thisavrou_log | ( april intro log )

Entry tags:

( april intro log )

Who: Everyone
When: April 1st and on
Where: The Moira + Del Pascia
What: The crew finds themselves visiting the correctional facility of Del Pascia.
Warnings: Mentions of blood. Please label your content!

I
N
T
R
O

L
O
G

slammed & counted
"I feel liberated when I'm doing it, and I want other people to feel liberated through it."

The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and nothing is familiar. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay.

Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and offered a contract to sign that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. This process consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and to your living quarters.

With the combined efforts of the crew, the terror plaguing the ship has been successfully removed from the Moira. Yet, it doesn’t come without consequences. Aside from the overall state of those aboard the ship, the Moira itself has taken considerable damage across various sections. Overall functionality seems stable for now, but with necessary repairs to be made and few supplies to actually make them with, the Captains have set a course for any nearby planet with the hope of finding what they need. However, that is much closer than it appears. As new arrivals begin coming through the Ingress, a message is received by those in the Tower and broadcast to everyone:
Please be advised. Your vessel is now entering Restricted Space. As per penal code 65208-A, only authorized personnel are to be admitted beyond this point. If necessary, further assistance will be provided once docked.
As there is little choice, the Captains instruct Navigation to proceed with caution. All transporters will be required to assist in taking those who volunteer to the main hub.

WELCOME TO CORRECTIONAL FACILITY DEL PASCIA

Del Pascia is one of many facilities across the universe built to maintain and rehabilitate its inhabitants. With a combined populace of both prisoners and employed civilians, it functions as both prison and living quarters. The central section of Del Pascia is divided into multiple floors that branch out into subdivisions of the facility—clearly and precisely labeled. For those contracted to work in the prison, Del Pas Main is home. There are cafeterias, common areas for exercise and general downtime, divided residences, and work stations. Beyond this area, each remaining wing of Del Pascia separates into cell blocks A through F with similar facilities available to the inmates. Varying degrees of criminals are brought to Del Pascia, ranging from maximum security to juvenile offenders, and security differs depending on which block is visited.

Yet, there is something peculiar about this prison upon further investigation: there are no living persons within Del Pascia. The AI, which runs and oversees all of Del Pascia, has made arrangements with the Moira so that those who wish may board and take what is needed to begin repairs. This program, while generally polite in nature, goes simply by the name D-E-L.

☄ ENJOY YOUR STAY ... IN PRISON

Those who choose to go to Del Pascia will find themselves greeted by D-E-L. It has already agreed to terms with the Captains, allowing crew to strip nonessential supplies that aren’t needed since the station’s crew and prisoners were relocated due to funding cuts. The only condition placed upon this agreement is that any crew wishing to explore must undergo a mandatory decontamination before proceeding through the rest of Del Pascia. This process takes only minutes and is guaranteed to cause no physical side effects. Following this simple procedure, exploration is open with only warnings to be careful about damaging key systems. It is important to note that there are various security cameras located throughout the correctional facility, and it is not uncommon for D-E-L to comment or show concern for those exploring parts of Del Pascia.

☄ DEATH BECOMES YOU

There is salvage to be found in all parts of the facility, including the cell blocks and infirmaries of the prison wings. However, there is something odd about these sectors, a strange charge in the air that follows you as you search for anything useful to bring back to the Moira. Perhaps it is the eyes of D-E-L watching? But then, after an indiscernible amount of time, it's like a switch is flipped. Suddenly, you are wearing your sins where anyone but you can see. For however much death you have wrought or committed, there will be blood on your hands—perhaps even further than that. This bizarre occurrence will appear as an almost digital skin and will not vanish until outside the cell blocks. If exploring the infirmaries for supplies, any and all health stats throughout your life will be visible and easy to read by anyone who happens to take an interest.

