abraxaslogs | First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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First Count The Cost ★ Closed

Who: Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian
When: July/August
Where: Free Cities Badlands
What: Free Cities Quest: Restoring Foundations
Warnings: foul language, violence

She wasn't much given to jingoistic sentiment, these days.

Oh, as a child, she'd been as xenophobic as anyone, and well into her time in the Alliance that attitude has persevered. Shepard had been a reliable vote for the Terra Firma party right up until— Ha, it was funny to think of it now, but it hadn't been until she'd met Garrus. Not the first time she'd met him, of course; the second time. Coming up the stairs out from a shoot-out in a medical clinic, still smelling of Eezo and with a Turian's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head, she'd seen them campaigning in the commons and reevaluated a few things. Never let it be said she isn't a fast learner, nor willing to change her mind, when she's wrong.

Just like that day, those bought men waving guns at doctors, Shepard is on this day forced to admit that really it's her own damn species that's at the root of most of her problems.

"Bandits," Shepard sighs, trudging along. The sun is a high and heavy weight on her shoulders, not unlike the pack on her back; it's N-1 all over again, right down to the forced marches and rationing. Except she hadn't had to wear a stupid straw hat to keep off the heat stroke, during basic, "It's always bandits. And mercs. And slavers. You think they ever get tired of making people hate them for a living?"

Hate might be a strong word, for the mercs. At least they could argue to be offering an honest service, outside of council space. Sort of. Murder was still illegal, even on Noveria... Right?

"Garrus, you still with me?"

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He steps up just in time for Shepard to find that opening with her fist, laying out the petty leader of this little group with a punch that snaps his head back theatrically. If he isn't concussed, then he might as well be: he isn't getting up again anytime soon; none of them are. Couldn't have planned it better if they'd tried.

"Good boy," She teases, flush with easy victory— or maybe that's just the heat of the day. She's lost her hat, in the melee, "Not to bad for a warm-up."

Shepard regards the field of groaning, pained bodies. It's unprofessional as hell, how badly she wants to kiss him right now. Definitely not the done thing. Tactically unwise, at the very least.

"What do you think, paid mercs, small timers with a bigger backing— what, just random idiots? Only one who's going to walk away from this alive is skippy over there—" She indicates the bandit with the fractured shoulder, still trying in vain to clear his vision, "You do good work, Ar— Garrus."

She winces, both at the stumble, and the way it spoils the moment. She still remembers when that name, teasing moniker that it had become between them, had been all she knew of his name. Archangel. She likes Omega's Archangel, unapologetically. Abraxas' Archangel is... a more complex memory.

He would preen if he weren't still standing on the battlefield (so to speak). Honestly, there's a fierce sort of pride, of warmth, when she says "good boy". Embarrassingly enough. Not that it's something that needs to be discussed until later. When everything is wrapped up. "This is what we have to do for a warm-up anymore... What's the world coming to?"

Right, moving on.

Hunkering down, he picks up the whip again, and steps over to the conscious bandit. The others won't be moving any time soon, but this one might. It's not the best option, but it's what they have. So ... he sets about tying the guy up with it.

And if his hands freeze when she trips over his name, this way, neither of them have to pay attention. Archangel. He'd have to be an idiot not to read between those lines. It would be so much easier to attribute the slip to Omega. To his poorly done stint as a hero. But he can't. Not anymore. He clears his throat, forcing his voice, the echoes of it, to stay calm.

"I say we ask our new pet," he says instead. Purposefully drawing out the last word. And then roughly jerking the man to his feet. "Think he'd be willing to chat?"

"Only one way to find out," She replies, falling back on old patterns, gratefully, "You want to do the honors? Y'know I don't have any patience for this game."

It's true: whenever someone tells her, swearing vehemently, that they'll never talk, she has a tendency to take them at their word. Why waste time arguing with a dead man anyways? She does understand why, intellectually, it's just... It really is just impatience, in the end. Shepard hates being given the runaround more than she hates almost anything that isn't a Reaper.

"I ever tell you about Elias Kelham? Kind of a scumbag, had some information Thane wanted. Beat him unconscious, told his lawyer he could file his complaints at the SPECTRE office," Which wasn't true, really; she'd simply blacked an eye, and pointed out her legal status. White collar criminals are easy to intimidate... but she isn't saying it to inform Garrus, of course. This is all for their audience's benefit, "Not my most impressive display."

