abraxaslogs | {Darude Sandstorm Intensifies}

Of course he's there right when she is. Of course he's ready at a moment's notice. Just like old times. Even if he can't help but notice the absence of one extra set of hands - it's a very welcome distraction from the thing shoved under his trash can.

"Right behind you, Shepard."

Just like always. He's about to say something else, about how they've walked into just about everything by now. What's the worst they could possibly run into in this brain dimension. What in the galaxy haven't they seen?

And then the icy wind hits. Snow smacks into his helmet visor. External temperature readings plummet.

"I take it back. I've got a gun to calibrate."

Tellingly, though, he won't go anywhere. He'll follow right behind her.

"I'm startin' to think you only came back to Normandy for the Thannix, not me," She rolls her eyes, unseen, and braces a hand on the edge of the airlock to force her way out.

The wind is the worst of it, a howling white beast of a storm, shot through with thunder, but once they're actually out in it, it isn't as bad. The airlock-door had funneled the snow like a nozzle, and out on the ground it was nothing more than a balance-hazard. Her suit, ostensibly rated for the likes of Noveria's killing snows and worse, struggles against the freezing temperatures.

"Keep going!" She hopes the radio is working, despite all this, and that he can hear her. Shepard ignores the tinny complaints of the suit-VI and pushes on, one step after the other after the— "Damn!"

The edge of the snowstorm is as abrupt an end to the wind-pressure as could be imagined. The Normandy has always been situated at the edges of other domains, the corners and corridors of the Horizon, but the cut-off between landing-pad and the next place over has never been so stark. Looking back, Shepard sees the snowstorm almost as if it were trapped inside a forcefield, with Normandy's aquiline shape like a shadow, barely seen.

"...Well, that's new," There's water at their feet, ankle-deep, and the ground slopes downward. The domain ahead of them is subject to a ugly flood, brown and brackish in a way that seems as if it must smell truly awful— if either of them were inclined to take off their helmets, "Look at the Singularity."

The Singularity, always visible no matter where you stood on the Horizon, is wreathed in stormclouds and angry lightning.

"I use that thing as stress relief - You're my girlfriend. I'm not going to use you..."

That feels weird to say, even if he means it positively. He calibrates that stupid thing to take his mind away from here, from remembering the war, from everything that isn't numbers. Shepard takes his mind away in other ways, but... she's different. She's a person, love of his life. Not a tool.

Or maybe this is just another one of his bad metaphors.

But it's something better to chew over while he slogs through the snow instead of how much he hates the cold. How much he hates snow. Why can't they go through something nice? Like the sandstorms in Cadens! Or thresher maw territory. Or -

Then they're stumbling. He has an arm out to grasp at something to steady himself, finding Shepard's familiar armor under his hand. Of course, they go from worse to just merely bad. And he hopes the person in the other Domain isn't someone he likes - that'd just be rude.

"... Well, shit." That's honestly all he can think to say when he sees the clouds. "That can't be anything good."

She had had no reply for that, because she'd been too busy laughing through the wind-pressure and snow. Not willing to use her for shallow stress relief? Hell, she knew that. Even back when they were still pretending that that was all they were going to be, he hadn't been able to keep feelings out of it. Garrus had shown up at her cabin as nervous as a date on prom night, and had descended almost immediately from that high-point into maudlin desperation.

True love: it's not as graceful, nor as charming, as the vids make it out to be.

"I hear reports of the storm flooding domains with sand, water, anything else." Shepard hazards another glance back at the Normandy, still only barely-visible in the frozen hellstorm, "Whatever's happening around here, it's definitely made it mad."

And what could piss off the Singularity? Someone horning in on it's territory, maybe physically messing with it? But nobody could get close, not even Summoned. Some kind of natural phenomenon? One of the local gods?

"We need more intel. Suggestions?"

What part of any of their lives was ever like the vids said it would be? Maybe there's some kind of poetic statement to be had there.

Made it mad.

Under his helmet, he grimaces, the disbelief and uncertainty manifesting in the echoes in his voice. "You think it's aware enough to be pissed off?" Not questioning her take, necessarily. He hasn't heard about it being sentient to that degree. More of that magical crap?

Did someone screw around with it? One of the other Summoned? Supposedly, they're the only ones who can get close to it. Which means...