For those who have killed once or twice, they might find a red stain on their hands, but the higher the kill count will result in larger proportions of blood covering their arms and, in extreme cases, perhaps their entire body. The blood will vanish once you have left the prison wing, though you may occasionally see a flicker of the image while anywhere on the station. The same goes for health stats viewed in infirmary sections of Del Pascia.

☄ WHAT WAS THAT SOUND?

Del Pascia is a very large station and has been abandoned for quite some time. D-E-L will regretfully inform anyone who asks that some nonessential areas have fallen into disrepair. It will warn that exploring these areas can be risky as it has no knowledge of what damage these sections have taken. Regardless of that, if you venture in, you’ll find that these sections are in rather bad shape. Exposed wiring sparks in the walls, a great variety of broken tools are thrown about, and it seems that every camera has been purposely broken. Venturing in further will yield valuable components for salvage, and yet... as before, you suspect you aren’t alone. It isn’t often, but sometimes, you might hear a step falling moments after yours or a rattle coming from the vents. Every time you go to investigate... whatever made the noise is gone.

Should the AI be queried about this, D-E-L will emphasize that all personnel and prisoners were removed and that there is no one on board except crew from the Moira.

( ooc; For questions, go here. All players, please comment to activity check to receive new ranks (if applicable)! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Prison space station? Check. Derelict facilities, operated only by an AI? Check. Negative experiences with all of the above, perhaps multiple times? Doublecheck.

But you don't become a Spectre by avoiding missions, and you especially don't avoid missions when your until-very-recently-dead mentor suggests them first. And so, she'd begged some gear off of her alternate-universe self (her N7 body armor which, natch, fit like a glove), boarded a transporter, and mentally prepared herself.

If someone had told me in London, "Hey, Shepard. In less than a week you'll be in an another universe completely, borrowing armor from an alternate universe you, doing a mission run with Nihlus, while Tali trains you in engineering," I would've given them the dressing down of a lifetime.

Just when you think nothing else life throws can surprise you...

She snaps back to reality as the transporter judders to a halt at the dock's point of entry. Letting herself off, she follows the AI's (relatively benign, generally polite) instructions, completes the decontamination process, and almost immediately spots Nihlus. Probably because he's not trying to hide himself, she chides herself gently. He had, at minimum, at least a decade on her in terms of Spectre experience, regardless of his state of health in her own universe.

"Nihlus." She raises her right arm to signal her arrival, and walks towards the Turian at an easy gait. If she's at all concerned with the place, she never shows it—but she does give her own heavy pistol a solid pat.

Shepard gets a bit closer before she starts up the conversation proper. "Got somewhere you wanted to start at?"

If Nihlus wanted to hide, there would be very few people who would be able to find him. It was one of the few things he was better at than Saren was and it was a point of pride.

(Saren was not one of the people who could find him.)

The sound one of the transporters docking draws Nihlus out of his musings and he watches as the airlock doors slide aside to admit his... protege? Colleague? Space time weirdness sure did make the line of rank confusing in that regard.

And was she wearing the first Shepard's armor there?

"I've marked the areas of interest out on the map," he explains, pulling said map up from his omni-tool once she was near enough. "We'll start with one of the more difficult salvages and our main priority: replacement parts for one of our maintenance airlocks. It'd been damaged by a swarm of metal eating robots about a day or so ago."

"The maintenance lock I want to access is here," Nihlus zooms in on a section of the map. "Fortunately, most of the components that are damaged are on the inside of the airlock, so we don't have to do any space walking. Hopefully."

Assuming nothing goes horrifically wrong. There were tethers in the cart in case they did.

"Since we don't have the security access codes, we'll have to initiate a local compartmentalization manually." Which is really about standard for derelict space ship salvage operations. It's almost nostalgic, really: Nihlus remembers the first time he'd ended up on a salvage mission at age 14.

His parents hadn't been too happy when they found out, but they couldn't exactly turn their noses up at the money either.

"I will guide you through most of the procedures. Any questions?"

