Author's Note: During my writing and posting The Hero We Deserve, I put up a poll asking for readers to choose the next fanfic. While a clear majority wanted me to pursue Lair of the Shadow Broker, which I have just concluded with In the Hero's Shadow, there were some people interested in the other option: an original fanfic written from Garrus's point of view. For those people and, hopefully, many others, I present this little treat.

Before we begin, I feel there are a few reassurances and disclaimers I have to lay out. First, I haven't forgotten ME3 or any of my fics leading up to it. I will get there. Eventually. So please don't freak out.

Second, discerning readers may observe a similarity between this fanfic and another book series. While there are several nods and allusions, that's as far as it goes. Garrus will not display or develop any magical gifts for finding things, his mother will not be revealed as a monster straight out of Biblical mythology—or the turian equivalent—and he will not be traipsing around in a white trench coat (not yet, anyway!). Besides, I couldn't turn Garrus into someone who eschews the use of guns.

Now sit back, prop your feet up and pour yourself a glass of bourbon. Or whisky. Or whatever floats your boat.

Something from the Citadel

Chapter 1: You Can't Pick the Client

Welcome to the Citadel.

The heart of galactic civilization. A gleaming jewel in the dark. Calling out to any and all, filling their ears with promises, luring them in with hopes and dreams.

You can find anything here, out on display in the clean and sanitized streets. Countless pleasures for sale, polished to an inch of its life. All lit up to blind you to the fine print, offered with a bright smile and a hand out for your credit card. Everything for sale served up with a nod and a wink, with a side order of fantasy.

You can find anything here, lurking in the corners of every grimy alley. Dark temptations that can never see the light of day, but thrive in the shadows. Dirty secrets offering the thrill of reality while hiding the cold truth. Everything up for grabs, for a once-in-a-lifetime price. Your life.

Rub elbows with the rich and powerful, in the day that never ends. Take a stroll with the poor and downtrodden, in the night that never stops. Walk along the razor's edge of decorum and civilization. Because when nothing is what it seems and everything is possible, you never know how high you can climb.

Or how far you can fall...

They say everyone dies alone.

Like the twenty-two men and women who were killed when the Normandy was destroyed above Alchera. Like Shepard: the one sapient being who I was proud to call my mentor. My friend. The man who died as he lived—doing the right thing.

But then, you can be alive, completely healthy and still be alone. Take the human survivors from the Normandy for instance. All rounded up by the Alliance for debriefings and interrogations. All sucked up in the cold bureaucracy of rules and regulations, uncaring of little things like loss or grief or basic decency. Some of them were handling it pretty well, like Adams or Dr. Chakwas. Others, though... not so much.

Take Kaidan, for instance. Oh he talked the talk about the Alliance knowing what it was doing and cooperating with Alliance Internal Affairs was in everyone's best interests. The way he said it concerned me, though. He reminded me of the various sapients I'd run into. People who fervently quoted policy and rules like some set of commandments from the spirits. Those kinds of people had usually suffered a great loss of some sort and were trying to fill that void with something. Anything. In Kaidan's case, it didn't take a genius to figure out what that loss was.

Or Liara. The asari archaeologist whose knowledge helped thwart an invasion by forces beyond my wildest and darkest imaginings. Quiet by nature, she'd gone completely silent in the hours and days spent spinning around in an escape pod. She finally spoke after our rescuers took us back to the Citadel, saying that she would find Shepard or die trying. Like Kaidan, she wasn't so much dealing with her loss—our loss—as much as pouring herself into a self-imposed quest. Or purposefully drowning in an obsession of her creation. I couldn't really judge her, though. Not when I was doing such a miserable job of dealing with my own grief. How could I help her when I couldn't even help myself? Turned out that I couldn't. So I watched as she started rambling about following up on a lead that even I would find tenuous. Before I knew it, she had booked passage on some outgoing shuttle. I never saw her again.

Then there was Wrex. The krogan battlemaster. Once the youngest tribal leader in krogan history, now a hardened and bitter merc-for-hire. Giving up on the future because there was no hope for his people. Resigned to screwing over other people because he'd been screwed over in his efforts to change things for the better. Until he met Shepard. Now he was all about returning to Tuchanka. About reclaiming his rightful place and reuniting Clan Urdnot. About unifying all the krogan clans and trying something new. Something different. You could feel his excitement radiating from him every time he talked about a bold, brave future for his people, where hope was once again possible. I wished him luck as he boarded the transport for Tuchanka, all the while wishing I had a scrap of his optimism. After all, he was centuries older than I was. Shouldn't he be the one thinking that nothing could ever change?