Good cop, bad cop. Oldest trick in the book.

"I suppose..."

There's that drawl in his voice. That casual roll of his shoulders. Part of him wants to be mildly put out she gets to be the bad cop, here. He's so much better at that. As much as he's managed to rein in his impulsive streaks, it's still easier to threaten people. Especially when you've just broken their bones already!

But none of that shows. The man is already whimpering, looking at Shepard like she'll break his skull open if he breathes wrong. He shakes his head, sighing, like he regrets all this.

"Listen, what can it hurt to work with us? You saw what she can do. Imagine, then, if you really pissed her off..." The man gasps, eyes darting between them. Garrus drops a hand on the man's good shoulder. Talons right in eyeline. "I don't think your boss is making it out of here, to be honest with you."

A squeeze. "Come on now. Answer the Commander's questions."

Shepard, idly toeing the unconscious man, gives him a swift kick in response to Garrus' conjecture. He doesn't even groan, just flops over limply, well and truly out, and— well, if he hadn't been badly concussed before, he was now. The sound it makes is... illustrative.

"He isn't," she opines, bluntly, and with a relish that isn't wholly feigned, "So who do you work for?"

'N... nobody, we's just looking for easy money.'

"Oh come on, half a dozen guys, out in the badlands, just... waiting for somebody to come through? You're joking."

'No really, we—'

"Who's even coming through here, aside from soldiers and summoned? We're carrying medical resupply, not money."

The man stills, breathing faster, panic coming up in him in visible spurts of fear. Shepard steps closer, grit crunching under her boots.

"How about you try honesty, tough guy, or maybe we'll see how many bones you can break, before you die."

'I... I... w-we... You ain't soldiers. You're Summoned. You got them freaky magics.'

"Lucky you, we're both." The silence shut its jaws around the man's throat, and he swallowed, and panted, looking for any way out, "Talk, or we're done here."

'There's a camp! We got a camp, we... The Boss, she said we do this patrol, we get paid.'

Shepard considered this intelligence with due consideration, tipping her head towards Garrus in a mute question. Was he telling the truth? If so, the bandit problem was going to be worse than they'd hoped; a bunch of small groups of idiots were trouble enough. If they were coordinating...

Well, it'd be good enough to file a mission report, anyways.

"Hmm. What do you think, Garrus?"

"See? No one to hear you. Just us."

It's actually kind of funny, when she kicks the bandit. Watching him just flop over like that is comedic, no matter who you are. No matter the situation. But he holds it back. Bites his tongue, so to speak.

For every line she speaks, Garrus' grip tightens. His talons, left untrimmed anymore, dig slightly into the man's shoulder. He's not very good at the whole good cop thing, after all. And when the realization hits, he also can't help the little flicker of blue over his scales. He knows that's probably not the best idea - he's not as in control as someone like Shepard is. On the other hand, he's had the most experience so far with a general barrier.

And that's all the little flare is. Nothing more.

"I think... we'd be really satisfied if we heard a location." A roll of his shoulders as he says it. A flex of fingers. "That way, we'd know if he was really telling the truth."

It's not fool-proof. Without things like scanners here, getting exact directions might be the best they can do. If someone stammers out something, they're probably making it up as they go, as opposed to rattling off a location. And without radios, there's no way this guy could warn the rest of them.

"Better hurry. We're running out of patience."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure the two guys I put down earlier are done breathin'. Big guy back there's not going to be able to find his ass with both hands and a map, your friend bringing up the rear's got a compound fracture. He's bleeding to death as we speak, and you..."

The man's face was a mask of tears and blood, his eyes still swollen and phlegmy from Garrus' bioticaly-assisted projectiles. He blinked up at them fitfully, as if hoping by some miracle that they'd buy the look on his face for a glare, and his defiance for anything worth respecting. Garrus; talons tightened, and his eyes rolled, whites pinkly visible at the alarum when he sees the spark of blue. Shepard sees it too, but makes no indication— it takes a lot of discipline not to flare your corona when emotions run high, and even experienced biotics don't usually see the point in trying.

