#shepcdr

If Omega was the land of the lawless, the Citadel was a land of the law. But when was a law enough to deter him? If he did not intend on getting caught, it didn't matter. For the time being, the advanced tech of his progenitor galaxy was an unknown here, an advantage. Unless the Hunter wanted to be found, it would be very hard to find him.

The trail starts on the asteroid, another contact on Talon's hitlist, escaping to the security the Serpent Nebula provided. The target had perhaps hoped this would be enough to deter the already-prolific bounty-hunter's scope. A Blue Sun tried in vain, her fate already sealed, now a gory paste of blue-purple splattered against the alleyway's wall.

The Hunter stirs, hearing movement too close for comfort. Even with reflexes fast as his own, he only manages a turn before a wave of nebulous blue washes over him, interfering with alien tech enough to disable the cloak of invisibility. Right, the biotics. He was still studying that. It didn't agree with Dominion technology. For now.

He scowls and squints against the light of the biotics, and then at the flashlight on the end of a muzzle. Caught, finally. Lifting a hand to block out the light, Ardaka tries to make out the one that's finally been quick enough to actually catch him, curious. It surely wasn't the local law enforcement.

The Sardine bar had been a treasure trove of information, every time that Miguel was in town. The kind of grotty establishment where Torrance's most wanted criminals could treat as a refuge of sorts, especially when the SDN's relentless patrols got too close for comfort. Heat that, for the first time all year, he had managed to avoid. Something that he was just beginning to appreciate over a cold beer and his own, lonesome company, when a figure appeared at his elbow, requiring him to turn and check.

"Now there's a face I haven't seen in an age!" It takes a second for recognition to kick in, thawing the ice from what would've been a penetrating stare, replacing it with something warmer as glass is raised in toast. "Good to see you still on your feet, Spectre." Was that the accurate moniker to use, or had he rebranded? He couldn't be certain, given what he had heard concerning the other's activities of late, but was willing to be corrected if needed.

gloved  fingers  move  gingerly,  swiping  at  a  bead  of  condensation  building  along  a  drink  left  ignored.  whatever  good  the  coaster  beneath  had  been,  it's  surely  ruined  now  after  a  near  hour  of  her  contemplating  time  in  memoriam.   miranda  stills,  unable  to  bring  her  gaze  up  to  her  companion  —  a  man  rebuilt  from  the  ashes  of  stars  long  since  obliterated  by  supernova  and  her  own  blood,  sweat,  and  righteous  fury  for  perfection. 

       In all his time on Omega, Garrus couldn't rightly say that he'd frequented Afterlife at all, unless it had been in the pursuit of intelligence and partners in the very beginning of his escapades as Archangel. Avoiding Aria T'Loak and her wrath had seemed like a very wise choice for someone intending to upend the natural order of things here, and once the merc groups had begun to close in, well, there hadn't been much opportunity for downtime.

       Nor had there been much of the way of that since he'd returned to the crew of the Normandy, either. Not with the whole Cerberus thing, the Collectors abducting human colonies, the whole host of recruits they'd searched halfway around the galaxy to find and whose problems were now Shepard's to solve...

       But they were here at the bar now, and it didn't seem like it was in service of any particular mission. Drinks had been ordered and they were now sat in a corner of the room overlooking the dancefloor like... like this was some much needed shore leave. Garrus had even relaxed into his chair with his dextro beer like he was actually going to stay here and not be drawn to his feet by sudden gunfire or some other inexplicable chaos that followed his commander wherever he went.

       When Yishai did get to his feet, Garrus was ready in a moment to rise and fall into step behind him — that was, until he expressed his intention of heading to the dancefloor, and suddenly invited him to join. Confusion wasn't an easy emotion to pinpoint on a turian's features, but the tilt of Garrus' head and hesitation in the twitch of his mandibles before he spoke was a clue.

Mandibles press tensely along Garrus’s jawline as he peers through his scope towards the way the mercs have been funneling in. Tensely, not only because he can tell they’re preparing for another attack; not only because his own team lie dead in his surrounding area, he’s alone without backup, he’s gotten his people killed, he’s running on fumes with a heavy lack of sleep and his resources dwindling by the hour; no, he’s tense to the power of tense because  that is Yishai Shepard he sees in the view of the sniper rifle’s scope.

Someone who looks exactly like him, holds himself exactly like him, moves and walks like him, anyway. No, there’s not a question in Garrus’s mind about his ability to recognise the way Shepard postures himself; it may be over two years, and they may not have been fighting in the same team for that long, relatively speaking, but yes, he would know the way Shepard carries himself, anywhere.

It’s not like he could get a clean shot across the barracks, anyway, and the mercs know it. But he can watch them, crossing from one side to the other. Preparing to come at him. Let them; Garrus was prepared to go down fighting, taking out many more from his perch. But Shepard...? A spanner in the works.

Shepard is dead. The entire reason he’s ended up at the end of his rope on Omega is because Shepard is dead.

Could it be some really advanced clone? But among the mercenary gangs? It makes no sense. Even if they had the resources to create a physical clone (he assumes it’d have to be at least semi-artificial-intelligence, machine based; this is not a hologram), they couldn’t do it in a matter of this little time. Even if they’d been somehow planning to go down that route for as long as he’s been on Omega, it’s unlikely someone with unlimited funding could do it, let alone mercenary gangs, and to make one identical to Shepard doesn’t make sense if it’s not specifically designed to insult him. Throw him off guard, whatever, insulting is what it is, even as hypothetical.

