Chapter Text
1.-
Shepard
She wipes up the blood off her mouth.
Her nose keeps bleeding; she must have broken it a a good few blocks ago, but she doesn’t have the time to worry about it right now. The numbness is starting to take hold of the rest of her face.
Long deer legs take her in between buildings, through dark alleyways, while her friends are nowhere to be seen.
Her friend, her peers, her gang- whatever they were meant to be. She had no one else, She wasn’t willing to lose them, to lose everyone, again.
A hand falls heavy on her shoulder; she feels the infamous padding of police regulation tactic gloves.
Fuck.
Shepard wakes up, and every bone in her body seems to complain. The training is arduous to say the least, and the vacuous flattery do not help at making it lighter.
The light penetrating from the hallways is… jarring. Not fluorescent, not exactly, but white enough to remind her of how artificial it is, how made up everything round her is. A colony, a lace of peace, of education, floating in the expanse of the Universe under the watchful eyes of the Alliance. A place of relief for lost and forgotten youth.
A place for redemption.
The girls around her move heavily, and she’s not much better. She rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck while her reflection brushes her teeth in the mirror; besides her, other three girls her age do the same. All in the same track pants, the same white tank top, the same tired eyes.
“Gonna be a hero today, Shepard?” One of the girls, taller than the others and with eyes as dark as the night sky, grins at her after spitting ink onto the long shared sink. “Just let us know first so we can be in any other sim: at least every other team dies faster and get to get the hell out.”
They laugh; Shepard only stares. Her green eyes hold the fire her hair steals the color from. Her spine holds the weight of the superior’s eyes.
It becomes sordid laughter and shitty comments. She huffs and finishes washing up.
“Are you really running off, hero?” The girl taunts her once more, but she’s smarter than to let herself be provoked by a loose tongue and a lust for a fight.
The last time she did, she ended up in what passes for a correctional for especially gifted kids.
Fuck the drill Sergeant and fuck the stuck up kids that think they can push her around, and fuck the Admiral and his empty good jobs and well thought, and above everything, fuck her fucking family.
Fuck everyone, those who made her and those who took her in, fuck them all for leaving again. Fuck them all for her imprisonment.
And fuck her too, for good measure.
After all, who could ever be free of guilt?
“Again!”
She’s missing something.
No, that’s not it. They’re making hr miss something.
The simulation is simple. Too simple, even. Hostages up on too of the building, hostiles underneath and around. An exit through the back seems risky; the hostages are civilians, but have a modicum of weapon training.
An odd distinction to make. Why would civilians have weapon training?
The building used for the simulation is wide, with a rooftop fairly accessible, yet every drill she tries ends up in failure.
Not because the civilians die, but because the exercise gets terminated. Because it is wrong.
“Again!”
Once in place, she picks up her rifle: stun bullets, only meant to make the hostiles drop. Just to ensure the safety of the other recruits.
Every other drill has ended up with lines broken, hostiles decimated, and collateral damage. Yet they could stop, rest, have a smoke behind the dorms where everyone knew and no one bothered checking.
But not her.
She aims. In her scope, perfectly centered she can read the late number of the recruit. A makeshift banner across his chest says turian. Hostile. Foe. Cannon fodder.
Her finger squeezes on the trigger.
But not deep enough.
Instead, she bolts for the sides, and the kids turned rivals can barely follow her; they shoot and they miss, every time. She’s sift, smart; she knows how to use the fake landscape to her advantage, they’ve been doing these runs thousands of times. She sneaks into the building, runs up as fast as she can.
The hostages are tied up, bored out of their minds; when they extend their hands for a gun she gives them none.
“What are you fucking planning-?” One of the guys almost spits into her face but she has no time to delight in their oh so pleasant conversation.
“Out the emergency exit, go!” She practically shoves them, one by one, as the footsteps behind her grow louder.
“You need to kill them, Shepard!” Another one yells in her face. She shoves them down onto the ladder and closes the door behind her. They need to go; she can take care of the rest.
It takes her too long, but it is worth it. At least in her eyes, it is. The only simulation that keeps every hostage alive. The only simulation that counts bloodshed as an avoidable number, and the lives lost stay low.
It is perfect; she shoots once, twice, before sneaking past them and around onto the back. She shoots again and lets a piece of scaffolding fall in font of the hostiles guarding the back door. From then on her escape is easy.
Her debrief, not so much.
“All the civilian lives were spared, Sir,” the word lingers in her mouth like bile; she keeps her back straightened to an almost unnatural degree under the drill sergeant's constant scrutiny.
Hes waiting for her to relax for one second, to take the bait. He always is.
“Violence was kept to a minimum, almost no lives lost-”
“Enemy lives.” He interrupts. She cannot help but twitch her mouth in disgust. He notices; she knows he does. “You save enemy lives, Shepard. At war.”
“They did not need to die; I’ve managed to get our people out-”
“And leave the enemy alive! Next time they won’t be taking hostages, they will fire with no warning! They will take everyone, man, woman or child, and execute them. Because that is war does. And you will let them live, soldier?” He spits when he talks; he always does when he gets like this.
