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.]
thearchangel: (Waldo you crafty bastard)
[Despite the irritation in his last entry, the local vigilante has taken it upon himself to try out the damn rifle anyway. It might not work as he wants it to, but he'll take potshots over losing his edge.]

[Which is why he's standing at the edge of the green, taking careful aim, and firing into one of the topiary shrubs. He's aiming for the central trunk, to avoid grazing the thing and hitting someone walking along behind it.]

[... between the sharp cracks of rifle fire, his head bobs in a rhythm. Almost like...]

[Okay, yes. Garrus has his music on.]

[And if you watch him long enough, he might even attempt some semblance of dancing.]

August 2012

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