More likely: Shepard never died. He wouldn’t put it past Yishai to fake his own death, maybe for something Spectre related. But would it have killed him for real to send an email? Yeah, yeah, undercover, whatever, but weren’t they friends? Surely there must’ve been a channel secure enough, two years...

It’s with this thought that he aims a concussive shot at Shepard when the mercs start to make their move. Nothing to harm him! Just to... make sure he’s... whatever.

It’s very quickly evident that Shepard and him are fighting on the same team, at least, making it easier for Garrus to keep taking down the stream of mercenaries now he’s not alone in the fight.

Well... Shit just got a lot more interesting, that’s for sure.

❝  i haven’t stopped thinking about the way you laugh.  i’m hoping i’ll get to hear it again.  ❞     ⤷ @shepcdr ✧ yishai shepard.

Ashley knew she’d been quiet and kept to herself ever since she’d agreed to be part of the new Normandy’s crew. She did her best not to talk to Jacob or Miranda, and other than Joker, Chakwas, and Garrus, none of the other crew were of much interest to her. Instead, she remained in quiet observation, spending more of her time making notes that she was sure were going to come in handy later on.

And then… there was Shepard. It wasn’t that Ashley didn’t want to approach him, but rather… he seemed more inclined to approach her before the thought even crossed her mind. And she didn’t mind; it was nice to have someone to talk to, particularly someone who wholeheartedly understood her reticence when it came to working with Cerberus. And at the same time, it gave her time to think, to observe, and to understand. Sure, she’d noted something seemed to have changed in him, but not in a way that was unexpected; what he’d been through would certainly change a person, and it was a degree of change that she’d seen even when she was first on the Normandy. It was akin to the way he’d been curt and brusque with her upon their first meeting, only to later apologize and genuinely attempt to get to know her.

In a way, they had to start over again after two years had passed. Some things were the same—Ashley’s sense of humour, her love of poetry, the way she took her coffee and her utter disdain for pretzels—but others remained different. The way she carried herself was different; there was a sense of dignity in her stride, a sense of pride, a confidence that had been all but absent two years ago. But with that, there was also a hint of grief, one that had surfaced over the last few days, colouring her mood in a particularly negative light. Seeing Liara, hearing what Liara had said, about how she’d turned Shepard’s body over to Cerberus—it had made things far too real.

And thus, Ashley had returned to her usual comforting activity: cleaning and servicing her equipment. Namely, her guns. She almost didn’t notice she had a visitor; she was too deeply ingrained in her own thoughts, until he eventually spoke, catching her attention.

Her laugh?

       How do you see me?

       The question lingered, heavy and poignant, in the air of the Normandy's main battery, and, at the equally heavy look on Shepard's face, Garrus was but one breath away from uttering a weak apology and changing the subject. It was what he would have done not too long ago, after all: he'd brushed off Omega, Archangel, the rocket to the face, all of it, knowing that the prospect of seeing Shepard alive again, and accompanying him on a mission worthwhile, made all of his recent, crappy luck absolutely pale by comparison. He'd been certain then, stepping aboard Cerberus' remarkably faithful replica of the Alliance frigate with a renewed sense of purpose. He'd follow Shepard as he always did, with complete faith that his approach was the right one.

       Until Sidonis. Until Garrus had dragged him to the Citadel to fulfil a personal request, expecting Shepard to help him close the book on a painful chapter of his life... and he'd still gone and helped closed it. Albeit not in the way that Garrus had expected. Killing Sidonis would have been the simple solution, a clean shot that would have brought him the satisfaction of knowing that justice had been done for the lives of his team. He'd believed it was as simple as that. Shepard had once told him that it was as simple as that.

       But then Shepard had stood in the way, stalled long enough for him to hear the truth of Sidonis' betrayal. Still a betrayal, yes, but... not the cold-hearted one that it should have been.

       He still didn't know what to make of that, but spirits he was trying.

       Garrus listened as Shepard finally spoke, mandibles twitching a little at the attempt to lighten the mood. The bottle of beer remained in his hand ( he, too, hadn't noticed that he had been handed the human variety instead of the dextro one ), unopened. It was supposed to be your call. The turian's gaze drifted back to the console he had been diligently tapping away at a moment ago. Maybe he should have been angry — or at least angrier. But he was mostly just... confused. Lost. And maybe, once again, in need of a little guidance.

       Yet, as his friend and commander continued, his eyes flickered back to him with renewed certainty. “ Shepard... ” Garrus picked up on the implication behind his words immediately. “ That is not on you. I make my own decisions and I live with them. ” Though the point remained: would he have ever chosen to go rogue and investigate Saren on his own had Shepard not come to him first? Or would he have remained frustrated, but ultimately unmoved as he had with so many cases before it?

       “ I... don't know what I would have done then, but I do know that, two years ago, I would still have been back at the Citadel, sat at a desk in my C-Sec office, dissatisfied with the life my father wanted for me. ” Garrus paused, thinking back on those disagreements, both with his father and with Pallin. A short hum reverberated at the back of his throat. “ I suppose I was always coiled a little too tight, waiting for the excuse I needed to go out and prove him wrong. ” Excuse. Justification. And he and Shepard sure had excused and justified each other. “ But surely, all that means is that I deserve just as much of the blame as you. ”