"...You're the last man standing," she says, folding her arms and stepping back. Ease off the pressure, let him enough rope to hang himself by, "Now you have a choice here. You can tell us how to get you home, or you can resign yourself to making a home right here in the dirt."

Shepard gestures expansively at the badlands vista, soil beaten stone-hard by the merciless sun, scrubby plants and the occasional cactus, each stone casting it's own miserly shadow. This was the final resting place for many an unwary traveler, no less because of this man and his compatriots than because of the elements, and the wildlife.

'North,' He blurts, suddenly, and Shepard frowns, 'North. You go north a day's walk, there's a old river-bed, all dried up, right? Got a rock like a bridge going over it, that's where we meet up, that's all.'

"Nearer the Singularity?"

'N-nobody goes that way. Less patrols, less to worry about," the man explains, leaning slightly forward against the pressure of Garrus' hands, in his eagerness to be believed, 'Don't need no town, just a meeting place.'

"Is that so?"

'I don't know nothin' more! I ain't in charge!'

Which was, undeniably, true. Shepard gave the confession a moment's thought, considered the horizon, and the Sun's height above it. They had a ways yet to go today, before they could make camp, and at this rate they'd still be on the march after dark. The last thing either of them needed was to have to post a watch in case this jackass or one of hid friends came sniffing around, looking for revenge.

"Alright, let's say I believe you. There's a secret outlaw meeting-spot a day's march north of here."

'Then... you're going to let me go?'

"You know what, I just might," She said, which was true. For about a hundred meters, at least.

"Bleeding to death might be an exaggeration."

It's not. But this guy doesn't need to know that. Bluffing is useful! Especially when you don't have human facial features to give you away. Even so, he doesn't loosen his hold. Not even a fraction, when the man pulls forward. He can feel the change in tension in the man's muscles.

From terror to eagerness.

He snorts, though, his mandibles flaring off his teeth. The man takes that moment to look up, and goes even paler at the sight of predatory fangs in an alien mouth. "That's risky," he says. "Doesn't the Singularity turn your kind to dust? Big risk, just to run around robbing random travelers."

"We're far enough away! It's just a good cover, s'all!"

Doubt is written all over his features - if the guy could read his face. Garrus doesn't answer, he just hikes their captive more or less to his feet.

And casts a look over to Shepard, as if in apology.

"We might need a guide part of the way." And this way, they can be sure the bandit won't let them wander off into the absolute wrong direction. If he thinks he has a chance, he'll cooperate. Not that Garrus thinks he'll really have that.

'What? I, uh...'

"Well, we wouldn't want to get lost, now, would we?" Shepard's face isn't nearly so inscrutable to the average human as a Turian's can be; but she's got a good poker face. He doesn't want them with him? Well then, only one answer to that, "After all, Singularity's not dangerous to us. We wouldn't even know what too close looks like."

The hopeful tension drained out of the outlaw a little further with every word, until he was, finally, a pale and subdued, beaten man. No more struggle, all done-with.

'Sure. Sure, that makes... makes sense.'

With significant effort, Shepard resists the urge to roll her eyes; every now and again you got idiots like this one, people who thought that setting her up for tacit loyalty and rapid betrayal would be the winning move. The only difference between a duplicitous Eclipse merc and this man was that he was going to see another couple of miles of badlands before he died.

"Alright, then," Spotting her dropped hat, Shepard bent to pick it up, shook out the dust, and then hefted her pack back up onto her shoulders. Was she concerned, during any of this, that the bandit might come at her, or try anything? Was she worried at all about the man's capability for violence? "Get walkin'. Daylight isn't gonna last forever."

No, she is not.

Garrus, meanwhile, is grinning like an idiot. If and when they actually get back to Citadel Space, he's going to have to school his expressions again. Re-learn how to do that. He's gotten way too lax here, where Shepard is the only one who can read him. To their new guide, it probably looks like he's making a threat display or something.

"I can't gauge the distance for crap," he says, playing along. Like hell a sharpshooter couldn't gauge distance. "I guess we'll know if you start panicking, right?"

That's all he says as he hauls the unfortunate bandit forward. Actually making him walk over his comrades is probably a bit much, but Garrus doesn't have any such sympathy. He kicks a leg as he walks. As they move up near Shepard, he inclines his head to her, still laughing silently.

