thecapitol | Drown Your Sorrows In The Sea

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Drown Your Sorrows In The Sea | OPEN

Who| Shepard and OPEN
What| That feel when your boyfriend ain't coming back
Where| Various drinking establishments, and also the Tribute center roof
When| A few days after Thane's death in the arena
Warnings/Notes| Talk about death, crude language, spoilers for mass effect maybe

1; A random Bar, or the Foxhole (your choice):

An hour ago, she'd just been getting started. In three, they'd kick her out of here. Half an hour ago, she'd sized up someone else for a barfight-- and only just barely let him go. There he was in the corner, a big guy with his skin dyed a fashionable emerald-green, daisy-yellow shading to his elbows, and lips painted pink. He looked like he lifted weights and masturbated to Arena footage for a hobby; Shepard amused herself by imagining his day job was something menial, like a janitor, or a sewage inspector. Something too important to give to an avox. Something nasty, and difficult, that he couldn't talk about over dinner.

God damn it, it wasn't worth it-- screwing with capitol civilians was a real easy way to get yourself in real deep trouble. But with every shot she had, it was starting to sound like a better idea. Why don't you slide on in here, stranger, and give her a distraction?

2; The Tribute Center Roof:

Shepard was drunk. She was drunk in a way that she hadn't been in a long time-- perhaps ever. She couldn't remember it ever being this bad, not without the assistance of hallucinogens or bloodloss, without that touch of venom to put an extra whirl in an already dizzy world. She was drunk enough, now, that she could think that far without wincing from it.

She'd been kicked out of three bars today, and turned away at a fourth. Even the fucking pillow fort felt too claustrophobic and so she'd abandoned it for the rooftop and bottles of piss-yellow beer. If she were honest, maybe Shepard could admit that some of this wasn't about how much she'd poured down her throat today. Most of it, really-- even the Capitol couldn't completely kill her metabolism, not this close to a revival.

But even if she wanted to be alone, she didn't really. And that pissed her off too-- so have an angry ginger up on the rooftop, Tributes, chucking bottlecaps and glass over the guard-rails and hating her life. Do with that what you will.

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Sandy watched her from the entrance of the roof for a solid five minutes before deciding to come approach. She'd never seen Shepard like this and she knew what had happened.

Whenever Sandy came back from the arena she did her best to lay low for a couple days. Ice cream therapy, working out and watching the arena footage for people she knew.

So when she saw Thane go down and he didn't show up for days later in the Tribute Tower...it was almost as good as an obituary.

That was the problem with arena deaths. No one was ever sure if it was the last one or not until the crowning of the final victor. The only way to be sure was to check their room and see if all their personal effects had been cleared out.

That's how Sandy had found out that Pruna wasn't coming back.

The last time Pruna's room had been cleared out she'd had Effie to cry to. This time Katniss was her closest responsible "Adult" but she hadn't been able to squeeze out a tear. It worried her. She loved Pruna didn't she? They were best friends so why couldn't she cry about it? Why did she feel so numb even a week later?

And so she had finally worked up the nerve to seek out the strongest female role model she had. What she found was...not encouraging.

Shuffling forward she cleared her voice to announce herself while she was well out of reach. She didn't think Shepard would hurt her intentionally but she'd learned from experience that when people were drunk they were sometimes...clumsy? That was a nice word for it.

"Hey Shepard."

Edited 2015-03-09 17:57 (UTC)

He was already not too far from the roof, speaking to a few staff members in one of the apartments, when a message popped up on his phone. It was one of his colleagues, letting him know about the situation up there. He made a few inquiries--"is she armed?" "on drugs?"--and then decided that since he was here anyway he might as well check it out himself.

He observed her from a distance for a few moments before approaching, not wanting to get anything tossed at him, and leaned over the railing, watching the bottles strike the force field and collect where it intersected with the side of the building.

"That's going to be a lot to fish out," he remarked, almost casually.

He knew something was different when he'd returned to the Tribute Center. Seeing the other names that had died in his week confirmed the unsettling suspicion he'd had that something was off.

