abraxaslogs | former glories and all the stories

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former glories and all the stories

WHO: Garrus Vakarian & Shepard
WHAT: Search & Rescue Mission
WHERE: Libertas
WHEN: Sept / Oct
WARNINGS: Warzone discussion, will update as needed

One small saving grace to all this is at least Libertas doesn't burn like Palaven did. Like Cipritine did. There are, at least, no twisted, mangled machinations scurrying around trying to indoctrinate people. No menacing shapes overhead - no blaring Reaper horns.

But that's small comfort for everyone involved, he's sure, and the thoughts stay unsaid.

Garrus wishes, also privately, he could at least have his helmet. Have a filter for the ashen air he's currently breathing in. Frankly, he feels naked all over. Picking through the streets strewn with rubble and trying not to step on anything hazardous - he doubts his hide and the makeshift boots would hold up too well. It feels wrong to be pacing through a warzone with nothing more than heavier clothing, the ancient communication device, and...

"Remind me what the hell this thing is supposed to be."

A 'hound', they'd called it. It's furry. It's a quadruped, and it's been assigned to accompany them. He feels like he should know what exactly he's looking at here - like if someone stretched out Shepard's hamster - but in all his time on the extranet, all his time on the Citadel, this thing has never hit Garrus' radar. Pets weren't allowed on the Citadel, nothing this size anyway. He knows they need to focus, this is a mission, and not something to take lightly. He isn't, of course. But the broken, burned-out buildings hit home in a way he really doesn't like.

Naturally, when Garrus has discomforting feelings, he defaults to the snark. To the smart-ass commentary. It won't last. Not when they're making steady progress toward their assigned quadrant of this block. Even though the words want to bubble up when he looks at the nearest broken building.

This ... is going to be a long one.

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"Depends on the weight," She considers it from the closer angle, finally managing to pick her way to his side. Crouching down... it's small, in there, that's for damn sure, "I could try and just toss it. It's the fragmentation that's the real problem..."

In combat, turning a thrown crate into a thousand ragged-edged splinters was a bonus, if anything. But here, it could turn out to be a deadly error.

"...Dammit, Liara was always better at this shit," She mutters, and then stands to consider potential landing zones. The house itself was ruined, but it might've had a cellar, in which case suddenly flipping more weight onto it would drop them all into a world of hurt. The street? That needed to remain clear, for the rescue teams, not to manage the potential for collateral damage if the impact produced shrapnel.

The alleyway? It was handy enough, honestly it was closer than anything else except the house itself, but was it wide enough? Would tossing the rubble there just cause them more trouble? Maybe she should just lift it, but that had its own concerns: she only had so much stamina, after all. There was no point in pride, where it served her ego and no practical purpose.

"Fuck it. If there's someone injured down there, I need you to get them out from under any falling debris while I get the top off this thing," Shepard stepped back, looking for a more stable place to set her stance, and where she could see both the target, and its destination, "Call the mark, it's on you."

"Throw it to the alleyway?" he suggests, as if reading her thoughts. But, really, it's the best option if they go that route. Keeps the road clear, keeps the pieces from falling inward. It's the best strategy they have right now. One of them could shoulder their way through the pieces once the survivors were clear.

It's on you

Set himself. Keep his hands on the brace. Okay, as soon as they're both ready, he'll call it out. He's got this. Some part of him is dimly surprised he doesn't balk at being put in charge here. But things have changed. He's not fresh off his failure on Omega anymore. Shepard trusts him. That's more of a balm than he really knows how to process.

Soon as he calls, he has to move, shove himself into the gap as soon as possible. His hide isn't invulnerable by any means, but he has a better chance of coming away from falling wooden debris with a few scrapes rather than severe injuries. It's the best call to make.

"Ready..." The briefest of pauses, his word trailing off - that's not the command, it's to follow: "Go!"