"Mind grabbing my bag? Hate to let go of our pal here to pick it up... He might fall over."

Or get loose. He'll still carry the bag, of course, but he's loathe to let the bandit go to pick it up.

When he mentions the depth perception issue, she feels a momentary pang; he'd mentioned vision issues, was it still that bad? But this isn't the time.

"Yeah, I got it," Shepard hefts his pack in both hands, hauling along until she can stand watch while he straps it on, fixing their hostage with what she knows is a murderous look in her eyes. It's a good look, truly; she's seen it in the mirror, but he seems antsy, regardless, "Hey. Eyes on me."

The man looks up slowly, reluctant as a guilty child. She waits.

"You know Summoned have powers that you natives can't match, right? I can hit you at a hundred meters, easy. Don't get stupid: you can't outrun me, and I will kill you."

The bandit swallows, and goes back to studying the ground he's standing on. No, there won't be any escape today.

It's... definitely a good look. He pauses, just for a moment, to appreciate it. It's probably not too obvious to their new friend, but he absolutely gives Shepard a slow, appraising look once she gets that expression on her face. So sue him, she's damn attractive like that.

He only looks away when it comes to strapping his pack back into place. Shifting it slightly until it settles where it sits best on his unique anatomy. That done, his hand clamps back down on the bandit's shoulder.

"She's underestimating," he advises. Just a little too loud to be totally private. "I've seen her hit a moving target at four hundred meters." Okay, that was in the Mako. But, again, what this guy doesn't know won't hurt them.

Besides, he could probably hit something that far out, even if Shepard couldn't.

"Glad we all came to this understanding."

She shifts her glare over the bandit's shoulder as he looks away, and gives him a look as if to say, 'really, Garrus?' The effect is somewhat marred by the way she visibly straightens, trying not to smirk. Alright, yes, fine, they are neither of them taking this seriously, are they? Then again, why should they? These men weren't a threat, they were a joke— to the two of them, at least.

Much less so, to some of the other soldiers who might walk this route in the future. Better that they put the fear of every possible god into them now, and spare the next hapless infantryman the trouble.

"Get walking," She says, when he's finally ready, managing a tone of amused boredom, despite their distraction. Once their little 'pet' is far enough ahead to make for a suitable guide, Shepard nudges Garrus with a grin of her own, "Having fun, Mr. Vakarian?"

The man stumbles along for a couple of miles, at times distractingly slow, and at others too-quickly, as if he hoped to outpace them. But Shepard and Garrus are well-watered, uninjured, unworried, and in Garrus' case probably not even particularly overheated, the bastard. To call it a hot fucking time of day in this godsforsaken desert would be an understatement.

But it comes, eventually; the inevitable betrayal. The bandit, they never did find out his name, seems to grow calmer as they approach the shadowy dip in the landscape. An old gully, the water-drain for badlands flash-floods, bridged here and there by rocky outcroppings, appears at first as a dim grey smudge, then a deeper line, progressively more visible with every step they take. He goes from stumbling-tired, to wearily purposeful, and then abruptly breaks into a run. Yep, that's the spot alright.

"Oh, here we go," Shepard says, unconcerned, "You wanna, or should I?"

"I'm enjoying not being the 'pet' anymore," he says in answer. Just loud enough for their new friend to hear. He sees the man twitch, and does his best to keep the amusement out of his voice. Shepard likely can tell, even if no one else here can. "It was nice to get a warm up before we have to cut loose."

For them, it definitely was little more than a warmup. For the kinds of things they've faced down, a handful of desert bandits were little more than some exercise. Like this hike. He's taking it all in stride, literally. It's hot, sure, but biology is in his favor out here, unlike it would be if they were at the seashore. Or out in the snow.

That damned snow. If he never sets foot in it again, it'll be too soon.

Speaking of too soon...

"Damn. Why do they always try to run?" At least he'd gotten them within sight of the mentioned landmark. He looks at her. "We did tell him you could take him out at a hundred meters. Hate to make you a liar."

But he's slinging off his crossbow, regardless.

She laughs, in part at his offended act, and in part at the way the man reacts when he says it. You'd think nobody'd ever called him Shepard's attack-dog... or maybe Turian marines are more subtle than the Human versions are.