"Someone who's been here a long time. Really adept with this magic they use. Some people talk to it, I think I've heard."

"Honestly? I don't know. It's a big magic rock that's running an extranet connection through all our heads; who knows what's it's capable of? But people talk about it having feelings, so that's good enough."

There had been a time, not really all that long ago, when lots of things had seemed impossible, and which were now all sadly mundane. Talking Geth, alternate dimensions, ancient machine-gods, real magic, and kissing a Turian; each equally fantastical, and al very much a part of her reality. Mostly, it was for the better this way.

"Julie." She's not excited to have to liaise with Julie again. Shepard likes Julie, but she does not like working with Julie, "...Though there was this new girl talking on the 'net about the Singularity having feelings..."

More research to do.

"Got anybody you want to check in on? Otherwise, we should head back to base, for now."

"I hate how I can't argue against any of that..."

You can't reason your way out of a magic rock. Even geth,even Reapers had rules, to a degree. They were grounded in some kind of reality. Granted, it was unbelievable until you learned what that reality was... but someone built even the Reapers. Someone programmed all of that.

You don't program a magic rock.

"Ah, yeah. Her. She uh... she's a little prickly. But Nadine seems to know her." And while Nadine gets along with her - he gets along with Nadine. It's pretty roundabout, but it's something. "You could try the new girl, I could try her."

Dig around, see what they can turn up.

"Let's get back. Most everyone I know has their brain defenses shored up better than a bunker."

"Alright," Impulsively, Shepard holds out a hand to him. If this were a real blizzard, they might tie themselves together, or rig beacons, or just not go into it in the first place. Hypothermia in the snow only a few meters from salvation was a brutal, stupid way to die.

But this isn't real, and they don't need both hands free for guns, and tools, and defenses. They need to stick together; two minds, more powerful than one. Or so she hopes— who knows how this place really operates, after all?

"C'mon, Garrus. Let's go home."

Edited 2024-03-28 04:30 (UTC)

Maybe it's impulsive. Maybe it's just habit, like their gear, like their radios. Like everything else about this place. But he clasps her hand in return immediately.

Habit, no. Not that.

That part is trust. If Shepard things they need to hold on to one another, they do. Simple as that.

Plus, he can't really deny the little flutter he still gets when she says things like home.

"Yeah. I'm going to run out the imaginary hot water. Let's go."

The wind is a wall of pure white, whipping up and around, driving snow into every crack and crevice. The only things that seem to exist are the dubious ground beneath her feet, and the clutching pressure of Garrus' hand. But, if she looks up, just at the right moment, the lung-deep rumble of thunder follows every flash. Normandy's hull comes up suddenly, and then the airlock controls, fumbled with numb fingers, and—

The silence as the seals lock back into place is like a physical blow.

"Holy shit," Shepard sighs, leaning against the weapon's locker, "I wish this place would start making sense to me."

It's not that she minds a little action, it's just... It's never something she can shoot at, you know? Something rational, understandable, something real. Just once, she'd like to be fit to the work, rather than scrambling after crumbs, post-facto.

It feels like outrunning a bomb. Outrunning an oncoming blast zone. The sound, the wind, the light - all of it is like the worst kind of firefight. Where you were blind and deafened. He keeps their hands locked together, keeping in step with her, strides shortened so as not to outpace her - dragging Shepard would put her off balance.

Can you die in the Horizon?

Then, just as quickly, they're inside. They're inside and he's blowing out a breath hard enough to rattle mandible against jaw. "May as well ask a krogan to sprout wings," he mutters, with a low growling irritation in the words. "I don't like this. I don't like any of this."

And here they are, without a solid course of action. Something freaky going on with the God Spot, and no concrete answers about any of it.

Shepard looks at him for a while, watching the frustration in his shoulders and the pitch of his head. She too is feeling that strange mix of anxious, frustrated adrenaline and a powerful desire to go back to bed, metaphorically. Let it be someone else's problem, since there's nothing she know to do about it; the reverie comes to an end when the helmet slips out of her fingers and hits the deck with a clatter.

Right. Enough of that.

"You're not the only one," She says, finally, bending to pick it up, "You wanna come shower with me, up in the cabin? Water pressure's better."