Going to the roof with a beer had become something of a tradition now, after every death in the arena and waking up in the too crisp sheets of the medical ward. What he hadn't expected to find was an entirely inebriated Shepard. He should've known she'd try to drink herself into oblivion to release some of the stress of knowing her love wasn't going to come back. It wasn't that Garrus didn't remember the last time Thane had died, but this somehow seemed more pitiful in how he'd gone this time.

He'd seen Shepard drunk before, so drunk that she'd wandered into the men's washroom and blacked out on the floor. This was nearing that level of drunk, so he did what any best friend would do. Having a seat beside her and opening his own drink, he reached out and gently moved the half-full bottle of hers away from her.

He didn't say anything, simply sitting beside her, quiet companionship and feeling the loss of their friend and crewmate all over again.

Sandy had good intentions, really, and her suspicions were well founded. Shepard was reactive even under ordinary circumstances-- right now? Even at that distance, she startled, and a mostly-full bottle went tumbling over the edge of the building. It sparked and spat on the force-field, then shattered against the side of the building on the bounce-back. Shepard cussed and threw the cap after it, like she wished it were a bullet, or a grenade. It melted into slag and embedded itself in the sleek decorative molding a few feet below the railing.

"Goddammit..." She had to breathe, more than once, three heaving, angry lungfuls before she could look at Sandy and really see her, "Oh. Hey, kid."

What Shepard wanted, right now, more than anything, was a soothing layer of pharmaceutical intervention between herself and the world. If she'd had the presence of mind to do so earlier in the day, she'd have tried to find someone who'd sell to her. In the Capitol, as on Illium, very little was illegal, and hedonism was the only rule, aside from capitalist gain.

Ha. Capitolist gain.

Weed wasn't exactly hard to grow, after all, not compared to half the shit they put on the dinnertable around here. But it was too late for that. And, of course, now there's this asshole? No good can come from it.

"Is there some reason you came up here?"

If it had been anyone else, she'd have broken their bones, starting with the wrist, and moving upward. If it had been anyone else, they'd have been running serious risk of being heaved over into the force-field to fry. If.

Garrus had joined her crew because she had been desperate, and he'd been gutsy and a good shot, and eager to join her blighted operation. He'd always treated her with respect, right from the beginning, even when she'd gone out of her way to needle him. He'd always supported her, always... always been there, since then. No Shepard, without Vakarian. She didn't have to justify herself to him. Didn't have to explain; he just got it, then as now.

"Dammit, Garrus..." she whispered, after the long silence, but meant someone else's name. The right answer was, of course, to make a joke of it. Comment on the heat, or the cold, or laugh at his technique when she wasn't around to back him up. But she couldn't rouse the ease for it, couldn't even turn to look at him, so she just said it again, "Dammit, Garrus."

Edited 2015-03-10 02:23 (UTC)

Really, the only place to be alone in this hell hole was the actual bedrooms. And even there, Joel was pretty sure the Capitol had hidden cameras. The roof could be a close second, but it wasn't a very well-kept secret so there was usually someone else up here wandering around.

Shepard is one of the people Joel actually doesn't mind seeing, though, even when she has that dark look on her face. It doesn't take much more than the reek of booze around her to tell that she's wasted. Which means something happened. Something really bad.

"You shouldn't drink alone," he says by way of greeting.

Usually he'd crack a joke, something to lighten the mood, but there wasn't anything he could say that would change what had happened, again. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the second time he'd had to say a final goodbye to Thane. He'd never been very close with the man, but his presence was missed, by more than just the grieving woman beside him.

Taking a mouthful of his drink, he let it sit in his mouth a moment, knowing that Shepard was tearing herself up inside even if she looked like she was only drunk and angry on the outside. It was hard to hide from him, when he knew there were a few of her tells from so many nights they'd spent drinking together after the loss of friends. It was a sobering thought and he settled a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Jane."

"Fuck off," She replied, and considered throwing a bottle at him-- then didn't, but only because it still had some liquid in it. For the moment, anyways.

"Tried that; I'm not wanted," It'd be nice, if that were true, "You don't wanna be around me right now, Joel."

"Yeah well you fuck--" She cut herself off, breathing hard through her nose, teeth clenched tight. She hadn't been there. She had let herself die for the sake of...of political bullshit. This wasn't Garrus' fault, "I should've..."