"Oh go on," She says, gesturing at his retreating back, "You've been wanting to show off your sharpshooting with that thing for a while."

Besides, once she starts in with the real biotics, that'll turn a break from a smart idea into an absolute necessity. Then they really will be late, in a way that a forced-march or an earlier morning departure won't be able to cover for— privately, Shepard acknowledges that a speedy rendezvous at their destination is probably a pipe-dream. But still; you gotta try. And she does love to watch him work.

"Let's see your best shot."

Okay, but that was a point of honor. It was like being called her right hand. And humans liked dogs, right? "Pet" was something completely different! Sort of! According to his pride, anyway.

"Yes ma'am."

And he pulls it up to his eye in a smooth motion. It's not quite like a rifle - it never will be. But the motion is similar enough. So is aiming. The man is running in a straight line, too. Why he thinks that's a good idea, Garrus doesn't know. It's a bad move, though.

Because it's easy to line up the shot. It's easy to squeeze the trigger.

The bandit jerks. A bolt sprouts from the back of his head. They're far enough away to miss the fine spray of blood from his forehead, but not the way his body keeps moving a few feet before it drops.

"Scoped and dropped."

The momentum carries him beyond his time of death, flopping the body down like the ugly sack of water that it is. Shepard considers the prospect, the distance to the canyon, the time of day, and the inevitability of scavengers. Food was an issue, as was water— more for her less than stellar Human endurance than his. That they could win any fight at the proposed meeting-spot was no serious question, but neither was answering said hypothetical the mission at hand. Furthermore, were they to retrace their steps, they would surely have to contend with Varren and whatever else was living out here, and that might be the smart play. No point in teaching local wildlife to expect a handout on the trade route, after all.

Either way, they weren't equipped for a fight, however straightforward. Time and resources were against them, and Free Cities, like most Armies, did not reward independent thinkers.

"Alright, mark that spot on the map. We'll be back when the outposts aren't waiting on resupply," She pronounced, a fitting conclusion to the bandit's worthless life. They'd never even gotten his name, not that it would have mattered, "Mission takes priority."

His answer is to put the crossbow away again, digging around for the map instead. It's a simple thing - Shepard made the call. He understands. Mission always takes priority. Especially in this case. People needed the supplies they had - and they'd already delayed. Granted, that wasn't their fault, but still.

"One second..." Marking on an actual map instead of just logging coordinates took a while to relearn. He'd picked it up reasonably quickly, especially with the tools available. He's got one of the little portable things now. Carefully marking the corpse, and a general radius area of where the meetup point.

"Got it. Right behind you, Shepard."

The trek back the way they'd come was uneventful. At one point, Shepard stopped to swig from her flask, an unappealing warm metallic flavor, and saw vultures circling behind them. The sun is beginning to set by the time they join back with the original ambush-site, and it's the sort of altercation with a pack of wild varren that Shepard would have written down as, Local wildlife encountered in her report, had she been submitting one in writing.

Less pleasant is the job of burning the bodies— as much to prevent further scavengers being attracted to the road, as to respect the dead. Besides, for all she knows this is how you get zombies. Even after two years, after a thousand years, Shepard still doesn't really get many of the rules of this place.

Then it's back to walking, marching through the twilight until real dark finally settles in, its grip tightening with a bony cold. Shepard finally calls a halt when the moon rises, deeming it ground enough to have made up for the day, and sets their camp with a distinctive boulder at their backs, to shelter from the wind, and hide the light of their fire— from one angle, at least.

"Damn," She says, waiting for the water to boil and the rations, a rehydrated stew, to thereby become edible. Outside their ring of warmth and light, the night-insects are singing, and the small creatures of the badlands are living their hurried, violent little lives, tiny rustles in the bush, "I always forget how tiring this kind of walk can get. How you holding up?"

The smell of burning bodies is always the worst. No matter how often it comes up. No matter how many times you have to deal with it. He thought he was more used to it, on Omega. Maybe he had been. Maybe he was getting soft. But they move on, they deal with varren and occasionally a very overzealous carrion bird.

And the sudden shift from broiling to freezing is never fun, either. Again, he doesn't complain. Just sets about his tasks around the campsite. Settling in once Shepard does, though closer to the fire than she likely is.