It almost feels obscene, as if he gets off on the thought of flowing blood, of piles and piles of corpses.
“I asked a question, soldier!” He repeats, and she bites her tongue until the taste of copper floods her mouth. It’s nauseating, it’s enraging, it’s-
“They might. They might not.” His pace is always tranquil, spaced; only one man in the whole complex moves like that.
She doesn’t need to look, and she doesn’t want to; she cannot tell if the sergeant won’t retaliate somehow if she doesn’t hold her gaze, defiant.
“A move like that might show mercy, yes, but also cunning, and defenses easy to pierce,” He stands too close to his subordinate, and Shepard can see his throat bobbing u and down, stiff as stone, as he turns to his Admiral.
“Sir.” He salutes, but his superior doesn’t bother takes his hands from behind his back. Instead, he turns to her. “Shepard, is it not?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her tone is simple, concise. As much respect as it is due and nothing else.
“How long have you been in this facility, cadet Shepard?”
“Fourteen months, Sir.” And thirteen days She’s got each one of them counted, a sentence that just keeps getting longer.
She only wanted a family again, and the gang that took her in, that took her out of the streets, only served to pass her onto some other jailer's hands-
“That sounds like quite enough, don’t you think?” He comments with the ease of the man who gets to bark the orders.
“Come with me. Your expertise is better used somewhere else than buried here.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer; instead, he turns and walks away.
Shepard looks at the Sergeant, masticating his anger, at the other cadets still staring, and runs to catch up with the Admiral.
Anything for a way out.
Any way out.
Vakarian
It’s tiring, but not in a bad way.
His muscles ache, sting. His talons feel numb, tense on the trigger.
The weight of his rifle felt like his own limb, in a way which means he could barely lift his own limbs anymore. He tries to roll his shoulders before the target showed up on his scope, but his position, keel to the ground with barely enough clearance to keep his head up, doesn’t give him much room to breathe.
He feels he hasn’t taken a deep breath in months.
He hasn’t been here for long, but his mission carries the same way across the day: he’s called to a specific position, he wait, he waits for his target, aims, shoots and moves.
Over and over again.
“Vakarian, eyes up.” The voice in his ear calls his attention and sure enough, a pack of varren start gingerly crossing through the line of fire.
He breaths. His talons stretch, curve, then squeeze.
They fall one by one, on rapid succession; the ones around take too long to realize what was happening.
He waits.
There’s no more movement, nothing but a pile of flesh, occasionally twitching. Every shot is so clean the blood seeps cleanly, like some sort of fucked up fountain.
Garrus cannot look away.
“….rian? Vakarian! Are you still there, boy?” The anger in his Commander’s tone snaps him out of his trance. “Back for debriefing, now!”
He’s never been a relaxed man, but he especially hates to be left waiting.
Despite feeling like hes made of lead, Garrus convinces his own legs to hurry back to their settlement.
Palaven’s twin moons can almost be seen though the rapidly darkening sky. Shit, he better get there fast. His commander scolding him for getting distracted on the job is one thing, even when he was out of danger, completely alone; his father hearing bout it is a different story.
He’d rather not have to have that conversation again.
His boots pick up clouds of dust as he runs.
“Late, again. What were you doing?”
He doesn’t get to cross the threshold to their quarters, and winces before his superior can see. He turns around to salute.
There’s no point; he’s already pissed. The commander’s eyes burn green with rage and Garrus is not ready to know what the punishment will be this time. More nights cleaning everyone’s guns? Solo missions where the others get a full squadron? Being subordinate to Siram, or Mellis, or any of the other too slow, too clumsy, too hesitant younglings -
Not that he’s much older- in fact, he’s often aired up with trainees at the end of their cycles; he’s one of the best snipers in the troop and he knows it. He’s also level headed and quick on his feet when in an unexpected situation, which, it turns out, it is not a virtue in rookie soldiers.
He’s meant to follow orders, to stay behind the line. To shut up and obey.
He’s too loud to be a good turian.
“Explain your tardiness.” It’s bait, and Garrus knows; he’s bitten before, but what else can he do? Disrespect a superior by not answering?“I got rid of the pest along the mountains, Sir-”
“Commander.” Fuck. He knows better. He’s fighting to stay still, keep his sub vocals in check, keep his hands from fidgeting.
It doesn’t work; he can feel his own voice trilling, his talons curving into fists.
“Commander.” It sounds like a slap to the face; he can see it. He will pay for it, he always does. “I got every target with minimum engagement, and safely. I took the time I needed to provide the best results-”
“Too. Damn. Long. Vakarian.” It is in times like this that Garrus feels it personal. Like his Commander does it on purpose to take some payback for his father excelling in every class; he’s not certain they’ve studied together but they’re around the same age, and he can see the disgust when his family name is mentioned out loud.
It feels intentional. “Every other attack team were four or five soldiers, and they barely made it faster!” He realizes he’s yelling a moment too late. The commander’s mandibles tighten; he seethes.
