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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"Ha."

That's a terrible thought; most of their crew would struggle to cope here, every bit as much as they have, or more, but none so much as Joker. This world was rough, and physical, and had nothing of flight or piloting in it; if you were missing a leg, or blind, or simply inhuman, there would be ways around that. The image of Joker limping around Cadens, or trying to convince the Free Cities that someone like him had a military career worth being damn proud of, despite his glass bones and acid disposition...

...It'd be funny, for about an hour. After that, it'd be... Well. Wouldn't be the first time Shepard had to defend Joker. The asshole. God, she missed him.

"Alright, time to turn in. Got places to be tomorrow— you take first watch?"

"I'm on it."

He'd been thinking only in the humorous sense. That Joker would spend the entire time bitching and complaining. If he actually were here, then it would be a whole other mess, and not one he'd actually wish on the man. Practicality would come if the situation presented itself.

Instead, he'll sit up. Take his watch with crossbow in hand. His attention fully devoted to the task. It's not ideal to track time by the stars, but hey, at least they're clearly visible. The time passes without more than a few scattered desert predators - nothing large enough to come close. He'll nudge her, at the appropriate time, and take his own rest.

... and hey, he didn't even complain about the cold desert air.

Shepard's long-used to early mornings, and rolls up and out of her bedroll without complaint. It's warm for him, then, as she swaps places, and sits out the dawn watch, the sky lightening to grey, then the white-blue just before dawn.

By the time the sun rises, they're up and packed-up, fire buried, and on their way.

The second leg of the journey is uneventful; the first outpost is barely staffed by one overworked medic and her assistant. Leaving half their burden there makes the day's walk to the next an easier way, and the only trouble they find is an encounter with a viper and a few curious predators. Shepard honestly isn't sure if they're native or not, and technically they didn't bother her, or indeed anyone, but that's not the job at hand: anything that prowls around the road is going to find it expedient to make a meal of someone at some point.

Half the pack goes down quick, and the rest vanishes into the distance. The second medical outpost is manned by a single tired-looking nurse with a shaved head under his hat, and a thousand-yard stare to match his isolation. They might've exchanged about four words between them, making the hand-off, but Shepard isn't concerned about social niceties— they're owed a water-ration and a resupply of food from the man's stores, and she takes it with gratitude. Biotics always overpack on the calories.

"Job done," She says, pack light and slack on her back, "Back to base."

Two days out, and if they make good time it'll be just one on the return, a pleasant walk in the countryside, despite the giant scorpions, the Varren, and the bandits. Shepard is more than willing to call it good.

There is, predictably, a token grumble when he has to crawl out from the warm space into the significantly cooler one. But that's it. Just a token complaint that doesn't last for more than a couple heartbeats. Then he's in motion, and everything is working smoothly - the machine of experience kicking in and making sure he has the steps all nailed down.

Just like before, he's got her back. Following in her footsteps. At some points during the hike, his shadow falls over her, and he likes to think somehow, that's helpful. He really doesn't mind the heat, doesn't mind the march. And during the checkpoints, the drop offs, he's lurking in the background, adding a polite nod here and there. It softens the blunt, sharp edges of Shepard's social interactions. Just a bit.

Not that he's complaining about that. He likes it. Likes the no-nonsense.

And maybe casually shoulder the majority of the extra food and water ration. It just makes sense. He's bigger, his stride is longer. Load him up.

"What, no lingering for a nice summer vacation? I thought you wanted to get tan."

Garrus Vakarian you shit.

"Piss off, I'm ginger," she laughs, half-turning as she walks, the better to flip him off about it, "Look at me, asshole."

Shepard's jaunty little sunhat has spared her face the worst of it, but she holds up her arms for inspection— the freckles are coming in thick, blossoming under the hazy layer of peeling sunburn, "I'm not gonna tan, I'm just gonna burn."

She doesn't sound particularly concerned. But then, Biotic that she is, skin cancer is the kind of death she never learned to fear. If radiation was going to kill her, it could take her brain from within, after all; no point in getting too fussed about a spotty complexion.

"Just because the sun loves you."

"Frankly, Shepard, I have a hard time taking my eyes off you." He'll let that sit for a second before adding: "Usually because you're doing something reckless... but..."

Yeah, he's looking. He's looking respectfully. But then curiously. He can't help it, reaching out to run a careful finger along her arm. The pad of it, minding the talon. It's fascinating. It's kind of attractive, in how unusual it is.

"This is a... red hair thing?" That's what ginger means, right? He's following. In theory.

Then a low, rusty laugh. "Sun likes me, snow hates me. It's a two-edged knife."

"Red hair, pale skin, green eyes," She gestures at herself, with the hand he isn't holding, "Kelly Chambers was the same, remember her? Solar radiation is our enemy."