Shepard nods once, crisply, and pulls up her own omni-tool to collect a copy of the map. Against all odds, with some maintenance the damn thing had turned out to be completely operational. She wasn't sure who'd made this one, but if she ever found her way back home, she'd make damn sure the entire galaxy knew the brand.

"One. Request permission to make a stop by the infirmary on-board this station. If what I've heard is true, I'd like to pick up a copy of my medical records for our ship's doctors."

Finished, she falls silent, and watches Nihlus' face with rapt attention for his response. After months—years—of leading, it felt strangely comfortable to take a back seat to spearheading a mission, for once.

"We will be stopping there to obtain the records along the way and also do a assessment of what is still needed in regards to medical supplies. The air lock just takes priority on the salvage list and there are already a lot of people helping Doctor Yewll on that front," Nihlus says as he sends a system sync request to Shepard's armor. That way they'd both have access to real time updates if either of them edited the map, as well as access to each other's locations and stats.

He's not entirely sure how he feels about the fact that this station can just... know their medical histories. Part of it is skepticism. Most of it's just a general uneasiness that comes with facing off someone or thing who knew more about you than you do about them.

Nihlus grabs the cart's handle and is about to start heading off- only to pause and incline his head slightly, green eyes on the woman next to him.

"You can still just take some time to relax on the Moira if you wanted to, Shepard," he intones. "You've just arrived from another universe and after three years of apparent hell. I can't think of a better justification for some down time."

"Understood."

Shepard approves the armor sync swiftly, skimming the information received to confirm a baseline in case of combat, or emergency situ. To her mild surprise, a mini-map pops up, indicating position. Huh. Long time, no see. Must be older software.

Of course it's older software. She mentally shakes her head, chiding herself again. And don't ask him if he needs a thermal clip, either.

She's finishing up with her preparation and armor safety check when Nihlus broaches the subject of downtime. It's an incredibly salient point — and something she'd considered when he first made the salvage run offer. After everything, who deserved a holiday more than her?

What do you need me to do?

But the offer stings, just a little. She wonders if anyone had made the same offer to the other Shepard, if her Mindoir self had ever taken a break. She suspects not. New universe, new ship, new—if she's painfully honest—life. And the prospect of having time, too much time, to reflect on things, instead of striving forward, working hard for those who lost their lives fighting, is maddening.

Turning her head towards Nihlus, she gives it a small, professional shake.

"I'll pass. I'm sure there'll be time for that when we're not docked. I'd rather do what I can for people, while I'm able to." She gestures to the cart. "Need a hand with that? Or do you want my hands free to guard?"

The response isn't immediate. He watches her for a moment longer, silent and expression unreadable.

"... Thank you, Commander," he says eventually, turning his attention to the task at hand. "But I'm capable of pushing a cart around without additional assistance. I wouldn't mind you guard, however."

There's definite notes of amusement under that deadpan professionalism though. Nihlus is a strong and independent turian, Shepard.

One who isn't entirely too surprised by her response either. His first day on the Moira had been spent investigating the whale hunting operations on Ceta after discovering he'd been shot dead. Spirits knows what the first Shepard did on her day of arrival, but it was probably something just as ridiculous and unrestful. Nihlus has never met a single Spectre who'd really, ever, taken a down time fully; once you were appointed, you kept going until you died.

And even afterwards, it seems.

"How are you handling the transition?"

Shepard gives a half laugh, taking up the rear guard, following dutifully behind Nihlus.

There's a beat of pause as she reflects on what her "transition" has entailed. "Honestly, I can't complain. It's been a lot to take in, but it could be worse. I'm lucky to have the support I have. Not everyone arrives to friendly faces."

She takes a moment to check around a pillar before continuing. "I think I've got a ways to go with my job, though."

"We can help you with your job. If nothing else, it's good for a Spectre agent to learn basic engineering skills," Nihlus remarks as they walk. "And if it gets too difficult for you, I'm always willing to switch. There's significantly less engineering in cleaning and security."

