"I-I-I-I..." The man is inconsolable, caught between explanation, defiance, begging for forgiveness or his life, and the pain of his hand. Garrus' eyes bear down on him, a pin pierced through an insect, twitching, and he stares back wide-open with helplessness.
The end of the sword splatters and hisses against the floor as it finishes liquidating, followed by a soft clunk as the haft-end does the same, dropping off her back in a more cohesive lump. Shepard puts her hand on Garrus' back instead, leaning over where his wings are cupped around his prey, hunching like a falcon over its kill.
And the memory of it unfolds in blue smoke, trailing from the man's gaping mouth like a pantomime of a holo, suspended above his head. Coming to the office each day for work, and being noticed by the new manager. Shaking his hand. Watching him work. Being noticed every day, and growing closer...
...and the crime itself, sneaking out to mark the exterior of the building, a monument more to love than any godly approval. There's a soft gasp from behind her, and Shepard cocks her head far enough to look. A handsome-looking man in a pale, trim suit is watching the show, stricken, and behind him a cluster of pale-faced scholars peer at the goings-on from around corners and under desks. As if any of it could protect them. Someone murmurs quietly, Oh no...
Shepard slides her fingers into his feathers, coal-black and coal-red.
"Don't kill him," she says, quietly, and there would have been a time when she'd have cheerfully let the man die, or done it herself, "He's right about his boss, even if he's stupid enough to try and play god. Otherwise..."
...Time changes everything, eventually. Besides, it really is surprising how vicious a punishment can gets, and still be survivable.
"What do you say to letting the punishment fit the crime?"
no subject
The end of the sword splatters and hisses against the floor as it finishes liquidating, followed by a soft clunk as the haft-end does the same, dropping off her back in a more cohesive lump. Shepard puts her hand on Garrus' back instead, leaning over where his wings are cupped around his prey, hunching like a falcon over its kill.
And the memory of it unfolds in blue smoke, trailing from the man's gaping mouth like a pantomime of a holo, suspended above his head. Coming to the office each day for work, and being noticed by the new manager. Shaking his hand. Watching him work. Being noticed every day, and growing closer...
...and the crime itself, sneaking out to mark the exterior of the building, a monument more to love than any godly approval. There's a soft gasp from behind her, and Shepard cocks her head far enough to look. A handsome-looking man in a pale, trim suit is watching the show, stricken, and behind him a cluster of pale-faced scholars peer at the goings-on from around corners and under desks. As if any of it could protect them. Someone murmurs quietly, Oh no...
Shepard slides her fingers into his feathers, coal-black and coal-red.
"Don't kill him," she says, quietly, and there would have been a time when she'd have cheerfully let the man die, or done it herself, "He's right about his boss, even if he's stupid enough to try and play god. Otherwise..."
...Time changes everything, eventually. Besides, it really is surprising how vicious a punishment can gets, and still be survivable.
"What do you say to letting the punishment fit the crime?"