And how could I forget Tali? The little quarian that could. Sharp as a talon. Always working for the greater good, no matter what anyone—even a short-sighted turian idiot—said. How many quarians would put their own Pilgrimage on hold to help a complete stranger? How many people would put their own dreams and desires aside to help save the galaxy when the galaxy had never once bothered to care about them? Tali did, because she never lost faith in the importance of doing the right thing. She never asked for anything in return. Maybe she thought that, if she worked hard enough, people would recognize her altruism and generosity, and return it in kind. If that was the case, then it all paid off: Shepard rewarded her with a copy of classified geth data. He did more for her in a matter of seconds than most people had in years. Though Shepard probably would've done it even if there weren't any favours 'owed.' In any event, she too had left, having saved the galaxy while still managing to finish her Pilgrimage. By now, she should be halfway back to the Migrant Fleet.

I never got to say goodbye. To Tali or Wrex or any of them. I was too busy, I told myself. Too busy trying to change the galaxy. Look where that got me: nowhere. I'd failed. Story of my life. I failed to be a good turian soldier. I failed to follow my father's example and be a good C-Sec officer. I failed to save my friend.

And when I returned to the Citadel? I began training to become a Spectre. Then, when that didn't work, I rejoined C-Sec. Turns out Special Tactics and Recon has one thing in common with Citadel Security: both of them are mired in too much pointless bureaucracy and paperwork. It's a miracle they get anything done. I couldn't stand it, so I quit. Another failure.

Even worse, no one would listen to my warnings. Or Tali's or Wrex's or Liara's or even Kaidan's. No one with any power or authority wanted to believe that this was just the first skirmish in a war that was coming. They'd rather spin a story about rogue Spectres and geth invaders who had been beaten and now everyone could now live happily ever after.

But maybe I could still make a difference.

After quitting C-Sec, I tracked down a small-time smuggler named Kishpaugh who'd been funnelling drugs onto the streets for years. He'd escaped justice because I couldn't build a good enough case to satisfy C-Sec.

On my own, though... that was another matter. I hunted him down. I made him talk. He told me that he got his filthy drugs from Omega. If I could make my way there and cut off the flow of drugs at the source, then I would have finally made a difference. Finally succeeded at something.

All I had to do was buy a ticket. Easy enough, you'd think. Except that I couldn't pay for it. Virtually all of the credits I'd scrimped and saved over the years had gone to pay for my mother's medical bills. All I had left was my C-Sec severance package. Which wasn't really anything to brag about.

I started offering my services to people who needed help but couldn't afford to wait for the cogs of bureaucracy to finish grinding. Solving mysteries and helping people, like Shepard did. All for a reasonable fee. And on the down-low, as humans would say—if word got out that I was working as a private investigator, I'd have to make it official. That meant paperwork and licensing fees. I had no patience for the former and no credits to spare for the latter. Unfortunately, being an unofficial private investigator meant the paychecks didn't exactly come streaming in. More like a trickle. A very anemic and pathetic trickle.

That's how I wound up in the dirtiest level of the dirtiest apartment complex in the dirtiest Ward on the Citadel, in an effort to stretch my last few credits as far as they'd go. My apartment was cozy, if you wanted to be polite. I called it as I saw it: cramped and lonely. And cheap. Anyone with any sense or any decent-sized account had long since moved out. That left the desperate, the criminals, and the people who danced in the greyer areas of the law. Like my next-door neighbour, a salarian pharmacist who insisted he was on his way to something bigger and better, if only he could get that loan shark and her enforcers off his back. Because that was his only problem. He did not have a gambling problem. He could stop visiting the casinos and the online gambling sites whenever he wanted. Really.

Or the human down the hall, who pretended she didn't welcome one or two strangers into her quarters every night. It wasn't always what it seemed—half the time, they were there to buy some crops from her illegal hydroponics garden. As for the other half of the time, well, let's just say I thank the spirits for the genius who invented soundproofing.

Sadly, both of them made more money than I did. They could actually depend on a steady paycheck, which was more than I could say.