Less chances of people dying from your mistakes too, but the Spectre very carefully leaves that out for the time being. He trusts Tali not to give Shepard anything that actually would put the crew in jeopardy if messed up at any rate.

She nods at the assessment — she'd never been much of a techie, and had even specifically chosen her vanguard specialization to highlight her strengths: physical and biotic front-line combat. But that didn't mean she couldn't, or wouldn't learn.

"If it gets too difficult, I'm doing something wrong, and I'll ask for Tali for a hand. I don't want her to have to double-check all my work, but I don't want to endanger anyone, either. I appreciate the offer, but for now? I'm game for the challenge. How's security?"

"Tedious," he says, and though his main tone is neutral, the undertones are definitely displeased. "Very. Tedious. And very little to do once the Ingress is closed off."

"I prefer cleaning the ship, honestly," Nihlus shrugs as he guides the cart down the hallway towards one of the infirmaries. "More to keep busy with and there's a surprisingly little amount of littering for all the sorts of folks that we have."

The writing between the lines is not missed. Nihlus lived how he died, endlessly moving, taking care of business as a Spectre. Downtime had a way of making your skin itch, if there wasn't at least something to be sorting out.

"Cleaning is great. Designated start point, and you finish when things are clean. A clear and achievable goal. It's nice to have those, from time to time." She chuckles, tucking a coil of loose wires behind a column to remove them from harm's way. "How often does the Ingress open? Seems like it's on a schedule. Maybe you could come down to engineering some time, give me a few tips. I'm sure Tali'd appreciate the break now and then."

"The Ingress opens once a month as far as I have heard." And as far as he has seen, but Nihlus has only been here for a little over a month. "I haven't seen it open any other time and no one goes in during down time."

No one knew enough about the Ingress to do daily maintenance anyways. At least, that's what the Captains tell them.

"I'll be down there now and again, when time permits," he nods, smiling at the mental image of a haggard Tali trying to keep track of his protege. "It's been... hectic, and I suspect it will only get moreso after the salvage is complete."

Bizarre. Suspicious. Shepard had mentioned to Nihlus at their first meeting that any questions she hadn't sorted out within the first week probably didn't have answers, and the Ingress was one of them. A big, aggravating question mark that apparently kidnapped people (because really, what other word was there for it?) once a month, without much chance to say no.

"And every month, new arrivals come in. Doesn't sound good for the Moira. It's spacious, but it'll fill up. There's already been a handful of incidents, from what I read over. What happens when the overcrowding really starts? It wouldn't hurt to have a plan."

Wouldn't hurt to help make one. There's got to be a better way to help orient the people coming in.

"Tali's a good teacher, but there's a lot of damage down there, and as she said, the repairs aren't meant to be permanent, right now. Things would definitely speed up with a more skilled engineer."

They're almost at the door marked 'INFIRMARY C', when she's struck by a thought. "How about this? We can switch shifts occasionally. I'll take your security detail, you cover my engineering. I still get to practice, but Tali also gets some serious work done. What do you think?"

"I don't disagree on the planning, but... I don't think overcrowding is going to be an issue for a while yet." Nihlus parks the cart next to the infirmary's entryway, locking the wheels. "There is room on the Moira. More room than there should be."

He's wandered the hallways enough on sleepless nights to know. Some hallways were endless. Some spaces on the ship kept turning him around, trailing strange whispers in his ears. There was something very strange about their ship and he's not entirely sure who to ask about it all.

"That would actually be perfect," he says at Shepard's suggestion, tapping control panel for the door and stepping into the infirmary proper. "I've been considering moving to engineering for a while now, but I'd been concerned over the hours they might give my colleagues then."

Nihlus seems oddly oblivious the gaping, bleeding hole in the back of his head- and to the list that'd suddenly appeared above him.

