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Summary
Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with.
In which Shepard doesn’t want to be found, and Garrus, of course, has other ideas.
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One polished pauldron bobs. “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?”“A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.”
Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.