The lights in my hallway were flickering the night Jassara Bevos came to see me. The kind of feeble, anemic flickering that cast more shadows than light. Clearly the spirits were trying to tell me something, but I was never any good at listening to them.

I'd somehow made it back after doing an odd job for another neighbour, who was convinced that his boyfriend was cheating on him. That led to a delightful night visiting bar after club after bar after club after bar, killing my brain cells with one horribly expensive—and, well, just plain horrible—drink after another while my ear drums went on strike.

Not to mention all the contact info I didn't want. I mean, there were plenty of turian women in all those establishments. And asari. The odd quarian or two. And some of the humans looked quite attractive. You'd think that I'd attract attention from one of them. But no. I just had to get hit on by every single drunk volus and elcor instead.

I got the proof I needed in the end. Not that my client wanted it. He didn't believe me. He didn't want to hear the truth. Not surprising, really. People always say they want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But in reality, they almost never do. They only want some heavily sanitized version that's been carefully crafted to make them happy. A lie they can swallow in a glass of fantasy to make them feel better. But I never play that game. I deal in facts and truth, no matter how cold or how bitter.

Which is probably how I wound up where I was today. Stuck in a cold, cramped excuse for an apartment, staring at my credit account. It was slightly fatter for the down payment my client had given me—that was all he gave me, as he'd been too upset to give me the rest of my fee—but it was also a hell of a lot lighter, thanks to all the overpriced drinks I'd been forced to drink during this spirits-damned job. My head was still pounding, so I missed the footsteps at first. But, eventually, I managed to push through the headache and hear them. Steady, confident and light. Sounded like a woman. Probably human.

The door chime rang, driving a spike right through my head crests and into my brain. I stumbled to my feet, hoping to get to the door before the mysterious woman pressed the door chime again. Unfortunately, I missed and hit the wall instead. Twice. The door chime drilled a couple more holes in my head. I slapped at the control panel, talons fumbling as I entered in the keycode. Eventually I got the door open.

The woman who was trying to torture me turned out to be an asari. Go figure, as the humans say. She walked in as if she owned the place, with the surety and confidence that came only with centuries of practise. Her clothes consisted of a white suit with gold trim and a sky-blue blouse. Subtle rather than overt, elegant rather than striking—which meant it must have cost a small fortune. Judging by the way she held herself, she was used to the best. The best clothes, the best company, the best everything.

I saw her eyes slowly pan around my room. It was easy to guess what she was seeing. A cheap desk made of scrap metal precariously tilted to one side, more from its own poor construction than the pile of datapads on top, with only a couple stools for company. A battered secondhand shelf full of vids and datapads, scrounged from a former neighbour who'd taken pity on me. A small vid-screen on the wall, showing some turian 'reality show'. A small mini-fridge formerly filled with ready-to-eat meals, judging by the overflowing garbage bin next to it. A mattress on the stained floor, sporting a dented pillow and a few rumpled blankets thrown to one side. Nothing that belonged to what humans called an up-and-comer.

It was clear from the stiffness in the asari's spine that she'd rather be struck dead on the spot than waste a single moment in this dump. I found that amusing for some reason. She stared at me, judging me. I gave her my best unimpressed stare and gestured to a stool.

She sat down without hesitation or making an effort to clean it first. Quite brave. Or naive.

I slowly walked around the desk and sat on the other stool. The asari stared at me, then jerked her head towards the vid-screen. Taking the hint, I turned it off. "Something to listen to at the end of the day," I said.

"Or the start," she said.

I looked at my chronometer. It was 0200. Spirits, I'd completely lost track of the time.

"You're Garrus Vakarian?"

"That's me," I confirmed.

"Do you realize there's a dead turian outside?" she asked.

"Only one?" I asked in return. "Scavengers must've taken the other two."

For a moment, I thought she was going to get up and march out the door. It's been known to happen. Instead, she glared at me. I waited for her to make the first move. People like her expect to get the first word in. Makes them feel important. And I could tolerate a little arrogance if it meant getting a decent paycheck. By the look of things, she could give me more than that.

Wait. That sounded dirty. Mind you, I'd had one hell of a dry spell.

"I'm Jassara Bevos," the asari said, interrupting my train of thought before it could plunge into the gutters.

"Pleased to meet you," I replied. More to be polite than because I actually meant it.

"You don't have the slightest clue who I am, do you?" Bevos asked.

