Chapter Text
The middle of a jungle was definitely the worst place for a stakeout, he decided.
Yep, definitely the worst. The heat drained the life and liquid out of everything, suspending it in an awful humidity that left them panting, permanently damp and dazed. An endless sea of vines dripped from the canopy above, entangling limbs and tearing at armour at every opportunity with razor-sharp leaves. The only life came in the form of insects, some small and biting, others large and glittering, almost beetle-like, waving odd-numbered limbs as they crawled lazily over the sticky foliage.
While slavers were not known to be picky when choosing places for their vile hideouts, why anyone would choose to live here of all places was still beyond him. Not only was the planet already in the ass-end of nowhere, but it was about as hostile as it could get while still supporting life. This particular band of slavers had buried themselves so deep in this spirits-damned jungle that the only landing zone was a few days march, and fighting their way through the hostile environment had added another two.
He scratched at his neck as a bead of sweat tickled its way into his undersuit, before glancing back at the turian warily scanning the trees behind him.
Days of hacking their way through the dense underbrush, mud sucking at their boots and tiny biting insects had left him exhausted. Nihlus was a Council Spectre, mentored by the infamous and unforgiving Saren Arterius. He was used to the endless days as predator or prey, the long, relentless, hours that came with the role of Spectre.
C-Sec however, did nothing of the sort for Garrus. The Turian Millitary’s survival training had embedded the resolve that kept him standing, but he had never made it to the Spectre program. His father had made sure of that, and now he couldn’t hide the shaking limbs and faltering gait that betrayed his weariness.
“How far now?” he asked as he turned, stumbling as his boot caught on yet another vine twisting its way around his feet. He managed to collect himself just short of crashing into Nihlus as he came to a sudden stop in front of him, and the Spectre gave him a hard glare before returning his attention to the trees.
He still wasn’t sure why Nihlus had requested him specifically to accompany him on this mission. His reputation at C-Sec wasn’t exactly great, with his “overly fluid interpretation” of rules and regulations, as his father so kindly put it.
He had just received his week of suspension when Nihlus had first approached him. After the debacle that was his case against Dr Saleon, a black-market organ dealer who had been growing his products inside his employees. Garrus had first ordered, then shouted and begged, but Citadel Defense refused to fire on the ship containing Dr Saleon and his hostages. Pallin had shouted at him until both larynges were hoarse before simply shaking his head and gesturing towards the Executor’s office.
“Garrus..” the Executor sighed, rubbing the familiar blue markings on his face as if he could scrub away his son’s transgressions.
“Garrus how many times are you going to have to come into my office before you realise that these antics do nothing but waste my time and everyone else’s here?”
The grey-blue eyes seemed to bore through Garrus’s defence, fatigue etching deep lines into the dulling brow plates above them. He clenched his fists, talons pricking his palms as a hot flush of embarrassment crept its way out from under his collar, boiling the anger he had been struggling to keep in check since Pallin had dragged him from the docking bay.
“My ‘antics’ are the only thing that is actually making any kind of difference around here! You sit here, buried under your beloved red tape, letting men like Saleon go because paperwork is more important than people’s lives!”
Trembling with rage as a low growl rumbled through his chest, his mandibles fluttered wildly against his jaw and he spat the words with all the vitriol he could muster.
“All you had to do was let me do my job, and we could have had him. One of the most prolific organ dealers on the Citadel, gone!” The chair clattered to the floor as he stood, talons digging into the soft wood of the desk as he leaned in uncomfortably close.
“Officer Vakarian, contain yourself!” barked the Executor, what little warmth his father had replaced with the cold, hard demeanour that befitted the Executor of Citadel Security. Garrus jerked upright into a stiff soldier’s stance, a little taken aback at the sharpness stabbing through his father’s voice. His eyes flicked briefly to the floor and he fidgeted uncomfortably, shuffling his feet from side to side.
A flicker of guilt caught in his chest. There was nothing like his father’s “officer voice” to make him feel like a child again, caught dismantling his father’s rifle mods or sneaking his mother’s special pastries from the pantry.
“You are suspended for one week, starting now. All your current cases will be transferred to other officers capable of following C-Sec and Council laws and regulations, and upon your return, you will be assigned to a senior officer at all times. Is that clear?” Castis Vakarian calmly punched his instructions into his console before regarding his son with a heavy gaze, mandibles tight to his face and fingertips pressed together.
Garrus gaped as if to say something, then decided better of it. In the back of his mind, he noted that if he were anyone else he probably would have been demoted, or even fired, but it did little to mute the outrage colouring his subvocals as he sputtered out a “Yes sir.”
“Good.” Nodded Castis, before waving one hand lazily towards the door. “Now get out of here.”
Garrus didn’t need to be told twice, storming forwards and almost punching the console in his anger.
That anger carried him aimlessly through the halls and alleyways of the wards, down into Chora’s Den, the seedy nightclub at the bottom of the wards that most C-Sec officers had the tendency to avoid. No one wants to end up having to work on a night out, after all.
The stench of sweat and despair hit him as he stepped into the dim light, the dirty glares from the other patrons oozing over the film of dust and grease coating every surface. He flared his mandibles in a grimace and glanced down, realising he was still in his distinctive C-Sec issued armor. That explained the looks.
He was still contemplating whether or not to go home and change when a large, red-plated shoulder barged into him, toppling into a booth as the krogan attached to it continued on his way towards the bar despite the obstruction.