It is the duty of every commanding officer to spend her men's lives well, and not to waste them. Shepard is very aware of that. She's also aware of how irreplaceable someone like Garrus truly is; if she trusts him, it's to take care of himself as much as to get the job done.

And he, of all people, knows best how she feels about the mission.

Go!

She goes, and the entire slab of wood, stone, and mortar rises into the air, a tumbling, dust-shedding constellation of loose bits. Almost immediately, Shepard can feel that it's too much, too fragmented— it's going to drop. With a colossal effort, she wrenches both arms to one side, and the whole load wrenches with her, scattering in a tumbling, crackling heap into the alleyway.

She goes to one knee, vision swimming with black spots, but forces herself back up with a sniff. Down in the hole, now exposed to sunlight, sits a pair of children. The older cradling the younger, barely more than an infant, stares up at Garrus with a frightened, tear-streaked face. Beside them, well and truly pinned beneath the portion of the house that had collapsed fully, is a man— most likely their father. His face is bloodless, pale and pretty, and his hair is long and dark, and unless humans on this planet have found a new way to achieve a two-dimensional profile, he is very, very dead.

Garrus absolutely does not hesitate. He's in motion as soon as he says that word. He knows he needs to watch his step, to keep from becoming another rescue in the rubble, but time is absolutely of the essence. His steps are careful, fast. And he's there in a few long strides.

Something is groaning, and there's bits and pieces raining. He curses, colorfully, but, thankfully, in a his own familiar language. No human ears scalded here. Which turns out to be smart, in a weird sort of way, when the children are revealed.

The corpse barely gets a glance. Humans aren't made to squish like that. Not a priority, not the goal. "Search and rescue," he informs them, quickly. He doesn't want to linger, and risk that groaning noise going from removed debris to the crap under his feet. "You hurt?"

When the older kid shakes their head, that's all he needs. He scoops them both up in one go. Backing up and getting them out of the shallow grave as fast as he can, while trying not to sprain an ankle. "Clear, Shepard!"

The little one, the infant, is shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. So he adds: "They're not injured!"

Bending over the lip of the divot, she observes Garrus' businesslike handling of the situation. It probably won't work on such young kids, not human kids at least, but damn she does appreciate the way he simply gets on with it.

"Pass 'em up here," She calls down, and sniffs again, trying to stem the lingering nosebleed by sheer will, with uncertain success, "We need to get off this heap before something shifts."

The rest of the afternoon goes just like that; tragedy and hope hand in hand. The dog leads them somewhere, gets a snack, and stands by while they drag people in whole or part, or their bodies, out from under the damaged and collapsed structures of Libertas. It's an ugly scene, marred by soot and screaming ambiance, but as futile as the work can seem, it's still satisfying to her. They can't save everyone, can't even save all that many, but these children will get to live, that woman will be able to save her family, this father given a dignified burial.

By the time the sun it tilting towards the horizon, the army wants its dog back and Shepard... is tired. It's more biotic work than she's done in months, and strenuous even by those standards; she passes off the hound to the relevant authorities and drops onto a bit of masonry immediately after.

It's warm under her, against the cooling air, and Shepard sighs at the empty waterskin. What she wouldn't do for a nice, hot shower.

It's a lot more people than he'd been able to save, before. Every living survivor is one more mark on a mental tally sheet. Something to hold up, to see, when his thoughts turned back to the Palaven rubble. To bedsheets on Omega. The latter didn't rear its head as much these days, but when it did... it was always good to have proof to beat it back into memory where it belonged.

He's more concerned about Shepard, the longer they go. They've only got so much juice in the literal tank. Only so much a human biotic can push themselves before something goes wrong.

Thankfully, mercifully, their shift ends. Part of him wants to keep pushing, keep his head down and keep digging, just in case. Just in case there was one more. But the dog needs to go home, Shepard needs a break. He stays on his feet a while longer, scanning the rubble in an almost mechanical reflex.