What was her first hint, I wondered. "Should I?"

"Perhaps not," she sniffed. "You don't seem to be the sort of person who follows the news."

"I've been known to do so on occasion," I corrected her. "If I'm bored. Or if I'm checking out a client. Are you a client?"

"Maybe."

I looked at her again—her clothes, her bearing—and calculated a tentative figure. "Excellent," I said. "What can I do for you?"

A look rippled across her face. Some might have mistook that for hesitation. But it wasn't. Not entirely. There was also a healthy dose of... discomfort. I got the feeling she wasn't used to any of this. Going to places like this. Talking to people instead of giving them orders. It was all new to her. Beneath her. And she didn't like it one bit. But she didn't have any other choice. I watched her as she slowly realized that and pushed herself to start talking.

"I need someone with a certain skill set," Bevos said at last. "Someone familiar with investigations and the streets, but doesn't have to waste time with bureaucracy and paperwork."

Sounded like my kind of woman. That should have set off all sorts of alarms. It probably did, come to think of it, only I couldn't hear it over the pounding in my skull. Spirits, my head hurt. "Yes, I do hate filling out forms. Waste of ones and zeros."

She shot me another glare, as cold as the void of space. Apparently she wasn't looking for sympathy or sarcasm. Maybe she should be looking for an optometrist. All that staring and glaring couldn't be good for her eyes. And she could certainly afford one, if her clothes were any indication. I waited for her to explain why she was here. To tell me what she needed. But she didn't say anything.

...

Anything at all.

...

Well, this was going nowhere fast. Time to try a different tactic.

"Is it blackmail?" I tried. "Someone found out some dirty little secret of yours that you just can't bear to let out? Something that might affect your standing or reputation? A skeleton in the closet that might tarnish your good name?

"Or maybe you think a significant other is cheating on you. Just wrapped up a similar case last night. Is that what this is about? Is a special someone growing a bit distant from you? Complaining of a headache every time you put on the lingerie and—"

Bevos activated her omni-tool before I could go any further. Shame, really. I was just getting started. A young asari's face shimmered into life, floating above her wrist. "My daughter, Zephyria. She's thirty-eight. Answers to 'Zephi' when she wants to be obstinate, which is always."

That, I could tell for myself. The pic showed a young asari glaring out, like she was mad at the whole galaxy and wanted to give it a one-talon salute out of general principle. Definite family resemblance, there.

"She's missing. I want you to find her for me."

"Missing as in kidnapping or—"

"No," Bevos shook her head. "Nothing like that."

"What makes you sure?" I wanted to know. "You're sure no one would benefit from Zephi's absence?"

"I'm successful. And wealthy. But... not... that wealthy. It wouldn't be... worth a kidnapper's... time."

Oh, I could tell that hurt. Every word. Every syllable. And she hated me for forcing that admission out of her. Part of me felt guilty for that. A very small part. Mostly I just felt smug for taking the arrogant bitch down a notch.

"In a way, it would be easier if she was kidnapped. At least then there would be some kind of contact with a ransom demand. But no, she simply ran away—which is worse."

"Worse?"

"There are several people who would enjoy gossiping and speculating at my expense."

Of course. Because it was all about her. It must be difficult being the centre of the galaxy. Such a heavy burden. "When did she disappear?"

"Last night."

"How did she—"

"Don't you think I haven't asked that myself?" Bevos snapped. "If I knew that, I'd have made sure the ungrateful little wretch didn't slip out in the first place!"

My headache was getting worse. The fact that I was grinding my mandibles against each other didn't help. "So this has happened before?" I asked.

"Only every other month."

"Why this time? What happened?"

"Oh, the usual," Bevos waved a hand impatiently. "Some argument about how I never listen to her and don't get her and how she wished I was dead. Never mind that I've given her everything. The best suite, the best clothes, the best education. And still she just runs away. Typical."

"I haven't heard anything about her... other parent," I said. It was always tricky figuring out what to call an asari's parents. On the one hand, asari were mono-gendered. On the other hand, everyone called them all women. Even asari did that. Major pain in the ass, believe me.

"Dead," she dismissed. "Best thing the bastard ever did."

"Any other family that Zephi might have visited?"

"No one. I'm all she's got. She's all I have."

Spirits. What a delightful life it must've been for Zephi.