Name: Nihlus Kryik
Age: 31
Species: Turian
Height: 195cm (6'4")
Weight: 187 kg (412.3 pounds)
Blood Type: Discen
Notes: Dextro amino protein based life form.

(The list goes on and on after that, listed by the age he’d suffered the injury at. Acid burns on his face at the age of sixteen, healed up without scars. Broken fingers and fractured face plating at seventeen. Nerve damage from exposure to chemicals at 18, more broken bones and broken plates, lacerations, poisoning from overdosing on various drugs, getting worse and worse until he hits 21 and then there’s a gap. Two years of perfect health.

And then he hits 23 and the first thing on the list is a gunshot wound, healed up with some scarring. Similar injuries are scattered throughout the years all the way up until 25 where with a sudden spike in details again, injuries reminiscent of torture: plates peeled off, electrical burns, broken bones, lost teeth.

It returns back to almost nothing again until he hits 31 and the final thing on the list: brain death caused by a close range gunshot wound to the lower right temple.)

"More room than there seems to be, huh?" Shepard frowned, crossing her arms almost instinctively. The idea of quantum space on a physical object wasn't an appealing one, but it wasn't one she'd get far doubting. Going from one location to another on board the Moira was quick enough, but the in between brought about places that didn't quite make sense, sometimes. In time, she hoped to have a moment to really take a look at things, and get a sense of what they were dealing with.

It fit well. She would take on some security, he would take on some of her engineering, and they would both get a work balance more like what they wanted to pursue for the moment. She opened her mouth to say as much, only to find herself staring straight at an injury she'd already dealt with once. Caught off guard, she swallows her words with a sharp inhale of breath, reasoning through it.

This isn't real. It was cold comfort, but seeing the list appear above Nihlus helped bolster her convictions. It's the station's med bay. Remember what you heard.

When her voice does call out, it is measured, even, professional. "Nihlus, two things. One, looks like what we heard about the med bay projections are true. I have a full read on your medical history. Two, there's something extra — it's projecting your cause of death onto your body. You have a gunshot wound right-" she touches the back of her own head, "-here."

For her part, Shepard is equally unaware of her own projected list that has finally processed above her as she speaks.

Name: Jane Shepard
Age: 32
Species: Human
Height: 178 cm (5 foot 10 inch)
Weight: 70 kg (156 pounds)
Blood Type: O-
Notes: Biotic user, equipped with L5n biotic implant.

(And boy, is it obnoxiously long.

It's relatively light, at first — there's a list of silly childhood injuries, broken bones, chicken pox, sundry effects of the youth. When the list hits her early teens, there's a number of ridiculous (but never quite life-threatening) injuries that end with "misuse of biotic abilities", the final one listed as April 10th, 2172.

Post 18, there's not much, and what there is, seems clipped and professional, healing without incident. There's an flurry of gunshot wounds at 24, as well as varietal other injuries, including lacerations across her face, apparently healed with minor scarring.

25 onward, very few medical injuries are reported, but what is there is short, odd lines like "bruising and lacerations sustained at 40 meters underwater". It isn't until 29 that there's a notable jump in injuries, a seemingly-never-ending stream of cuts, scrapes, bruises, shots, poisonings and much more. Then, out of nowhere:

Brain death by asphyxiation.

But the medical report doesn't end there. It gets... improbable. There's a hyper-detailed list of thousands of operations undergone, report on conditions. Things added. Things changed. The medical terminology gets more and more complex, until a reader might be convinced that some of these words are brand new, created for the situation at hand. There's weaves, cybernetics, stints, sacs, metals, bone, blood transfusions, tests, tests, tests — and an awakening, although progress through the log seems to imply the doctor wasn't quite finished.

There's immediately another gunshot wound report.

Following it is months of varietal sundry field injuries of varying degrees of intensity, clipped again, mixed in with upgrades to body cybernetics. There's falls, breaks, shots, bleeding, and one considerable blackout. Then six solid months of absolutely nothing.