At length, he pulls himself away, and drops to sit beside her. It's not juice, but he passes his own water supply over, shaking his head. His talons are cracked, scales on his hands pitted and flaking... but its as superficial as some scrapes and scratches.

"Turians don't lose as much hydration," he says by way of explanation. No sweat glands to speak of. "Take it."

She considers the offer with a weather eye. The right thing to do, the kinder thing, would be to hand it back, insist that it's his, and force him to drink his ration. She considers doing that. And then Shepard tilts her head back and takes a sip— and finds she can't stop swallowing, until the damned thing is abruptly empty.

"I'm fine," She tells him, on a hoarse and satisfied exhale. Fuck, she had needed that, "Gimme a couple minutes, we'll get back to it."

She's pretty bullheaded, but even Shepard knows what'll happen if she doesn't have a break just now; there are soft limits, and hard ones, and the way her legs feel this isn't the kind of limit where you can just embrace the pain and move through it. This is the other thing, with the blood sugar: the only thing to be gained there is a trip to the floor.

But they still can't stop. Most of the people who survived the initial attack will die here and now, in the first day. After that, it's just bodies and closure; she knows that, Garrus knows that, everybody knows that. Hell, he's only barely willing to sit the hell down, she can see how intimately he knows it.

They can sleep later, when there's only the dead.

When there's...

"Shit," Shepard says, quietly. She'd forgotten. She had forgotten that he was ahead of her in time, and if it wasn't by long then those few crucial months held the greatest casualty event of their lifetimes. It's only now, with her mind molasses-slow with fatigue, that she remembers it, "You holdin' up okay?"

"You sure?" He has to ask. Who else is going to watch Shepard's back, while they're here? He knows she pushes herself harder than anyone. Hell, he wants to keep pushing onward too. But he's just a regular old solider, not someone who could deadlift buildings with his brain.

They should have brought more food. More calories for her. More water for her. He knows damn well Shepard never would have accepted concessions like that, but he should have known better. He is itchy to keep up the work. And even more so to make sure someone important to him comes through this on her feet.

"I know I could use a breather. And I'm no biotic."

Maybe they can round up something to get her back in action sooner. Or... ah. The question of the hour. The one he's been driving off all day. He's quiet for a while, the gears churning in his head. His mandibles flex, fluttering with almost inaudible taps against his jawline.

"It's better than Palaven was," he admits. Which is possibly the best he can say about all this. He doesn't know these people. They aren't his people. He can't see the faces of his family in the survivors and wonder. "Lack of Reapers is always a bonus, too."

He doesn't say what else he's thinking. That this very well could be foreshadowing of her future.

Of Earth's future.

She has no reply for his transparent attempt to placate her pride. He knows her better than anyone, a little too well, sometimes, but... It's not like she doesn't need the break. And neither of them are going to be any good to anyone if they can't keep sharp.

"You know, when I was in prison. And then, on house arrest, I thought I'd go crazy. Staring at the walls, just wanting something to do. It wasn't like they didn't ask me, hell they must've interrogated me a hundred times at the start, always the same questions. I guess eventually they figured that whether or not they believed me, my answers weren't going to change," She fell silent for a bit, looking idly out over the much-shortened city, and the taller, undamaged quarters made thusly visible, out beyond the blast zones. Dust and smoke were in the air, reddening the late-afternoon sun.

Soon it would be dark enough that Shepard's ability to make light would be as valuable as her ability to lift rubble; just the idea made her tired all over again, not that it mattered.

"I know it's not exactly something to look forward to, but damn I just... After all this time, I just want to be able to look into all their smug faces and get one good I told you so," She laughed, and it was bitter, but only at the edges, "Just one. It's such a waste, and all of them spent all that time digging in their heels, when they could have been doing something. And I'm right. I was right, dammit. If we'd just gotten our damn act together..."

She heaves a sigh for the futility of it, then glances over at him, companionably resigned. You can't change the past, Garrus, but with work... maybe you can change the future.

