. An intriguing alien species indeed. They were the galaxy's most respected and influential race, renowned for their grace, diplomatic prowess, and biotic mastery. But that’s not what his friend was referring to exactly, Garrus was certain. Asari were a mono-gender race, had a distinctly feminine appearance. Perhaps the most interesting thing about them was the melding of minds for the purpose of transferring thoughts, emotions—and sensations. ‘Brain sex’, Vega called it. Many species were drawn to asari specifically for that, as the experience was really otherworldly. Garrus could attest to that personally.
“Like, for example, that pretty birdy,” James’s blabber returned the turian from his thoughts. “With her red markings and all…”
Garrus blinked, realizing he lost the thread of their conversation—a common occurrence with James. His eyes followed the direction the human was looking. Of course… A turian female sat at the bar, clearly bored. Her basic coloring was brightened by the red of her facial markings. She wore typical turian attire, with a loose neckline. It was to signal males she was on a prowl, demonstrating her availability with the absence of a bite mark on the side of her throat. Too easy, Garrus thought dismissively.
“She seems ugly enough,” Vega mused.
“Ugly?” Garrus glanced at the female again. “She is not ugly.”
“Sure she is,” James continued with a grin. “In that scary-adorable turian way.”
Garrus smiled, his mandibles flexing as he tried to suppress a chuckle. The human just wouldn't quit. James Vega, ever the ladies' man, never missed a chance to try and set the turian up with someone whenever they went out, which was both endearing and exasperating. The human was unwavering, always determined to help his friend ‘get over whatever it was that he needed to get over.’
Garrus knew that Vega meant well, and couldn't help but feel amused by the lieutenant's persistence. He admired his dedication to the mission. Every time they went out for a drink, it was the same story. James loved the chase as any other male and was relentless in his pursuit of affection, or at least companionship, and Garrus wondered if there was a bit of the turian's own loneliness reflected in Vega's zeal.
It was another thing they didn’t discuss: the circumstances of their first meeting in that prison camp eight months ago. The official excuse Garrus used on his people never seemed to convince James. Sure, the human knew Garrus was an honorable turian and was indeed concerned with the prisoner treatment conditions, but he always suspected there was more to it, something that ran deeper, something that caused his friend pain.
They had been shitfaced drunk one night in one of the Citadel bars, when James finally asked the one question he'd been meaning to ask for a while, “So, who’s the girl?”
Vega would never forget the turian’s expression at that moment. It touched his face only for a second, but was unmistakable—loss. Garrus looked at him for a while, thinking about his question and what answer he should give, now that he was asked point-blank.
“She’s someone I never expected to meet and someone I will never meet again.” The words echoed in Vega's mind as he sat there, nursing his drink and trying to make sense of the situation. His friend, the tight-ass Garrus Vakarian, let his guard down for a moment, revealing a vulnerability that Vega had never thought was even there. Garrus spoke with a certain sadness to his voice that transcended any differences between their two species. It told Vega everything he needed to know, and so he never asked again.
“Too easy,” Garrus said, looking at the turian female with red markings.
“Isn’t that the whole point?” Vega laughed.
Indeed, Garrus though. Isn’t it?
His gaze returned to the dextro ale in front of him, as he was contemplating the simplicity of the situation. Too easy, he thought. When has easy ever stopped me? He recalled a time when he would pursue a female like that without hesitation, relishing the thrill of the chase. It had once been his favorite part of the night, the exhilaration of it driving him forward. It felt like so long ago. Like a different life. A life before her.
As Garrus looked around the dimly lit club—the laughter and chatter of the other patrons seemed to echo in his head, mocking him for his inability to enjoy himself. He took another sip of his drink, trying to push away the thoughts that threatened to consume him. The place he had successfully avoided for quite some time now loomed in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. The place where he kept her, locked away and untouched.
James sensed the shift in his demeanor and decided to change the subject. But Garrus’s thoughts were elsewhere now, his mind filled with images of her. He could feel the weight of the night bearing down on him, signaling the end of what had been a long and frustrating day.
"So, ‘nother round?” the human asked.
Garrus hesitated, his expression growing increasingly somber. "I don't think so," he replied. "I've had enough for one night. Well, enough of you, that's for sure."
Vega chuckled, his own spirits high despite his friend's sudden change in mood. "Whatever you say, Prince," he said cheerfully. "Bail if you have to."
