Initially, Garrus recognized quite a few familiar faces aboard the Normandy SR-2. The first, of course, was the one that had drew them all together in the first place. Shepard was back to his old tricks, it seemed. Endangering them for some great cause. How could he resist? In truth, Garrus needed a break from his stint on Omega. His drive for justice had been focused on the small city on the asteroid, but it had cost him . . . a lot. He didn’t know how Shepard could stand to lead. Not when it came with the knowledge that one might order the deaths of one’s men.
Garrus knew he was pretty fucked up over everything that had happened on Omega. But he was a Turian. They buried and kept their eyes on the target. He was also unable to join on missions since he was technically on medical leave. Taking a rocket to the face required bed rest . . . or so he was told.
Turians weren’t used to laying about for long periods of time, and so Garrus had taken the time to take a look around the new ship. Joker was here, which meant they stood a chance in the sky, since he was the best damned pilot Garrus had ever met. There were a lot of new faces, too. A convict with incredible biotic powers, an assassin who kept to himself, a thief that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, a Krogan that had been grown out of a tube, and a Betazoid with a particular education in biochemistry.
The last one had been brought on for her unique expertise in her field. Not only could she help stabilize the Krogan, as well as any medical questions Dr. Chakwas may have, but she was primarily responsible for helping them understand the Collectors. Their ships and species as a whole was a mystery to them--secretive as the Collectors were. Since they were up against them, it’d serve them well to understand them at the molecule level. For Garrus, he wanted to know where the softest tissue was, so he knew where to aim.
Since Shepard and a few of the others were out on some mission, Garrus was restless. He didn’t trust anyone to watch Shepard’s back but himself . . . but the crew was good. He’d be fine. If only his gut would believe it. Gently touching his talons to the bandage against the side of his face, Garrus winced at the sting, then gave an irritated growl.
His steps took him to the galley. Perhaps he could drink himself asleep. When he entered, he found that he wouldn’t be alone. “Evening, doctor,” he greeted one of the new faces, not even sure if she was a doctor or not. Ania, he thought her name was. A quick glance ran over her, and then he turned to the counter, grabbing himself a drink.
With the mix of levo and dextro species on the ship, there was a little bit of everything. He made sure to grab the Turian brandy. Last thing he needed was to poison himself by drinking the wrong thing. Turning around, he rested his back against the counter and brought the drink to the plates of his mouth. His mandibles lightly gripped the sides of the glass and he took a healthy swig. The burn was pleasant, and the resulting warmth in his belly and blood was exactly what he needed.
“Do you drink, doctor?” Garrus asked, grabbing the brandy reserved for levo species and offering her the bottle.