"...You know how I like being proven wrong, though. C'mon, I gotta eat; you should to. Then we'll see how much a night-shift they'll let us have before we get some rack-time."

Edited 2022-10-19 02:59 (UTC)

"You do," he assures her, his tone more amused than anything. "I wasn't there for it, but believe me, I heard." About the I told you so. Because she was right. All of them were. Arriving back home, back on Palaven, it seemed like there was only one person who really listened, really believed the bizarre story Garrus himself was telling.

The irony of it being his father is almost funny, in a sad way. But even so, the token task force, the token acknowledgement from everyone else - he understood even a small portion of the massive frustration Shepard must have always felt. No one was hearing. Until the sky blackened and the horns sounded. Until it was too damn late. Then everyone was looking to him, to them, for some kind of answer he just didn't have.

I like being proven wrong

He leans slightly to one side, so their shoulders touch. The quiet falling into something understanding. At least, in all this, they end up finding each other again. Here, and in the seeming end of their world. No Shepard without Vakarian. No matter how insane it all gets, they seem to have a habit of connecting. It's a comfort, it's a brace.

"I wish I could tell you we were all just crazy," he adds, finally. His eyes are on the skyline - or what's left of it. "That we were wrong... That this isn't what Earth looks like where I'm from. But you know how I feel about lying."

Slowly, he starts to straighten up, rolling his shoulders.

"Can those dogs... see in the dark?"

Well, there's a change of subject. But maybe they've earned it.

"That I do," Shepard acknowledges, listening to him acknowledge the bitter truth and square up. She might've been having one of her least favorite vacations during that half-year, but she has to believe that, if no one else, Garrus had been doing his best to get the job done, in whatever capacity, "But hey, at least we've got each other."

Competence was hot, regardless of the source. In Garrus, who more than once she'd seen broken with impotent rage, and seen claw it back, it was more than merely attractive. It was... grounding. The difference between a night of ill-advised pre-battle passion and the kind of thing they had, that went on and on, until it felt like home. When he leans into her, she presses right back in mutual support.

"Those dogs got better night vision than either of us," she replies, letting go of Reaper Talk, at least for the time being. There would always be plenty of time for the end of the world later, "Why? Scared of the dark, Vakarian?"

"Yeah. You're stuck with me, Shepard, sad to say. But someone's got to make you look good."

There it is. The wry, dry sense of humor. Thrown in to try and lighten the bleaker moments. The harsher ones - where they have to confront or discuss things neither of them really want to think about. Someone has to make sure the weight of the world isn't smothering her. Much as he can, anyway, while they're stuck here, and not fighting a damn war for survival.

Not that she needs any help in the looking good department, if you asked him. Even dusty and exhausted. Lifting buildings with your brain? I guess that's a thing now.

He scoffs, his mandibles flaring down into a grimace. "Dark, no. Tripping over something, landing in a pile of rubble because I can't see my own feet? More so."

"We've got to get you into some of this magic stuff, get a light of you own," Shepard replies, grinning goodnaturedly at his suffering, "You can't make me do all the work."

It's a pointed jab; she knows he cares quite a lot about pulling his own weight, after all. She's no different. But as much as she loves to indulge personal preference, reality does impose the strict limits of that policy. Suck it up, Vakarian, you're going to wizard school.

But not right now. Right now is for creaking to her feet, and offering him a hand up. It's for breathing the smokey air, and squinting down the street... and setting off. For warm food and hard work, and eventually, a bit of sleep. But not right now.

"Maybe I like seeing you work," he retorts, except it doesn't... sound quite like he'd meant it to. He clears his throat. "I mean - right. A light. That's a good start."

Nailed it. Plus, his fluster definitely deflects from the notion of this magic crap. He knows damn well he'll have to figure it out eventually. He'll have to. If he wants to keep up, if he wants to be useful, carry out any kind of duty.

He takes her hand, though, hauling himself upright in time to follow her.

Always.

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former glories and all the stories

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