No regrets. Right?

Learn. Adapt.

Move on.

"Just... don't, okay?" She couldn't think about it rationally, couldn't remind herself who was the enemy and who wasn't, through an alcohol fog and her own rage. She tipped her weight sideways, careless, leaning subtly against him. Elbow and hip, the memory of a gun's weight in her hands. It'd been so long since she'd felt safe, or secure, "Tired've all this fucking bullshit."

He knew she was wound tight and her rage was a force that was impressive on a regular day. This was an entirely new level that he'd only seen once before, and even then it had him being cautious about pushing her too far in case she did snap. The loss of Thane would be enough, she'd lost him once before, losing him again he couldn't imagine her pain.

Her subtle weight against him had him shifting his hand to her other shoulder, arm draped loosely around her, offering silent support.

"You and I both," he sighed and turned to watch her. He was tired of watching his friends die for sport, the emotional duress of knowing that one time they might not come back, the mental and political games they were expected to play. All of it was sickening, and to see Shepard stewed in her own rage and grief hit him harder than he thought. She was his best friend and understood him in ways he never thought possible, the least he could do for her was to be there for her in this.

Not that long ago, it had seemed like she was a force to be reckoned with, allies or no-- Between Jack, Mordin, Garrus and Thane, she would have put good odds on them kicking anyone's ass. It was just the two of them, now, wasn't it?

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose and reached for the bottle; he'd taken it, but-- No, it was too far away. Dammit.

The silence stretched out between them, both comfortable and strange. The sun was setting, and despite her glare, it was beautiful. The light glinted red and yellow-violet off the glass and chrome, painting all the pretty white towers in shades of blood. Thane had loved city skylines, particularly around this time of day. Shepard hated the sight of it with an impotent, petty anger that was beyond her ability to control.

"Can I ask you something, Garrus?"

He could feel the anger rolling off of her. It wasn't hard to tell that even the very presence of something as insignificant as a sunset was pissing her off further. Taking another swig of his beer, he just let her be, until her sudden question had him raising a brow plate.

"Sure, shoot," he replied, taking another quick mouthful and setting his drink aside.

"Tell me about your squad. The one from Omega."

It's been... Years. Three years-- four, for her. She couldn't think to remember, exactly, couldn't count back the days in her head for him. Something like that, something long and brutal, like that. Time put it in perspective-- it was like Virmire, they talked about it, immediately afterward. They'd done Sidonis and that'd been that.

Shepard knew the names, but she didn't know anything else; it wasn't like she couldn't have known it if she'd asked. The Broker knew no barriers, after all.

But it was his story, not Liara's.

"Talk to me, anything. Who was..." She was grasping at straws, "...Tell me about Sensat."

That wasn't something he thought she'd asks. ghosts of his men that despite having been set aside would never be buried or forgotten in his mind. Their faces still came to memory, sharp and clear as if he'd seen them only an hour ago, not years ago. The guilt and ache for his friends was sharp but he pushed it back.

Swallowing his mouthful of beer he considered her words, Sensat, he hadn't thought about him in a long time.

"You would've found him ...twitchy," he smirked, "He was quiet, inquisitive, liked to watch people and get in their heads. He was one of our intel guys, always knew who to ask and who to avoid. Saved our hides more than once with how much he knew about Omega's plumbing."

"So what is it, you don't want company or you don't think I want your company?" Joel asks with a quirked eyebrow. "And do I get a beer?"

Sandy winced watching Shepard's bottle fall out of sight. She'd once asked if those force fields were deadly and had been informed that while they would destroy things like bottles human bodies would simply be left stunned and picked up by Peacekeepers. They didn't want any tributes throwing themselves from the roof after all.

"I uh...I'll buy you another?" She offered sheepishly gesturing to a vending machine nearby. Unfortunately the only alcohol on tap in there were cans of bubbling pink champagne, hard lemonade and orange juice mixed with vodka. Nothing as rough as what Shepard had been enjoying.

"Fuck. Off, I am not here so you'r'anyone else can come up and psychoanalyze me," This time she really did throw a beer at him. It was... well, it was plausible enough that he could have been meant to catch it.

