Who: Ironfist and First Aid and open  (if you want to stroll past go for it!)
What: Rooching in Ironfist's head
Where/When:  In the bar at the Hub, shortly after the meeting log.
Warnings: TBD

Ironfist had always believed in hope, had always believed in heroes, in things bigger and braver and bolder than himself. He'd believed in fate, and destiny and glory and honor.

He didn't know what he believed in, now. Aequitas squatted in his brain module like some enormous toad, like a too-sharp lens that cast everything into violent focus. There weren't any heroes.  There wasn't anything like glory or noble sacrifice or any of the things he'd tried to convince himself was more important than the pain of losing friends.

It was fitting, symbolic in a way that Fisitron could appreciate, that it was Skyfall's fault that he had the bullet slowly eating its way toward his brain. It was a weight he'd lived under, before Garrus-9, that he was going to die. He'd fantasized about dying a hero, but now?

There were no heroes. All he wanted to do was just...not hurt anyone anymore.

He didn't expect anything to come of it: he was only here because First Aid wanted it so badly and his bruised hope could take another blow better than First Aid. Let him try, though it was probably cruel.  At least First Aid would get to feel like he'd helped, and sometimes, Ironfist knew, that meant everything.