"Are there any—"

"No problems with red sand or any other drugs, barely drinks any alcohol, no boyfriend or girlfriend issues," Bevos interrupted. "I never raised a hand or raised my voice, either. And still she just ran away."

That brought to mind a human saying about complaining too much. Apparently it came from a play by some ancient human playwright. "Did you contact C-Sec? This is right up their alley?"

"Already did. Useless idiots. They took my statement, issued some useless platitudes about it being too soon. Young women did this thing all the time and they almost always turned up safe somewhere, blah, blah, blah. It's just part of growing up and proving to themselves that they can be their own person out in the big universe, yadeyadeyadah. Especially with asari and their long lifespans. No dead asari has turned up so don't worry. Everything'll be just fine."

I leaned back, as if thoughtfully and carefully considering what she'd told me. Little trick I learned a long time ago, one that helps appease the civvies. What Bevos wanted seemed pretty straightforward. The actual execution would be much more complicated, of course. Tracking down and finding her runaway daughter wasn't going to be easy. But then I was a bit short on funds. Shorter than I had been yesterday, as a matter of fact. I wasn't exactly in a position to be picky.

Having decided that I'd waited long enough, I leaned forward and put on my most serious and thoughtful look. "Let me see if I understand this. Your daughter has run away. Again. She's been gone for one standard day. And rather than wait for her to get cold and tired and return on her own, or for C-Sec to launch its own missing persons investigation, you want me to go out, find her and drag her back kicking and screaming."

"I'm paying you for a job, not to give me lip."

Guess that struck a little too close to home. And now she thought she could regain the upper hand by treating me like one of her underlings or sycophants. After facing geth, husks, Thorian creepers, more geth and the end of the galaxy as I knew it, a snooty asari who was a prime candidate for Neglectful Parent of the Year was nothing. Still, her self-absorbed disregard for her own kid rubbed my face plates raw. Even if I did need the money. So I added another digit or two to the figure I'd calculated earlier before opening my mouth.

"I charge two hundred credits per hour, plus expenses. And one thousand credits up front."

"That's a lot of money."

Of course she'd say that. "It's your daughter we're talking about," I reminded her.

She was already nodding in agreement. I had the feeling that this conversation would've gone the same way even if I'd charged ten times more. For people like her, everything boiled down to credits.

Bevos activated her omni-tool and tapped in a few commands. "Five thousand credits," she said simply. "Enough to get you started."

I checked my omni-tool. Sure enough, I was now five thousand credits richer. Excellent. Almost enough to handle my rent, daily expenses as well as the price of that ticket to Omega. It's amazing how many problems could be solved by four digits.

So why did I feel like I was missing something?

"One more thing."

That's why. "Yes?"

"She has to be back home by tomorrow night."

Right. Just like that. "Do you have any idea how big the Citadel is?" I asked.

"Better than you, I'm sure," Bevos sniffed.

"Somehow, I don't think you get it," I replied, leaning forward. "There are tons of cubby-holes, alleyways, maintenance ducts and other hiding spots scattered throughout the Citadel. Hidden in the midst of millions of locals and tourists. You're asking me to find one individual in the midst of all that."

"I'm not paying you to lecture me," Bevos snapped. "I'm paying you to do a job."

"A job that you want completed in less than thirty-five hours," I frowned. Not to mention a job that I'd agreed to before fully understanding what it entailed. Why oh why didn't I read the fine print? "Why the rush?"

"That's not your concern. Just get that ungrateful little child of mine back home by 1700 tomorrow evening. Do we have a deal?"

I had the feeling that I was missing something. Why the sudden urgency to get her daughter back? Why come to me instead of C-Sec or the dozens of private investigator agencies scattered across the Citadel? Why now?

"Do we have a deal?" Bevos repeated.

For that matter, did I want to do this? It was clear that their relationship (was) far from loving, nurturing or stable? Was I really doing Zephi any favours by returning her to her mother?

But then, I'd lived on the Citadel for several years now. I'd walked down her streets and through her alleys. As glamorous and exciting as the Citadel might be, it was also full of dangers. Predators. And while a thirty-eight year old asari might seem mature and responsible by the standards of most species, she was probably a little too young and overconfident for her own good.

In the end, it boiled down to two simple facts. A little girl was out there somewhere on the Citadel, all alone. And I might be the only one who could help her.

"We have a deal," I said at last.