thearchangel: (And I can't save what's left of you)
[Garrus has been conscious nearing 24 hours now. And on his feet, for most of them.]

[This is not exactly unusual for someone coming from his circumstances, but, the reason is -- if not abnormal then, entirely unwelcome. And far too familiar.]

[For the second time in his life, he's woken up to find his commander, the woman he not only owes his life to, but that he idolizes, that he loves... is gone.]

[Needless to say, the entire keep has been scoured from top to bottom. The lakeshore. The forest trails they'd taken together, looking for deer. Everything he could access, he did. But her armor was gone. Her weapons. There'd been no note, nothing saying she'd gone out on an expedition as she had before. She wouldn't be that careless, given what happened the first time.]

[So it's entirely likely that unlucky members of the Keep's populace would run into the turian as he searches.]

[In the end, it turns up nothing.]

[And Garrus finds himself at the bar in the tower -- the place everything started, ironically enough.]

[The writing is short, curt, and hastily scrawled in the journal before he shoves it aside.]




Commander Shepard is MIA.

Send word if seen.


[After a thought, he scratches out the last part. False hope never helped anything.]
thearchangel: (The confusion and the aftermath)
[He doesn't dream. Typically, Garrus is just too dead tired to do anything like dream. He sleeps -- he wakes up. There's nothing memorable in between. It's not unpleasant. He doesn't regret it. It's just how things are.]

[Which makes it all the more strange that, tonight, the dream is so vivid, he could swear he is actually there. That it isn't a dream at all.]



CUT FOR ME3 SPOILERS )



[The walls of the Keep greet him when he wakes up, not the Presidium. There's a bed under his bony ass, not armor. It's dark. Quiet. And his heart is racing.]

[What... was that? Any of that?]


- - -

[Later in the night, he's put his armor back on, and taken up a vantage point in the chapel, the higher the better, staring down solemnly at the floors below. A bottle is in one hand.]

[While the other traces the harsh, brutal outlines of broken cartilage across the side of his face.]

August 2012

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