Then it all starts again, rarely a day going by without something being written up. Some single days have more write-ups than whole years of her earlier life. The word "reaper" begins showing up, used in new, horrifying ways: "severe bruising and bleeding sustained in one-on-one reaper-modified Turian (brute) engagement." Things go on like this, with the odd variation here and there — in particular, there is an amusing note that follows the lines of "multiple lacerations, internal bleeding, cracked ribs sustained following fall from height post-destruction of Citadel restaurant's floor aquarium".

In the last few lines, it seems to just be another normal day of endless fighting, and the injuries that brings — when there's a very innocent-looking line of injuries sustained via reaper beam. Then, one final appraisal: injuries sustained via crucible explosion.

There is no more.

Edited 2016-04-26 05:02 (UTC)

"What-" Nihlus' hand instinctively goes up to the back of his head, confusion writ openly on his striped face, deepening at the feeling of smooth scales under his hands. It changes suddenly into surprise at the sight of Shepard's medical report hovering above her and the state his protege was in.

"... This is absurd," he remarks, turning his eyes away sharply with an unhappy mandible jaw-tap, his shoulders hiked defensively. Almost anxiously, really. "This is absurd and I don't appreciate it in the least."

It was meant to come out humorous and dismissive, but there was was an odd note in his tones, the snag of something a little too close to panic.

If her medical report was that detailed, how much was his giving away?

"Let's-" Nihlus bites down on the growl before it could get past his teeth, taking a moment to just breathe before trying again. "Mirror. Let's get to a mirror."

They could take a picture of each other's records, but he wasn't willing to have her records like this- and he definitely wasn't letting her have his.

There's no mistaking that hitch in any species, and Shepard watches Nihlus closely as his movements and tone fill out every one of her mental tickyboxes for "elevated levels of stress".

At the mention of a mirror, she glances above her own head, eyebrows jumping up. Yikes. Not wholly visible from her angle, but she can tell at a cursory glance that it could benefit from a scroll bar. Despite Nihlus' movements, however, his own medical log just tilts to face her any time she takes an interest in it. She frowns, and explicitly directs her eyes somewhere it's not, before addressing her mentor. Although she had no issue with Nihlus seeing her records — god only knows how many randoms had seen it, at this point — Shepard is certain not everyone shares her laissez-faire approach to personal medical confidentiality.

"Nihlus, hold on. Talk to me, here." She catches him by the shoulder, her own jangling nerves in check through the act of attempting to steady someone else's. "This is just the station, screwing with us. Now, I won't look at your report unless you tell me I can, but you've got my permission, and I want you to read me a few lines, so I can confirm it's the real deal. Okay?"

"Shepard."

His voice was ice and Nihlus stops himself at the sound of it.

Shepard wasn't stupid. She could confirm how factual the report is just viewing it in the mirror. She was just trying to help.

The fact that his reaction had been obvious enough to warrant the attempt was worrying. Nihlus quickly checks himself, body language closing off and shifting smoothly back into military neutrality.

"Alright," he agrees, turning carefully so that Shepard didn't think he was trying to shake off her hand. "Anything in particular that you want me to look for first, or just whatever looks most relevant?"

The tone of his voice sends a thrill through her spine, hair standing up on the back of her neck, and it takes all she has not to react — to not put a hand on her pistol, not stiffen at the chill. Instead, she retains her composure, and shifts her line of sight, locking eyes with Nihlus as he turns, jaw set firmly, almost stubbornly. After a moment, she lets her hand slip back down to her side.

"If this is the real deal, then it'll have to list my death and rebuild." The words come out almost casually, but the statement itself is one that will never cease to be bizarre to her — an impossible specter forever in the corner of her mind's eye, seizing on to every gnaw of doubt.

I'm still me. It's a worn strip of a mantra she unfurls in her mind whenever it comes up, the sentiment placating just long enough for her to escape those dark waters. She continues, without missing a beat.

