Five days blurred into a rhythm of crisis and repair.
Atmospheric processor valve — conventional fix, no MP required, just eight hours of crawling through maintenance conduits with Kowalski barking instructions from above. Power relay junction — 35 MP, deployed at 0300 when the engineering section was empty, passed off as "surplus components from a contact." Residential heating — patched with actual salvage from the abandoned Block C, no system involvement needed.
The colony stabilized. Not thrived — stabilized. The difference was the space between "dying this month" and "dying in six months." But the colonists treated it like salvation, and Webb's name carried a weight in the mess hall that made his skin itch.
He was drinking alone in the Rusty Claim — Haven's Point's only bar, a converted storage bay with repurposed mining equipment as furniture and a bartender named Luis who watered down everything except the stuff that would kill you — when the door opened and the silhouette was wrong.
Not human-wrong. Species-wrong. Too tall, too narrow through the waist, with a head shape that belonged on a recruitment poster for the Turian Hierarchy.
The turian stepped inside and the room's ambient noise dropped by half. Haven's Point was human-majority. Turians passed through occasionally — traders, mercs, lost tourists who'd made bad relay calculations — but they didn't stay. This one moved like he intended to stay. He scanned the room the way a cop scans a room: exits first, threats second, civilians third.
"C-Sec training. That posture, that scan pattern — Academy standard, drilled until it's automatic."
The turian took the stool next to him. Not across the bar, not at a table. Next to him. Deliberate proximity. He was wearing civilian clothes — a jacket that didn't quite hide the shoulder holster underneath, boots with too much tread for casual wear. His left mandible had a hairline crack that had healed without proper medical attention. A scar, turian-style.
"Whiskey," the turian told Luis. His voice carried subvocals that hummed beneath the words like a cello under a violin. "Whatever passes for it here."
Luis poured without comment. The glass slid across the bar.
The turian's credit chit hit the counter as he paid. Standard Citadel-issue. The name on the authorization hologram:
VAKARIAN, G.
The room tilted. Not physically. Everything stayed where it was — the bar, the glass, the stool, the smudged lighting and bad music. But something inside his chest shifted, like a gear engaging that he hadn't known was loose.
"Garrus Vakarian. Garrus. Here. Three years before he meets Shepard. Three years before he becomes the best sniper in the galaxy and Shepard's most trusted friend."
In the games, Garrus had been C-Sec — a detective frustrated by red tape and corruption, itching to do things the right way even when the system wouldn't let him. He didn't leave C-Sec until Shepard showed up and offered him something better.
But that was three years from now. Right now, Garrus Vakarian was sitting in a Terminus bar on a dying colony, alone, in civilian clothes, drinking bad whiskey.
"He's here early. Off the books. Something pushed him out of the Citadel ahead of schedule."
"Long way from Council space," he said. Casual. Testing.
The turian — Garrus — turned his head. The mandible assessment was instant: left mandible relaxed, right one tight. Caution without hostility. Reading him the same way he was being read.
"Could say the same about you."
"I live here."
"Nobody lives here by choice."
"Fair point." He took a drink. "Webb. Marcus Webb."
"Garrus." No last name offered. Interesting. "You the one they're calling the miracle worker?"
Word traveled fast in small colonies. Or Garrus had done research before sitting down. Probably both.
"I fix things. People exaggerate."
"Mm." Garrus drank. His mandibles flared briefly — the whiskey was worse than expected. "I'm looking for something. Thought maybe the local fixer might know the landscape."
"Depends on what you're looking for."
Garrus set his glass down. Rotated it once on the bar top. A deliberate motion — buying thinking time.
"Weapons. Specifically, a trafficking pipeline that's been using independent colonies as distribution nodes. Military-grade hardware — Phaeston rifles, Mantis sniper systems, Thanix-derivative components — moving through ports with no customs infrastructure. Like this one."
"Arms trafficking through the Terminus. C-Sec case. He's investigating off the books because someone at C-Sec shut it down."
"That's a C-Sec matter."
The turian's mandibles pressed flat. A tell. He'd given himself away by mentioning C-Sec, and he knew it.
"Was. Case got reassigned. Then buried. Then my access to the files got revoked." He paused. "I'm on personal leave."
"The kind where you chose to leave, or the kind where someone chose for you?"
"The kind where I was told to stop asking questions about where confiscated weapons go after they enter evidence lockup. And I don't stop well."
"That's the Garrus I know. The one who can't leave a wrong thing alone. The one who'll become Archangel on Omega because he can't stop fighting."
He signaled Luis. Two more glasses. Luis poured.
"I've been here about a week. The colony gets irregular supply traffic — freighters, mostly, running through pirate corridors. But there's a warehouse on the eastern edge of the industrial sector that gets deliveries at odd hours. Three AM. Crews that scan for observers before unloading. Nobody at the colony administration authorized those shipments."
Garrus went still. The particular stillness of a predator that just caught a scent.
"You noticed this on your own?"
"I notice patterns. Occupational habit."
"What occupation?"
"The kind that involves paying attention." He pushed the second glass toward Garrus. "Look, I don't know what you're chasing or how deep it goes. But if the pipeline runs through this colony, it's connected to the pirates who've been strangling our supply routes. Help me with one, and I'll help you with the other."
Garrus studied him. Turian expressions were harder to read than human ones — the mandibles carried most of the emotional data, and he was still learning the vocabulary. But some things translated across species. Suspicion looked the same in any face.
"Why help me? You don't know me. Humans in the Terminus don't usually volunteer for C-Sec investigations."
"Because those pirates killed three convoy crews before we got through. Friends of the people in this bar. If your weapons ring is connected to them, then your problem is my problem."
A long pause. Garrus rotated his glass again. Then he drank, set it down with a deliberate click, and turned to face him fully.
"The warehouse. What time do the deliveries come?"
"0300, give or take. Crew of four to six. Mixed species — I've spotted at least two turians, which is unusual for a human-majority colony."
"Turians running a pipeline through a human settlement. That narrows the list."
"Figured it might."
Garrus extended his hand. The grip was exactly what he'd expected — strong enough to grind bone if he squeezed, held back to merely firm out of species awareness. Talons pressed against his knuckles without breaking skin.
"Tomorrow night. I want to see this warehouse. Bring your omni-tool and something waterproof — if these people are serious, they'll have countermeasures."
"I'll be ready."
Garrus stood. Dropped credits on the bar. He was nearly to the door when he stopped and turned back.
"Webb."
"Yeah?"
"The miracle worker reputation. Is it earned?"
"Ask the water recyclers."
A turian sound — not quite a laugh, more like a subvocal rumble that carried dry amusement across species barriers.
"Fair enough."
The door closed behind him. The bar's ambient noise climbed back to normal. Luis collected the glasses with the professional disinterest of a man who'd seen everything and been impressed by none of it.
He sat alone for another ten minutes. The drink was bad. He drank it anyway.
"Garrus Vakarian. On this colony. Investigating a case that got him pushed out of C-Sec early. If I play this right — if I help him, prove trustworthy, show him something worth fighting for — I don't just get an ally. I get the best tactical mind I'll ever meet."
[HERO RECRUITMENT TAB — NOTIFICATION]
[POTENTIAL HERO DETECTED: GARRUS VAKARIAN]
[CLASSIFICATION: TIER 3 — HIGH VALUE]
[RECRUITMENT COST: UNKNOWN (INSUFFICIENT DATA — REQUIRES RELATIONSHIP THRESHOLD)]
[CURRENT RELATIONSHIP: CAUTIOUS PROFESSIONAL INTEREST]
[RECOMMENDED APPROACH: DEMONSTRATE COMPETENCE AND SHARED VALUES]
The system confirmed what he already knew. Garrus wasn't someone you recruited with points — you recruited him by being worth following.
He finished his drink, left credits on the bar, and walked into Haven's Point's cold evening air to prepare for tomorrow.
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