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“Come on, Shepard, just take it.”
“Garrus, in my profession, patience is a virtue.”
Shepard lay prone on the riverbank, his arms tense, as Garrus stood slightly behind him, spotting scope in hand. Shepard’s left hand caressed the underside of the rifle, as his right hand hovered near its trigger. His left eye was sealed shut, as his right eye glared through the sight at a single stick, bobbing in the flow as the river carried it south. He looked as if he’d done this a thousand times.
“Former profession, you mean. And you do realize that letting it get away is the same as missing it, right?” Garrus began to yawn on the last word, stifling it at the last second. He shook himself loose, and stood straight—a tower over Shepard’s sprawled figure.
“Garrus, if you would just shut up—“ Shepard squeezed the trigger. A sharp crack rang through the air, and the stick snapped in half. “—It’d make beating you a good bit easier.”
Garrus gazed through his scope at the ripples, a glare coming off the water from the afternoon sun. “Lucky shot.”
Shepard stood up and dusted himself off. He checked the rifle’s safety, and laid it on the ground. “Call it luck, or call it skill. Either way, I’m one ahead of your sorry ass.” He smiled, and clapped a hand on Garrus’s shoulder. “Which I believe means you owe me a beer.”
“Considering you bought them,” Garrus laughed, walking back to the tree line, “I don’t mind too much.” He pulled a bottle out of the cooler, tossing it to Shepard before getting one for himself. He leaned back in his folding chair, and looked up at Shepard. “This must be awfully boring for you.”
Shepard sipped his beer slowly, savoring the taste, the coldness. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying. Your job now pales to life in Afghanistan.”
Shepard sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t really consider that a bad thing.”
“Are you kidding? What I wouldn’t give for a real fight.” Garrus sipped his beer. “I’m tired of this beat. I want to actually do something, you know? You, on the other hand, I mean, you literally fought for people’s freedom! You lived an exciting life!”
Shepard shook his head. “Garrus, you don’t know what you’re talking about, as usual.” He stood up, starting to pace nervously. “How many times have you had to deal with a weapon on one of your suspects?”
Garrus thought for a moment. “Five. Six if you count the sharpened spoon.”
Shepard sipped his beer—a little quicker, now. “And you’ve been on this beat for two years, right?”
“Right.”
“Alright. How many of those weapons were guns?” Shepard’s grip on his beer tightened, his knuckles beginning to pale
“One.”
“How many times have you had to deal with high explosives?”
“Never.”
Shepard’s face twitched—a small movement, barely there, but just enough to show pain. He turned to look Garrus in the eye, as his mind took him back to Kandahar, back to Restrepo, back to memories he’d buried with his friends.
“And how many times did a kid pull a weapon on you?”
Garrus exhaled sharply, looking away. Shepard sat down gingerly, and loosened his grip on the bottle. He started to steady his breathing, counting backwards in his head. Slowly, he picked up his beer, brought it to his lips, and took a sip.
He continued talking, softly. “There’s a reason I work an office job now. It’s calm; it’s quiet. Gives me time to go to school, change myself, you know?” He took another sip. “I’m thinking of getting a law degree, being a public defender. I want to help.” Shepard turned to face Garrus. “Here’s the point. There is no ‘good fight’. Just be glad yours isn’t the worst.”
Garrus swallowed. “You going to be okay, man?” Shepard didn’t move.
“Shepard? You going to be okay?”
Shepard went to take a drink. Realizing it was empty, he looked up at Garrus. “Of course not. I’m out, and you’re not taking aim yet.” He smiled, thinly. “Think you can outshoot me?”
Garrus looked him in the eye, and smiled back. “I know I can.”
The two got up, and two bottles stood on the cooler—one empty, one half full.