"And see if there's anything listed for April 10th, 2172. That should be enough to convince me, at least."

They've known each other for less than a week. The profile he had on her at least was something Shepard herself had signed off on, even if she didn't know the full extent of what it'd be used to evaluate her for at the time. This, though...

There was a very long list of reasons not to trust such a detailed document like this with someone you've barely met, your would've been mentor or not. Shepard had been Spectre for three years before her arrival, and she should know those reasons very well. What was the point of this exercise, then? To gain his trust, yes, but to what end? And why so riskily?

Nihlus searches her face for some clues and only finds stubbornness staring back at him. He inclines his head and draws back slightly, the barest of frowns on his face.

"An incident with biotics for April 10th," he reads, trying to skim, trying to avoid the details of her life. "Death by asphyxiation is listed later. Medical record continues afterwards detailing extensive surgical procedures."

There's a nod, and then a sigh. "Okay. That's enough for me. Let's find you that mirror."

Walking towards the walls of the room, she steals a quick glance at Nihlus. It didn't take much to guess his train of thought, and she wasn't completely sure she'd offer an explanation unless he asked himself. Her entire life had been under a metaphorical microscope for years — and a literal microscope, for two. What did she have to fear from her own medical chart, now? What do I have to fear from someone knowing how many times I've been shot?

And what do I have to fear from you?

Cerberus had known everything written here, nigh-intimately, and still hadn't managed to take her down. Ex-N7, reaper forces, another Spectre — if Nihlus were to join the squads of enemies coming for her head, he'd have to get more creative in utilizing whatever chinks in her hardsuit the rap sheet could provide. The thought of an all-out fight between the two of them, a call to the void, momentarily crossed her mind — before being dismissed without a second thought. The name of the game right now was trust. Trust me, because I trust you. Trust me, because trusting is what I do.

(In her more private moments, Shepard felt relatively certain that no other Spectre in the galaxy would have chosen to trust in the honor of a Rachni Queen (twice), which, really, only served to embolden her further.)

Reaching a loose, dusty sheet strung against the wall, she pulls it down, revealing a long mirror, darkened with age and use around its ragged edges. It looks similar to the sort of mirror you'd find in a dance studio, rather than a medical center, and she marvels at it for a moment before signalling to her partner.

"Over here."

From Nihlus' perspective, Shepard had plenty to worry. The gaping wound in his head hadn't been put there by any of his enemies, after all.

As he goes off to search the opposite side of the infirmary though, Nihlus feels the quiet creep of something else, an older fear sinking into the space under his sternum. If his medical form was anywhere near as detailed as Shepard's, then she could have seen what he'd done to himself in his younger years too.

That wasn't the kind of information someone that could have been his protege should see, much less someone who was going to be his colleague and crew mate. Not even Saren entirely knew what had happened after he'd joined the Hierarchy; he'd found Nihlus in the aftermath, apathetic, burning up and with absolutely nothing to lose.

There's a series quiet clicks as he pops another set of cabinets open, careful not to disturb the dust. There were plenty of swabs and wipes and some cleaning agents, but no mirrors.

He's about to move on when Shepard calls out and he pauses before gently shutting the cabinet doors and quietly making his way over.

That sure is a mirror.

He slows to a stop in front of it, standing a little ways behind her, eyes sliding over the glow of his medical history, down to the rivulets of vivid blue that pooled around his cowl. No exit wound. The bullet probably ricochet off the back of his forehead plating before violently turning the rest of his brain matter into mush.

His eyes drift over to the human next to him, taking in her wounds, the burns, the scars, the deathly white-gray of her skin.

"Hell." His voice is soft even in the dead silence of the abandoned infirmary, words underlined by humor and an odd note of sadness. "We're a goddess-damned mess."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( april intro log )

TOOT

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

sorry for this longass garbage

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject