“This is impossible,” Garrus murmured. A map of Menae sprawled in front of him, the dull red of Reaper-controlled regions pressing against the silver borders of the remaining Turian outposts.
Palaven hung heavily in the sky. Even though his back was turned, he could still feel the stares of the dead swarming across space and lodging themselves in his shoulders.
“I need someone,” said a voice in the distance, and Garrus felt as though his heart was bursting and compressing at the same time. He cautioned himself that it might not be her, even though he had no doubt that it was. “I don’t care who, as long as they can get us the Turian resources we need.”
Garrus’s eyes turned from his map to his sniper rifle. He took a slow breath. Maybe impossible was too strong a word.