It doesn't carry over to the physical, of course. When they wake up, they'll still be just as dirty, the constant grit of the sandstorms finding its way by now into everythign and everywhere, no matter how you try, but— But! For a little while at least, they can pretend things are normal, manageable, and that the only thing that needs considering is the size of the water tank.

No need to ration, too; what had been designed to serve a full crew, now had only two to ber concerned with. There were worse things, than a little privacy.

He's quiet a moment, after the little "outburst". Granted, it wasn't really an outburst by most peoples' standards. But he was used to keeping things close to the chest these days. Part of that had been the war, had been Shepard needing someone to lean on, who'd already taken care of his crap. On the other hand, this was way out of both their depths.

A little venting was probably normal.

"Yeah," he agrees, and straightens up. "Yeah, I like that idea. Probably need to check on your fish, while we're at it."

Sure, they're not real either, none of this place is. But if they can pretend the shower is actually there, that they're actually returning from a bitter cold recon, he can tease about the fish. Not the hamster, though, there are some things a man does not touch.

"I haven't fed 'em in months," She admits, knowing he's been up there far more often than that. But she always remembered them as alive, and so they always were, "Chambers used to feed 'em for me, when I was busy. I wonder what happened to them."

Easier, perhaps, to focus on small things, than the big. She could affect the fish, at least for now. The rest was out of their hands.

"Not sure about them. I know you had them again by the time I got back." And it was a good thing to see. A welcome thing to see. Like everything was back as it should be. He chuckles a bit, before he adds: "You did tell me you found the hamster down in engineering, living in the floor cables."

How it got there was beyond him. But talking about this is nicer than dwelling on what the hell is wrong with the big storm on the literal Horizon.

"He was what?" Hamster in the engineering subfloor? Shepard checks herself, not quite all the way into the CIC, one hand still touching the wall, "You know, that's the first time I've genuinely thought I might've made a mistake going back to the Alliance? What's wrong with those people? He's a hamster, he's not hard to contain— hell, he lives in a tank!"

Distracted is the right word, after all. The CIC is, as usual, eerily silent as she stalks across towards the elevator.

"He could starve down there!"

He can't help it. He tries, as usual, to hold it back. To save some kind of dignity, or professionalism between them. But it doesn't work. It never does. Her absolute indignation over the hamster has him start to laugh - it's that light, wheezing noise that sounds more like coughing half the time.

"Because of the hamster?" he manages. "Ditch the Alliance, defect for real, because of your hamster?"

Why is this so funny? It shouldn't be. Yet here he is, trying his best to stop himself from laughing. "You found him. You have a knack for finding things, people, who need you."

"Well," She has to admit that, yeah, that might be a step too far. But still, it was ridiculous; he was just a helpless little guy! They ought to have kept him from falling through the cracks, literally or otherwise, "No, but. C'mon, Garrus. It's not right."

It isn't! But the laughter in his tone, the comforting presence at her back, that's soothing her ruffled feathers, despite herself.

"...Now I'm imagining him setting himself up as a miniature vigilante. Thanks for that."

"No, of course not. No way he toughed it out on the crumbs and crackers the engineering staff left be--" Nope, he can't. He's wheezing too hard, his head drooping to lean against hers. Helplessly laughing.

"Sorry - I'm sorry. It just..." In the face of everything. The weirdness, the icy weather, the fact they're here. It hit him in a way he hadn't expected.

"Oh don't say that, you're going to set me off again."

Shepard makes a face, but it can't last; he bends down, pressing the breath of his laughter against her hair and shoulders and she lets go of the grumbling with just a little reluctance. She's right, after all.

But better than shouting about people who wouldn't remember or likely care even if they could hear her, is the weight of him against her, temple and cheek.

"Laugh it up, Vakarian," He apologizes, or tries to, and so she reaches up and back, to cup his head at the back and hold onto to him, bring him closer as the hysteria subsides, "You alright?"

It's nice. To stand here like this, in the middle of a warship, with the war miles, and universes away. He won't give voice to those thoughts - not for a while. But he'd seen the weight of it wear her down, seen the strain push her places that worried him. Here... at least, the fights never felt so daunting.

Here, at least, there were times you could just lean into someone, hold on, and know they'd be there the next day.

"Right now?" he asks instead of an answer. His voice is that low pitched hum in air and bone. "I'm more than all right."

{Darude Sandstorm Intensifies}

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