WARNING: I realized during the writing of this post that, as for-fun as this post is supposed to be, it really needs a SPOILER WARNING for Mass Effect series and the Diablo series. They’re mostly minor or mild detail spoilers, but I wanted to be safe. Oh, and those Wiki links are obviously spoilerific for their respective games.
There will also be the ruthless and undaunted breaking of fourth walls. Consider yourself warned.
Anyway, without further ado, enjoy the madness.
Somewhere in the expansive realms of Toriah’s cluttered mind, two characters from very different universes meet in the mess hall…
A tall, graceful figure looked down at the spiced meat on his tray, inhaling its aroma. His tactical visor took readings of the food and assured him that it was, indeed, just like Mom’s cooking (Spirits rest her soul). The turian’s mandibles twitched with pleasure. This was definitely going to be better than anything he’d had on board the Normandy.
He was so lost in thought that he nearly bumped into a broad-shouldered figure, dressed in gleaming armor and a tattered, stained cloak. At first glance, he looked human. Yet, there was something strange about this man’s golden eyes and demeanor— and the fact that he was nearly as tall as the seven-foot-one alien from Palaven.
“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” the turian said hastily, brushing his fringe with a three-fingered claw in embarrassment.
“No, friend,” the man replied. “The fault is mine for standing in the corridor.”
They shared a polite, awkward silence for a few moments. The alien realized he was still brushing his fringe and stopped. Without something to do with his free hand, he stuck it out toward the man. “I’m— ah— Garrus Vakarian,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“You’re right, we haven’t,” the man replied, taking Garrus’s hand in equal measures. “I am Tyrael.”
Tyrael let go of his companion’s hand. “What do you mean?”
“Just ‘Tyrael?’ Isn’t there more to your name?”
“Well, if you wish, I am Tyrael, the Archangel of Justice.”
“I was once called Archangel, too, and I brought justice and order to a lawless space station.”
“I fought for numerous millennia in the Eternal Conflict between the High Heavens and the Burning Hells.”
“Yeah, and how’s that going for you?”
“A hero has emerged from the human realm of Sanctuary and defeated the Prime Evil.”
“So,” Garrus said slowly, “let me get this straight: you’re an actual angel— an archangel, even— and a human wins the war for you? Guess the ‘Eternal Conflict’ isn’t so eternal after all.”
“You’re one to talk,” Tyrael said, his voice flat. “The fate of your whole galaxy rests in one human commander who gets to choose from three different flavors: red, green, or blue.”
“Hey, I helped summon a thresher maw to take down a Reaper on Tuchanka!”
“How long did it take to calibrate that?”
Garrus bristled and his mandibles flared as he glared at the former angel, but said nothing. Tyrael continued.
“I shattered the Worldstone to stop Baal’s influence from corrupting it! Then I spent twenty years regaining my corporeal form after the explosion.”
“I took a missile from a gunship to the face and survived.” Garrus turned his face to show Tyrael his scars.
“I fell to Sanctuary from the High Heavens, created a massive crater in Old Tristram Cathedral, caused the dead to rise— among other things— and lived.” The former angel paused for dramatic effect. “And I don’t have a single scratch.”
“Wait,” Garrus said, holding up a claw, “you actually chose to give up your angelic status?”
“Yes,” Tyrael said, his downcast eyes pensive. “My brethren were convinced that we should not interfere with human matters, bound by ancient rules, even as the Evils of Hell sought to corrupt Sanctuary’s population by any means they could muster. So I told them I quit, because I wanted to— no, I needed to do something.”
“Let me guess,” Garrus said with a wry expression, “bureaucratic red tape? Some clause somewhere that says you can only ‘help’ via certain procedures and regulations as determined by a bunch of windbags who call themselves a council?”
“Something like that.” The barest hint of a smile touched the corners of Tyrael’s mouth.
“I know how you feel. Used to work for Citadel Security and the Council would just impose all of these rules that got in the way of me doing my job. First time I left, I helped saved the Citadel with Commander Shepard. Second time around, I started clearing out the criminal mercenary gangs on this place called Omega.”
Garrus paused as he glanced at his companion. “It was the locals who gave me the nickname ‘Archangel,’ you know.”
“Something to mark all of the good work I did, I guess.”
“Everyone still calls me ‘angel,’ even though I no longer have my wings or even the full extent of my powers. You’ll get recognized if you do the right thing and fight the good fight.”
“True enough. Or maybe it just has to do with our voices.”
“Our voices? What are you getting at?”
“You know: we’re such smooth-talkers, it sounds like we’re speaking from Heaven.”
The former angel thought about this for a few minutes. Then he suddenly looked up. “That explains why everyone keeps asking me to read all these lines of text out loud!”
“Yup,” Garrus said, nodding knowingly. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to recite the Galactic Directory for people. ‘It’ll help pass the time in between missions!’ they said. Oh, I know better now.”
They chuckled. The alien sobered, then nodded to the weapon sheathed by Tyrael’s side. “Is that what you use to dish out justice?”
Tyrael drew his broadsword in response, the bright blade sending light in all directions. He held it out for his companion to examine. “This is El’druin, the sword of justice. It has tasted the blood of many demons and vanquished the minions of the Burning Hells for millennia.”
Garrus nodded in appreciation. “Well, mine doesn’t have a fancy name like yours, but it gets the job done.”
He activated the sniper rifle from its holster on his back. It folded out in a series of clicks and beeps and whirs. The sleek, dark gun was nearly as long as El’druin. “This is the Black Widow X, the M-98 Widow’s bigger and better cousin. Limited production from Spectre requisitions. Pretty sure the ‘X’ is actually the Roman numeral for ‘ten,’ but it makes it sound futuristic. And it’s better for marketing.”
“Hm, not bad,” Tyrael said, impressed.
A white-furred yeti in blue jeans skipped by the two Archangels, his hands encased in what looked like a pair of large, heavy golden fists. He stopped to admire their weapons.
“Hey, that’s not bad guys,” he said in his nasally, gravelly voice. “These are the Fists of Justice, bestowed upon me by the Guardians of Eternal Youth to fight Klorgbane every one hundred fifty-seven years.”
He showed them his souped-up boxing gloves, light glinting off the knuckles. When neither Garrus nor Tyrael offered any response except to ogle, slack-jawed, at the Fists of Justice, the yeti shrugged and said a friendly farewell before skipping off again. They watched him skip away down the mess hall.
Finally, they broke the awed silence, speaking at the same time.
“How do I not have one of those?”