This isn’t at all like him, Garrus thought. James would never let him go that easy, not when he was having such a good time. There was only one explanation. The human male found himself something better than a conversation. A chase. Garrus looked in the direction Vega was staring occasionally for quite a while now, and smiled. Two human females at the bar. Alliance uniforms. They were on shore leave, ready for a wild night of fun and adventure, and James was determined to make the most of it.
The human stood up abruptly, a mischievous grin on his face. "You can go home and be as miserable and broody as you like. My night is only starting," he said, giving Garrus a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd after his quarry.
Garrus sighed and glanced down at the bill that had been left for him. A wry mandible-flick of amusement touched his face as he realized that James had once again managed to saddle him with the tab. It was a familiar dance between them, and the turian didn’t mind.
Having settled the bill, he rose from their table with a hint of envy for James’s impending escapades and left the club deep in his own thoughts.
***
He decided against taking a skycab and walked instead. Garrus needed to clear his head. His apartment was a walking distance from Flux, in the lower Wards. The night Citadel air was pleasantly cool. The artificial moon provided enough light to enjoy the grotesque landscape—numerous skyscrapers rising from the superstructure of the station’s arms visible in the distance. A view unlike any other, that’s for sure.
Garrus walked along the busy streets, the hum of the city bustling around him. He passed by shops selling all sorts of goods from food to weapons and restaurants serving dishes from every corner of the galaxy. The air was filled with the scent of exotic spices and the sound of lively conversation in multiple languages. The Wards were a melting pot of cultures, and humans were now among them.
Humanity's presence on the Citadel was the result of the delicate balance between cooperation and conflict. With the Council’s increasing interference in the war, there was an ever-growing number of instances of temporal ceasefires for negotiations and prisoner exchange, which brought more Alliance representatives and officials to make the station their place of residence. The Citadel was soon declared a neutral ground for both species of the First Contact War, a haven where animosity could be set aside. The Alliance was going out of its way to negotiate their place within the galactic community, and their efforts were slowly bearing fruit. Despite the tension, humans were gradually settling in.
However, the scars of the war ran deep, and the memories of past battles were not easily forgotten. Occasional brawls and violent outbursts involving humans and turians still occurred, reminding of the fragile nature of their coexistence. Glances would escalate to words, and words would then result in violence, particularly in bars and other establishments where they served alcohol to off-duty soldiers. These places, full of pent-up aggression, were powder kegs waiting to explode.
Turians, ever the sticklers for rules and order, rarely initiated these confrontations, but they were more than willing to engage when challenged. So, whenever there was a fistfight between the two species, it was always a safe bet to assume the softskins started it.
The scales of galactic politics had finally tipped during the Battle of Eletania, a recently discovered eezo-rich planet located in the much disputed turian-human space. Though not at all as devastating as the Battle of Shanxi, it was the last straw for the Council, where one of the Citadel-operated cruisers came under turian fire due to a miscommunication with a turian frigate that considered the vessel to be hostile. The cruiser was destroyed—a mistake that caused the Hierarchy yet another high-profile scandal in the galactic community, the one they could not recover from unless they would concede to Council's demands to open negotiations.
And just like that, two week cycles ago, they had finally made the announcement. The peace talks between the Systems Alliance and the Hierarchy would take place on the Citadel—the delegates arriving within days.
And that’s why Garrus was actually here. To be a part of the turian delegation comprised of the Primarch himself and some of the most esteemed officials handpicked by the high command to serve as their voices and eyes. “The best of the best,” the Primarch had told him. “I want you to be among the select few.” Garrus had no wish to do so. He despised the intrigues of the Citadel politicians and turian high-ranking officers. The higher up he climbed, the more obvious they were to him. He didn’t play games. They demanded subtlety and hypocrisy he clearly lacked.
He scoffed, remembering how he'd initially dismissed the peace talks rumors as some elaborate ruse. Now, faced with the reality of impending talks, he couldn't shake the feeling of being a pawn in a game he never wanted to play. What could a soldier contribute to political negotiations? But orders were orders, even when disguised as fatherly wishes.
The Primarch inserted his son into the Citadel's intrigues, knowing full well the younger Vakarian would never request it himself. Garrus could still hear Castis's words echoing in his mind, “This is indeed a chance to make history. The moment such as this will be a perfect polish to your service record. Fix all those... unfortunate blemishes.”
