Mass Effect Garrus Vakarian Novels & Stories

“I’m not.” “That much is clear.” They moved around the table, their armor whispering. Up close, I saw the scars cut deep into their face, the fine lines of someone who’d spent years at war. Their presence filled the space, heavy with command. “Who are you?” I demanded, voice sharper than sense should allow. Their mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Names have weight. Do you really want mine?” I straightened. “I asked, didn’t I?” They studied me, gaze lingering as if measuring my spine. “Commander Darius Veyr.”

His digital face was twisted into an expression of manic, volatile hatred as he saw Vivian step into his inner sanctuary. ​"You're too late, Vivian!" the avatar shrieked, the digital image rippling with a violent green frequency as the dreadnought's primary systems finished their cooling cycle. "The thermal reactors are stable! The automatic containment lock has just unsealed! I hold the absolute steering codes for the entire continental vanguard corps, and I’m going to turn this basin into a graveyard before the sun sets!" ​But before Garrett could execute the master firing command, the primary system terminal behind his avatar suddenly flashed a bright, unexpected violet text—one that didn

Standing around the glowing, holographic tactical table were the leaders of the new digital world. Marcus (DragonSlayer99), the towering Paladin and Commander of the Ghost Army, leaned heavily on his silver broadsword. Next to him stood Jax, the glitch-kid, spinning the golden Admin Key around his index finger. And completing the triad was Brog, the massive NPC blacksmith, who looked incredibly out of place among the players, yet carried an aura of undeniable authority. "Wraith," Marcus nodded respectfully as Ren approached the table. "Report," Ren said, getting straight to the point. The phantom weight of the M-99 Archangel sniper rifle settled comfortably on his digital back.

The false wall groaned and slid open. Vorian stood framed in the doorway, not with an army, but with six of his most hardened, surviving mercenaries. They were battered but alert, weapons trained on us. Vorian himself looked worse for wear—his fine clothes were torn and stained, the wound at his ribs seeping fresh blood, but his violet eyes shone with a manic, triumphant light. He held a modern, compact submachine gun with casual ease.

She tapped a message quickly. Iris: Front gate clear. Side access unlocked. West hall unpatrolled. She slid her phone back into her apron just as the reinforced kitchen door creaked open. The lead mercenary, a broad-chested man with a jagged scar over his left cheek, stepped inside. His name was Viktor, and he radiated violence without even moving. His eyes swept over the dim interior, nodding once to Iris. “No one else with Julian?” he asked, voice low.

I looked down at my hands, at the herbs that suddenly felt useless in the face of what was about to unfold. “War or not,” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else, “Raven made her choice. And somehow, so will we.” Not long after, I was making my way back toward the edge of the pack’s compound when I felt the heavy thud of footsteps trailing behind me. I knew that gait too well. I didn’t even have to turn before I heard his voice. “Rowena,” Garrick called, sharp and commanding. He was one of Kieran’s most loyal men, his shadow, some even said. “I need a word.”

"What do you know about Umbra?" "I served under the last one. Before they fell." Xavier stiffened. "You're lying." The man stood. His coat shifted, revealing an old brand—two crescents, one cracked. "Name's Garrick. And boy… you shouldn't be alive. Not with that blood." "What do you mean?" "I mean, your kind was wiped out. Executed. Erased." Xavier shook his head. "I wasn't part of that line." Garrik pointed at his chest.

All stepped forward in perfect synchronicity: one smiling sweetly, one with teasing eyes, one with a scholar’s cold observation, one wearing a childlike innocence too polished to be real, one dressed like a corporate executive, and one… a mirror of Liora. “Don’t.” Varian’s voice cut sharp through her ear. “Don’t look at them. Move to the access panel. I’ll handle the breach.” But Liora couldn’t help staring. The mirrored avatar tilted her head exactly as Liora did.

He arrived at James's chamber door before he had finished dressing, carrying two cups of water and a smile the young man had never seen on his face before, warm and open and entirely, devastatingly false. "Garrick," he said, extending one of the cups with the casual warmth of a man greeting a longtime companion. "You look tired. I thought you might need this." James looked at him. In the years he had spent inside this fortress he had catalogued every expression Varek's face was capable of producing, the sneer, the cold assessment, the barely contained fury, the smooth professional neutrality he deployed in Draven's presence. He had never seen this one. This particular arrangement of his feat

“He’s not supposed to exist.” “Which makes him perfect,” Selene murmurs. I turn to her sharply. “You’re not putting him in my path.” She meets my gaze, unflinching. “They already have.” Enemy POV: Asset Varrick deployed successfully. Psychological destabilization confirmed. Initiate public reveal. Selene POV: The broadcast hits without warning. Varrick stands in a neutral chamber, coalition insignia visible but subtle. His posture is rigid, military. His eyes burn with something like purpose.