Fuck him.
“You’re here to learn how to be a good turian, boy, and by the spirits, I’ll make you one, whether you like it or not.” The sudden steadiness in his voice is more terrifying than the usual screaming. Garrus stays perfectly still.
“Go back to your dorm, Vakarian, and don’t get too settled. I do not know what they see in you, by the Spirits I cannot see it, but one less day without you breaking lines is a good day for me.”
“Yes, Sir.” He salutes before grimacing, and trying again. “Commander, yes, Commander.”
His superior only sighs. “You’re not my problem anymore, boy. Good fucking riddance.”
He turns to leave and Garrus refuses to even ask. If he can squeeze in a hot shower before.. whatever is about to happen. He might be able to make his legs stop trembling.
Whatever it might be, good fucking riddance, indeed.
He gets changed into more comfortable clothes, still warm from the laundry. Everything aches still, his talons pulsing with the tingling of the feedback of the rifle, as if he had never put it down. He manages to sweep a protein bar from the cafeteria before hurrying to his quarters. He shares a space with five other recruits but none of them seem to be awaiting instructions; they're either having a full meal still, or hanging around on the grounds.
But not him. Garrus is mean to be ready for… something, so he goes to his room to lounge on his bed.
He barely gets to find some funny vid his sister has sent him -she sends so many he can never see them on time; he does tries to answer every one, and even then, it all comes too late.- when n alert flashes on his omnitool. He’s expected on the Captain’s office, effective immediately.
He looks forlorn at the protein bar he didn’t even get to open. His body will start complaining soon, but he’ll deal with it later; he’s done with getting people in power bitter for one day.
The hallways always seem to stretch out forever when he’s in a hurry.
It’s not like he’s not trying to be the perfect soldier! Spirits, his father was, and that name, the family marking feels like branding across his face. He should be a paragon of excellence as well, effective beyond doubt, impeccably well behaved, straight and spotless.
The bar is so far he’s getting tired to try and reach it. Garrus notices his patience slipping more often than not; commands do not make sense, orders seem to favor names or badges for no discernible reason, and even squads feel selected by hand.
And he’s often left alone. Some say because of his innate talent, and he knows better than to think it a birthright; he’s learned to hold a rifle before any other child has, and every day after school he would practice until he couldn’t lift his arms over his own waist anymore.
Until his father was satisfied.
He just never feels any of them satisfied. Not matter what he does, he’s always short, always slow, slow loud, always asking too much.
He’s a nuisance. A too clever, too talented nuisance to get rid of, but a nuisance nonetheless.
He wonders what would his father say if he knew of every time he’s been pulled aside, reprimanded, written up.
He isn’t expecting not having to wonder this soon.
“Dad?”
Executor Castis Vakarian stands alongside the Captain, who seems still concerned only on the datapads on his hands.
His father doesn’t move but to gesture him to sit down. Garrus hesitates, and misses his shot.
“Vakarian.” the Captain’s voice is oddly warm, soothing; one of the few men of arms that didn’t sound prone to anger at every misstep. “Your records in battle are- exceptional is underselling your prowess.”
He feels his throat dry. He’s been complimented before, of course, but it usually comes with a catch, and in such company, he feel like he can’t let his guard down.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Not trying to flatter you, Vakarian. It is merely an observable fact.” He talks in a way closest to a scientist than a military man: everything is a cause or a consequence, a matter of fact.
It’s unsettling, somehow.
“Despite repeated acts of insubordination, disrespect of the authority in command, and a tendency to use your troop as bait more than a team-”
He can see his father glaring. Fuck. He swallows hard, holding his mandibles tightly shut.
“I’m afraid there is nothing more we can instruct you with. You are free to go.”
“What?” Garrus cannot understand. Is he being awarded? Is he being expelled?
His father is here, so it cannot be good, right? Oh, he can feel his heart beating into his temples.
“Is he… Captain, I’m sure we can do something; worse turians have come out straight as an arrow from programs like these-” Castis pleads. He pleads for them to not get rid of him, to not let Garrus stain the family name.
He almost wants to quite, right then and there.
“Oh? No, Executor, forgive me if it wasn’t clear. He’s graduating.” The captain explains without as much as a tilt in his voice. “It must be like this, sadly, since we have been commanded to give our best and sharpest to a classified operation. Young Vakarian here must pack up and be briefed on the way out.” He turns to Garrus who has been standing so still that every muscle in his body is starting to flare up with owed rest and heavy, aching exhaustion.
If he could only get a break.
“Recruit.”
“Yes, Captain.” He salutes. It is ingrained in him, something as natural as breathing.
“Get your belongings, say you goodbyes if you must. You will be stationed to your new assignment for a while. Executor Vakarian,” The Captain turns. “Hug your son now. I cannot assure you when will he be going back.”
Castis doesn’t move. Garrus doesn’t either. It’s a battle they’ve been fighting for ages. “What is his assignment, Captain?” Castis’ eyes don’t leave Garrus for a second.
“Peace, Executor. If we can have it.”