Garrus sighed. Ever since the Torfan Incursion that had stained his reputation and made him fall out of the Hierarchy’s good graces, his father was getting out of his way to steer his son back on track—to becoming the Primarch of Palaven, of course.
Major's rise through the ranks was not just a source of pride for the Primarch, but means to an end, a way to further advance their name and cement the Vakarian family's place in the turian society. Garrus had long since accepted that he would never be able to live up to his father’s expectations, and he had made peace with that fact.
His own aspirations and desires could not be further from those Castis had envisioned for him. He longed for a life in the private sector, where his ingrained sense of justice could serve a deeper purpose—protecting those who couldn't protect themselves.
He believed that was his true calling. But he never felt the need to involve his father in his own personal thoughts regarding his future, to the same extent it was inappropriate for an officer to share something that intimate with the Primarch of Palaven. So they remained just that—his own and personal.
Castis had not been particularly close with his son, even less so after his wife's death seven years ago. The loss of his bondmate made him estranged from his children. A military man to the bone, he decided that in their time of grief they needed structure more than comfort. And so he gave them exactly that—discipline instead of affection. All out of fear to fail in his role as a single parent, to be too soft and spoil them into non-aspirational and unproductive members of the turian society.
Personally, Garrus couldn’t care less, he was out of their family home by then, on his way to become a second lieutenant, putting his military service in the forefront of his concerns to deal with his mother’s death. And two years later, when his father finally ascended to the top tier of the turian society, Castis became for Garrus the only thing he could ever be from now on—his Primarch.
It was way harder for his little sister. Solana was still a pup, too young to understand the complexities of life and death. Their mother, Cala Vakarian, suffered from the Corpalis Syndrome, a rare and debilitating disease that caused severe neurological degeneration in turians. While Garrus could retreat to his duties, visiting only on shore leave, Sol still lived at the house, forced to watch her mother's slow and painful deterioration for years. There was no treatment, no hope for recovery—only the inevitable fading away of the person they held dear.
After his mother's passing, Garrus, ever the dutiful turian, accepted this new reality for what it was. He knew that life would never be the same, that the void left in his heart could never truly be filled. He also understood on some level that his father was doing his best to navigate the uncharted waters of grief. The loss of a bondmate was a torture Garrus hoped never to experience, a pain that could break even the strongest spirit. So he never truly blamed Castis for the man he'd become—hard, distant, a stricter version of his former self. This was simply the new order of things, another harsh truth to be accepted in a universe that seemed increasingly devoid of mercy.
Despite their strained relationship, Garrus had the deepest respect for the Primarch. Castis Vakarian was a man of honor and duty, who believed in the importance of serving his people and upholding the values of the turian society. He had worked tirelessly to achieve his position and expected nothing less from his children…
But as Garrus walked the night streets of the Citadel, it wasn’t his father that he thought about.
His mind turned to her once again. It had been almost three weeks since he'd managed to keep her from invading his thoughts completely. Not the occasional reminder here and there—those he had in plenty—but the overpowering sensation of her flooding his mind.
He felt like a red sand addict desperately counting the days, weeks, months since his last hit of her. Each moment of resistance was a hollow victory, a falsehood he told himself about healing and moving on. As time crawled by, Garrus wanted to believe he was getting better at managing these feelings, but deep down, he knew it was but another lie.
Walking beneath the glow of the neon lights, he forced himself to focus on his role in the upcoming negotiations, but the possibility of peace brought her back into his thoughts, made him wonder if there was a chance he could see her again should the truce truly hold. A part of him still dreamed of a future where they could be together without fear or judgment.
He had envisioned their reunion countless times, always picturing it unfolding on these very streets.
He navigates the busy Wards, amidst the awe-inspiring super-structures that dominate the station's horizon. The flow of the crowd is constant, familiar—until a scent cuts through it all.
Sweet. Earthy. Hers.
His stride falters. His mandibles twitch. It’s impossible, a trick of the mind. But still, his head turns, his eyes search, and then—
There she is.
Standing apart from the chaos, unchanged and unmistakable. Their eyes lock—his sharp blue, her striking violet—and for a breath, everything else ceases to exist. The war, the years, the impossible odds. None of it matters.
He takes a step forward, then another, something dangerously close to hope rising in his chest—
But hope is a fool’s indulgence.