She lets him have her hand, for as long as he wants it, turning over her wrist to give him better access. Garrus spends so much time around humans, and she spends so much time around him... It's funny, how easy it is to forget that he's an alien, despite his face. It's not that he isn't Turian, it's that... He's Garrus. Himself, before anything else.

"When I was a kid they'd make fun of me for it. Y'know, until I caught 'em, at least," She chuckles. Even as a girl, Shepard had been a poor choice of enemy, "Talk about Reckless..."

"Right, the... one who kept calling Thane and I 'damaged', I remember." That much, he'd only found out thanks to EDI informing him. He hadn't paid much attention to her at the time, given everything else going on.

The pad of his finger is absently trailing across the marks. The spots and pale in-between. Like he's making a map. He's learned so much about humans in his time, but there are still so many surprises. Like this one.

"I almost pity them," he mutters. Almost. "But if it happens to all humans like you... why is that weird?"

"Well, we're not exactly a common genetic group, for one," Shepard replies, amused; here they go, hand in hand. Very unprofessional— but nobody's there to see it, anyways, "Humans have a long history of fixating on minor differences in appearance: there's a lot of war and bigotry there. People can be real pieces of shit. Then we discovered people from other planets, and most of that got transferred in Palaven's direction— in case you're wondering if Shanxi is the only reason Alliance soldiers love to badmouth Turians."

Most being the key word, naturally. There would always be a mean little streak of discernment in the human race, in Shepard's opinion: that ugly, tribalistic urge to separate the world into Us and Them. Humans aren't unique there, either, and Shepard's not much of a fan of the attitude, though she doubts Garrus needs to be told that. Taking on alien crewmembers had not been a popular move, back on the SR-1.

"Anyways, it's not legal to comment on someone's skin-color like that, in the Alliance. You better believe Anderson would bust anybody who said something stupid right back down to Ensign, if not kicked 'em off the ship outright, and I ran my crew the same, ergo... you won't have encountered it. Not that anybody says shit about me, anyways— they've got better reasons to hate me, if they want 'em. That's all kid stuff."

"I wasn't. I figured it was actually jealousy over our stunning good looks." There is absolutely no seriousness there. He can figure out why. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. But humanity isn't the only species out there with that kind of history. Maybe things like appearance differences, but differences in general. The Unification Wars, for example.

At length, he lets her hand go. If only to pick their way through a rocky patch in the interim. His feet are toughening up, he's noticed. Finding a boot he can work with is no easy task in this world - so more often than not, he's gone with leather wraps, leaving his toe talons free.

"Makes sense. You got that attitude from somewhere - " He's hilarious. "No, we just got the Cerberus backtalk." A beat and he shakes his head. "Which wasn't your fault in the least, but. I know what you're getting at. Happened plenty from other angles, before I even met you, too. Not the... skin thing. Other things." And if you didn't learn to shrug it off, eventually, you'd lose your mind.

Shepard gives him a long, pointed look. She knows why he'd sweep it under the rug; the same reason he hadn't said anything about Ash's grumbling, back in the day. No point in rocking the boat, kicking up a fuss where simply knuckling under and doing the work would suffice. Don't complain. Don't make a scene. And in the end, no point in insisting on lipservice when real respect would either come, or not, based on the merits.

Still, it makes her want to hit something, imagining Garrus in those dark days, wounds still fresh— literally, as well as metaphorically. And then someone, some memeber of her crew putting a little more weight on him, even by accident.

"If any member of my crew ever says anything like that to you again, Garrus, I want you to tell me. People here on Abraxas have an excuse; most of them have never even heard of Turians before. But I—" I love you isn't appropriate here, even if it's true. Emotional attachment isn't all, or even most, of the reason why it is so absolutely vital that her people show respect to her Turian, "—You're important to me, dammit."

He blinks. His head pulling back ever so slightly, expression baffled by the sudden vehemence in her tone, in her insistence. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised. Shepard took care of her crew. No question about that. But the whole Cerberus thing had been...

... Hadn't been nearly as long ago for her as it was him.

He takes a couple long steps forward, up to her, and ducks his head. One quick, sappy little forehead bonk. One brief moment to murmur, "Yes ma'am." In tones of absolute affection, of wry amusement. Agreement is there too, but as an afterthought.

I love you, too.

Then he's stepped back, and her sunhat goes with him. Plopped precariously on top of his crest and wobbling. "But let's keep going, before you turn into one big speckle."

She lets him soothe her, deeply grudging, and then—

"Hey!" As usual, he has the reach, and that's enough for a temporary victory in this, and she chases him with an annoyance no less affectionate than it is genuine. He doesn't stand a chance.

Cadens is coming into view, a distant smudge among the heat-haze and dunes, and together they walk through her gates, all the lighter for having taken on the work.

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First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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Fin