"Hey, don't worry about me. I like this kind of weather." And he may or may not have been keeping his strides shorter for the duration of their march. As per usual when traveling with humans. And her. "Glad it's not snowing. But... did we really have to bring varren with us? Why not something nice? Like your fish."

"Hey, I didn't invite 'em," She raises a half-joking middle finger at him when he mentions snow. This is a dessert, asshole, "Take it up with the Singularity. Better yet, take it up with Tuchanka, for exporting their wildlife everywhere."

Ah, her fish. It's kind of a funny idea, really: imagining that stupid tank lining the wall of the barracks. The walls of the Free Cities fort were adobe and stone, cut and placed by hand, mortared with local soil. They weren't exactly "primitive" but there was a certain... oldness to them, an immovability. One day, when someone finally got around to rigging the place with electric lights, they'd have to put the wiring outside the walls, rather than in them.

"I think I've killed enough fish for one lifetime," She said, still smirking at the mental juxtaposition of it; the whole idea of the place seemed totally at-odds with those fish, the real ones at least, "At least the Horizon ones don't starve when I forget to go up there too many shifts in a row."

This is where a human would stick their tongue back out at that raised middle finger. Instead, he flutters his mandibles at her, as close a mimicry of a raspberry as he's going to get. "I should, sometime, shouldn't I? Waltz up there and demand to know why it hauled the most annoying creature off Tuchanka."

He won't, but it's amusing to picture.

If it were even possible to get a fish tank out here, he might have looked into it. The fish tank, while it could be tedious to take care of, seemed like it was relaxing. Seemed like a good thing, in the tension of all the missions. Especially once the auto-feeder - oh, right.

"Here's another spoiler for your future - we installed an auto-feeder for you. Significantly cut down on fish-related casualties."

"Well now I know how bad the Reapers really got, if I needed a VI just to keep my pets alive," Shepard says, and wonders even as she hears her own voice whether or not it's a step too far. The Reaper War was still, in a lot of ways, academic to her; something she had been bracing for, and building towards, and then...

Nothing. Two years in Cadens, marching around the Free Cities doing work that ultimately amounted to fuckall.

"Hey," She says, abruptly, "Come here. Sit with me."

It's grown chill enough that she's feeling it, and surely so is he. She remembers how he feels about the cold, and anyways... it's not as if privacy were easy to come by, back at base. This mission was a pleasant break in the pace, in more ways than one.

"How are you doing, these days? About all this. Abraxas... the Reapers. Any of it. Talk to me, Garrus."

Oops. The wince, he hopes, isn't as obvious as he feels like it is. There's not really a way to hide the way he scratches at the back of his neck. Uncertain. Maybe he shouldn't talk about it. Leave it alone and not keep poking at things. He'd been trying to keep things optimistic, but if it wasn't helping...

But the order (request) is easy to follow. To stand and shift across their makeshift little camp. Sit with her, she'd said. So surely she won't mind a long arm draped over her shoulders. In the interest of warmth. Yep.

He won't lie, though. Closeness is nice. Draped on her is nice.

"I don't know," he admits. "We need to get back. No question there. We're needed there." There's duty. There's people relying on them. "I don't like how out of my depth I am here. I'm learning, but... it never feels like enough to handle what gets thrown at us."

He doesn't like not knowing what's happening to him, physically.

It immediately feels safer, more secure, to have Garrus closer. Logically, that isn't true, and the analytical part of Shepard's mind that can never truly let go notes the open sight-lines of the planes, the potential of the sparse vegetation to provide visual cover, the...

Easy. Easy. Let it go.

"I agree," That they're needed, that they should get back in the fight, that Shepard should... or maybe that's selfish. Still, it doesn't change the fact that, for whatever reason, the galaxy really does seem to need the services of a mid-ranked Alliance CO, "...On both counts."

It's infuriating, really. She reads, does research, asks questions, and never really seems to get her head around it. And every time she does, it changes, or drops her in the middle of a weeks-long hallucinatory trip to the future, or... or something else. There has to be an underlying logic to this stupid planet, something to guide all the madness— but Shepard can't see it.

"Not exactly what I envisioned for a vacation-spot, I'll tell you that much."

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