And it is nothing but a dream. A fantasy, as intangible as the recycled air around him.
Reality kept forcing its way into his mind with merciless persistence. Two years had passed since Lindor—two endless years of not knowing. Each day brought new tormenting questions that had no answers. Was she safe? Was she even alive? What if she had been captured, or tortured, or... The thought made his plates itch unbearably, while a wave of helpless rage rose in his chest.
As difficult as it was going through his days in the never-ending limbo of what-ifs, the hardest part still was going back to his duties. Duties of a turian soldier fighting a war against humans. Despite his best efforts, his heart just wasn’t in the right place. Every order seemed misguided, every decision just begged to be second-guessed. Garrus knew he was not a good turian anymore.
A good turian always places their duties above their wishes, understanding that personal desires are secondary to the needs of the Hierarchy. They set aside their feelings and ambitions, knowing that their life is not their own but a thread woven into the grand fabric of our society. They follow orders with precision, upholding the values of the Hierarchy without question, for they know that their actions today shape the future of Palaven and all who live under its banner.
The words from the Hierarchy Doctrine that used to guide him all his life suddenly became just that—mere words. Their meaning was lost on him as the world stopped making sense. The world without her.
The demands of his role as a turian officer bore down with every passing day, and he found himself questioning the very foundations of his beliefs. Was he truly honoring his people, his father, and the principles he had fought so hard to uphold, if he could no longer find the conviction to carry them out?
In the quiet moments between battles, he would catch himself going into those forbidden if-onlys. If only they hadn't been on opposite sides of a conflict that seemed to grow more insurmountable with each passing year. If only he could forget the feel of her skin, the sound of her laughter, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke about her blue skies.
But he couldn't forget, just as he could never see her again. He had no choice but to press on, even as his heart felt like it was being ripped in two. Because that's what a good turian would do, and he clung to the hope that somehow, someday, he might find a way to became that turian again…
His apartment was located in Tiberius Towers on the Silversun Strip. It was a two-level space, way too big for one person, had three bedrooms, a bar counter, a living room, a kitchen and several seating areas. The place was just too much, its modern design a bit over the top for his taste, but it was the Primarch's gift which he had no choice but to accept. “You are a major of the Sixth Fleet after all,” Castis would say. “It’s important to keep up appearances.”
Garrus didn't care about the apartment. He didn't care about most things these days. But the place had the one thing he really needed right now—a bar. As he walked inside, he headed straight to it, heavy footsteps echoing through the sleek space.
The bar was a polished dark surface gleaming under the soft lighting. He took a seat on one of the high stools, his eyes scanning the array of bottles on the shelves right over the counter.
He stopped at the cheapest turian brandy, one that would make his father chirp with cringe, and reached for it immediately, scoffing at the ridiculous sense of defiance he felt at that moment.
As he poured himself a generous measure, Garrus thought about how far he had come—and how much he had lost along the way. He lifted the glass to his mouth plates. The taste was as disgusting as he remembered it from the days of his boot camp. Perfect. He took a long sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.
For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the warmth that spread through his body, taking some of the tension away. But he knew it was only temporary. The pain, the guilt, the heartache—it was all still there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to consume him once again.
With a sigh, Garrus set the glass down on the counter and stared into its depths, wondering how much longer he could keep going like this.
He knew he was probably drinking too much, but it was one of those things that didn't matter. The booze numbed his inflamed mind, providing a temporary refuge from the constant torment of thoughts.
The turian culture frowned upon excessive alcohol consumption and recreational drug use, but there were no hard-and-fast laws against it. Turians enjoyed broad freedoms, and as long as they completed their duties and didn't hinder others from doing the same, nothing was truly forbidden.
So far, Garrus was completing his duties. He vaguely wondered how long it would last and what would happen when he no longer could. He decided to leave this concern for another night, though. Right now he had a more pressing issue. Her.
She was invading his mind. Not because he was drunk, but because he wasn’t drunk enough. He took the bottle and the glass and relocated to the couch. Then poured another serving of the disgusting brandy. A deep breath, then another gulp of the fiery liquid.
Those thoughts of her, they had to be extinguished. Garrus was determined to drown them in alcohol, no matter how much it took.
With a heavy sigh, he reached for the bottle once more, prepared to continue his quest for oblivion. The room spun around him, but he didn’t care. Tonight, he would not stop until the ghost of her was finally laid to rest.