Impulse control had never been her strong suit, really. Not when it came to easy, physical violence. Particularly not when she was already emotional. Good luck to you, Joel.

"I meant," she pronounced it with exaggerated care, "That I've been kicked out of what y'might call group drinkened 'stablishments."

"Salarian?" He sounded Salarian-- She'd known her fair share of Salarians, Garrus knew, and not a one of them what you might call of a calm, measured personality. But if anyone could buck a trend, they'd fit in well with Archangel, she suspected, "How'd you guys meet? C'mon."

"Yeah, Salarian, never seen one that had skin like his it was such a dark blue it looked almost black." Which had given him a huge advantage on Omega, which led to Garrus thinking about the first time they'd met up with Sensat. He and Sidonis, someone who he thought would be at his side like Shepard had been, but in the end had shown his true colours.

"I was looking for someone to help us get some information on Rhi'hesh Shurta, gang leader, he was one slippery bastard. A bartender that was a loyal contact got us in contact with him, said if there was anyone who had an ear to the ground it was Sensat. Mostly because he was so paranoid he wouldn't sleep without tripwires set up around his bunk." He chuckled at the memory of Sensat and his meticulous sleeping arrangements. "He was a good man."

"He sounds like a barrel of laughs."

She tried to imagine it, a black salamander of a Salarian, twitchy and nervous and a crack shot, despite those flaws. He sounded like Zaeed, really. Jane could imagine their friendship easily. She could envision the slight shape a Salarian made under the cover of a plastic body-bag with even greater ease.

"Butler's a human name."

"Yeah, big guy, used to work for C-sec before his girlfriend ended up dead because of a red sand deal gone wrong. She happened to be working at the restaurant that the deal was happening in. She was one of the casualties and the dealer was never caught." He shrugged, it was a common happening on the Citadel, thugs got away because of all the bureaucracy and long lines of paperwork the police had to fill out.

"Liked his assault rifles, and could always take a joke even though he was as tough as a krogan when you pissed him off. He joined us when we went after Thralog Mirki'it."

No, we can't have that. No nice, simple, relatively painful impact-deaths, here, not when there are so many more expensive, marketable ways to die. Not when it was already so easy. Strawberry jam on the morning commute was bad press, after all; if a tribute wanted out that badly, there were plenty of nice, private bathrooms to do it in.

"No. I'm..." She doesn't need that. Well, maybe she does, in the same way she needs things like a hundred pounds of fudge, or enough red sand to bliss out for a week, or to take a peacekeeper's weapon out of his hand and-- "You don't have to do that."

She shouldn't be like this in front of Sandy. Shouldn't be like this in front of anyone. This, this Shepard, this woman isn't the Commander, isn't even second-place to that fierce, towering figure of repute. This isn't who she needs to be to win this war. The war. No the... the other...

Shepard sighs, and it's deep, like a groan. She can feel the air vibrate behind her breastbone. The weight of responsibility is like a physical burden.

"Did you need something, Sandy?"

That was good. He was talking and, slowly, more without prompting. That was good. Shepard leaned on him, a little more; she could blame it on the alcohol, if she wanted to. The booze made her not want to.

"Knowing you, that's not just some petty pusher," She knew the story, or some of it-- she was forgetting details, little details of her lies. Little things she shouldn't have known, "How'd that one go?"

Having her lean on him made him readjust where his hand had been, letting the arm draped over her shoulder pull her in for a quick squeeze, almost a hug.

"He was one of the main dealers, sending Red sand into Council space. Turns out batarians can overdose really quickly when their head is shoved into a crate of pure uncut sand." It hadn't been pretty, but it had been Butler's call as to how the dealer had died. Garrus couldn't say that Thralog hadn't deserved it, a taste of his own medicine as it were.

"Spaced the rest of the sand we found in his warehouse, Aria was amused, and irritated that she wasn't getting her cut from his operation any more." He was entirely smug about that, any time he could rock Aria on her throne it had been amusing. Although he was sure the matriarch had trillions of credits to her name, a cut of one red sand dealer wasn't going to even put a noticeable dent in her funds.

Edited (dur spacing fail) 2015-03-11 03:29 (UTC)

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Drown Your Sorrows In The Sea | OPEN

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