“Watch it, pyjack” he growled, and Garrus caught a glimpse of three gnarled gashes carving their way past reptilian yellow eyes narrowed into slits.
For the second time that day, Garrus opened his mouth to say something, then thought the better of it. He sighed and hauled himself up off the sagging bench, eyes darting warily as he dusted himself down and made his way to the bar. He slid into a stool in the corner, as far away as possible from the angry red krogan who was now shouting loudly at the krogan next to him, ryncol sloshing over the edge of the tankard as he waved it about.
He growled under his breath as the asari bartender meandered her way over with his order, slamming down the grubby glass of watery-looking brandy with a thud.
How dare they suspend him! Assigned babysitting when he was reinstated? Handing over all his cases? He could forget about busting the brand new red sand ring that popped up only a month ago. Or finally nailing down the volus smuggling mods in with the so-called “toothbrush” parts. What kind of toothbrush needs mass effect fields anyway?!
It was unfair and outrageous and exhausting. Mostly unfair. He tilted his head and gulped down the rest of the sour-smelling brandy, sputtering as it still managed to burn its way down his throat in its watered-down state.
“Garrus Vakarian.”
It was a statement, not a question, and it turned the sputter into a full-blown coughing fit. The newcomer snapped his mandibles tight with disapproval and stepped delicately out of the way of the sudden spray of spittle and almost-brandy.
“Y-yes?” he choked out, gasping for breath. The newcomer fixed him with a withering stare that matched the harsh white lines of the markings tracing his face. His plates were an unusual reddish brown, his armour laced with red lights glowing eerily in the dim light of the bar. Garrus had the sinking feeling that this was all somehow familiar.
“Nihlus Kryik. Spectre.”
Oh shit.
This was it. For whatever reason, the Council had caught wind of what had happened at the docks and had decided to get a Spectre to bring him in. Not just any Spectre, but the one he had embarrassed himself in front of when he shouted at his father in a very un-turian like manner over his application to the Spectres.
He was so screwed. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“Look, if this is about the docks, there are a few things you should know-”
“I’m not here about your little incident at the docks.”
His mouth snapped shut in surprise, teeth clacking together as he furrowed his brow. Not about the docks? “Little” incident? He wanted to point out that “little incidents” didn’t result in suspensions, but Nihlus had already taken a deep breath to carry on.
“You will be accompanying me on a highly classified mission on behalf of C-Sec. Report to dock D24 for a full briefing at 21:00 tomorrow. A full armoury is provided, although you are welcome to bring any personalised weapons or tech.”
Garrus stared, slack-jawed, as a watery laugh bubbled its way out with a breathy “ha”. Joining a Spectre on a mission? This was little 10-year-old Garrus’s dream! A chance to finally do some real good, without being blocked by red tape and buried in paperwork at every turn. But as quickly as it appeared, the joy vanished with a pop, and he slumped, deflated against the bar.
“Sir, I was suspended, for a week. I’m not sure C-Sec wants me representing anything right now.” His eyes flicked downwards and he stared glumly at his empty glass.
The white markings twisted into a smirk, and Garrus had the feeling that he and Nihlus shared something in common when it came to the matter. “Well, this Spectre says you’re un-suspended. Consider it on hold, for now.”
Nihlus turned and began to merge back into the throng of patrons when Garrus caught him quickly by the shoulder. Nihlus’s eyes flashed as he stiffened, only for a second, and the sensible part of Garrus’s over-excited brain noted that it probably was not the best idea to take a Council Spectre by surprise.
“But why me? No offence, but I am not exactly the embodiment of C-Sec values.” The slightest hint of bitter frustration seeped through his subvocals and dissipated under his breath.
Nihlus shrugged, and Garrus’s hand fell limply to his side. “I don’t need C-Sec values. I need keen eyes with a brain between them. Your records show you won’t disappoint me with either.”
Within the space of a salarian heartbeat Nihlus melted back into the crowd, and Garrus was left staring into empty space, heart racing and mandibles flared in a crooked grin.
The soft buzzing of the small insectoid creature crawling its way over his cowl pulled him out of his reverie, and he grimaced as he swatted it away.
Despite Nihlus’s insistence on his presence, he had seen absolutely nothing that would warrant a Council Spectre dragging him out into the wilderness of the Terminus Systems.
He chuckled under his breath. Maybe if he had known about the jungle part he wouldn’t have bounced his way onto the Spectre’s ship quite so enthusiastically.
“I’m getting a bit of interference so they can’t be far.” Nihlus rumbled, low and quiet amongst the soft clicking and chattering of the jungle’s inhabitants.
“Should be just up ahead, the perimeter array is just before the edge of that clearing.” The Spectre huffed in a low breath, only the soft glow of his markings betraying his presence in the gloom.
“Might as well hole up here for a bit, wait for dark,” Garrus whispered, gesturing towards the uneven yet dry patch of land they had been lucky to stumble across.
“Agreed.”
As they hunkered down into the rough underbrush, Garrus couldn’t help but feel his sense of unease grow as the day trickled slowly into dark. Nihlus seemed more on edge than usual, eyes flickering, never stopping, darting from one dark shape to another.
Garrus didn’t believe in the Spirits, not like some of the older Vakarians. But he could have sworn that the jungle itself came alive that night, twisting, bearing down over them, pushing them towards the compound that lay just through the trees.
Whatever lay in that compound, he would be damned if the Spirits didn’t want him to find it.