Veetor is not having the best day ever.
The walls of his cabin and the debriefing room are indistinguishable, both sterile gray and cold, completely devoid of life or personality. The attendants are barely more than shadows and whispers outside his cell, slinking around like the wraiths from childhood stories. They check on him periodically, lights piercing through his mask and rough hands invading his personal space. He asks them to stop, but they don't hear him. He's a science project.
Veetor wishes he could go home. He strives to be as articulate as possible, but it's difficult. They keep reassuring him that he is home. He's on the Flotilla where it's safe and he's with his people. But it's not his home. He doesn't expect them to understand.
He misses Freedom's Progress. He misses the colonists and the quiet. He misses the cold ground crunching between his toes; the fog that collects on his face mask from the organic environment; the children that bring him bugs he's never seen before.
The attendants approach his cell, whispering as they open the door. The smaller quarian extends a hand to him and he cowers instinctively, shrinking away from whatever medication they're foisting upon him. When no needle-prick or rough handling occurs, he returns his attention to the woman. She's always so preoccupied with her notes, the orange light of her omni-tool reflecting like glowing fangs across her plastic face.
"It's time for your therapy session, Veetor." Her voice is passive and small, matching her body language as she withdraws her hand. "Please, Veetor. Feliks doesn't want to carry you again."
Reluctantly, Veetor nods and stands. He doesn't like Feliks: the larger man has no qualms demonstrating his ability to hoist him around like a rag doll. His hand hovers within twitching distance of a tranquilizer gun and he always seems too eager to use it.
They walk through the unremarkable hall in silence, passing cell after cell of fellow patients. The thought of so many people being trapped in tight spaces scares him. He made the mistake of peering through the cell windows, once. The other inmates were scared and mumbling, some too loudly. One of them jumped against the door and clawed at his face, attempting to exaggerate self-inflicted tears in his enviro suit.
Veetor just wants to go home. He doesn't know how to tell them he's not crazy. The screams keep him up at night.
Aniya stops at a metal door and knocks before tapping the clearance code into her omni-tool. The door clicks and slides open softly, revealing a familiar woman, her black suit pristine and reassuring. Doctor Shiya double-checks her schedule and stands from her desk before she summons him. As he enters the room, the door closes behind him and he realizes the two of them are not alone. Another quarian watches at rapt attention in the corner, his gold suit constructed with the kind of red plating and thick cording appropriate for marines. His stance is distinctly military.
Veetor steps back, hoping the door will give way but it doesn't. "Oh, no."
"Veetor," Doctor Shiya's nurturing voice fails to work its magic. "We have a guest at today's session, please sit down."
"No, I don't... I can't. No." Veetor's hands slide along the door, fidgeting with the seals behind his back, then recoil back across his chest for security.
"Veetor, you're being very rude to our guest. He only has a few questions."
"No... No." They always have questions. Veetor stumbles into the corner, pressing himself against a small utility desk.
...
Doctor Shiya gestures to the marine, prompting him to ignore the display and continue with the meeting as arranged. He stutters a moment before finding the appropriate words.
"Veetor'Nara, my name is Kal'Reegar. I work with the Flotilla... to protect our people." His attention flashes toward the doctor for a moment for reassurance; with all the shaking and murmuring, he's not entirely convinced the patient understands a word he says. "I need to know what you saw on Freedom's Progress."
"No!" Veetor screeches, pointing an accusing finger toward Kal while his attention is fixed upon the doctor. "They pretend they want to help, but all they want are memories! They poke and stab and pry!"
"Now, look here. The only stabbing that's about to happen-" Kal's voice rises as his frustration mounts, but it's no use. Veetor's anxiety is impenetrable and Doctor Shiya signals the end of the session.
Veetor trembles as Doctor Shiya summons the attendants to retrieve him. When Aniya and Feliks return, they tranquilize him before he can resist. He flails, fighting for sanity, but his willpower dissolves into chemical bliss. As they carry him away, he murmurs: "Memories should be quiet. N...No."
As the door shuts, Doctor Shiya sinks into her chair in defeat. "I apologize, Lieutenant. Veetor'Nara has made remarkable progress in the past few weeks. I thought he would be prepared."
Kal raises an eyebrow at the remark but refrains making any commentary. He shudders to think what the man was like before therapy.
The doctor sighs. "Perhaps it would be best if we could record these sessions and you could listen in..."
"My presence, no matter how disruptive, is required by protocol." Kal sorts through the displaced objects on the floor and sets them back into their rightful positions. When he's done, each object is exactly where it had started, leaving no trace of disturbance. "I may be a soldier, ma'am, but I will never turn down the opportunity to practice the fine art of subtlety."
The doctor tilts her head at the notion and, not wanting to discuss his own idiosyncrasies, Kal excuses himself.
...
The next few sessions are just as ineffective but at least the hysterics begin to wane. Kal'Reegar's patience wears thin, but he believes that every challenge should be met head on and this one is no exception. Veetor'Nara was the only known survivor of an attack on Freedom's Progress and anything Kal can do to keep the Alliance Council from breathing down the collective recirculators of the Admiralty Board could be considered a victory. Plus, he's admittedly curious about the heroics that set this particular quarian aside from an entire colony as the last man standing.
Kal makes an attempt to appear less intimidating by applying a few different tactics as suggested by the doctor: sitting farther back in the room, appearing preoccupied, and making small talk. He even actively participates in a few sessions as a patient to project himself as an equal to the asset. He feels absolutely ridiculous talking about his feelings with a shrink and a madman but the sessions are confidential and it feels admittedly relaxing to air his emotions.
The most progress is made through art. Veetor, as it turns out, is shockingly more articulate with a stylus than with words. When Doctor Shiya asks Veetor to draw what makes him feel most comfortable, Veetor whips up a doodle of what is undeniably his childhood home: complete with tiny embroidered embellishments on the wall-quilts and little toy ships tucked under the bunk. Kal finds himself slightly embarrassed of his own toddler-like scrawling of an M-27 Scimitar.
After a few more sessions, Doctor Shiya bravely asks Veetor to draw what makes him the most afraid. The man hesitates, slouching forward and pulling his knees under his chin within his seat. Veetor's attention shifts pointedly between the doctor, who patiently scribbles thoughts onto her drawing surface, and Kal.
The man watches him for a long moment and Kal can feel the scrutiny burning into his face plate. Kal makes a point to avoid eye contact, or any approximation thereof, by shifting his gaze from a point across the room to his personal tablet. Surely there's something he finds more frightening than being stranded in a mental health ward.
Veetor's grip tightens. His posture slowly unwinds as he watches the wall of a quarian project his fears into visual media. Kal busies himself by drawing a fleet, its ships fractured and splayed, debris scattered through space. He adds an escape shuttle: its glass shattered.
Veetor leans into the desk and starts frantically scrawling out his fears. Doctor Shiya's hands slow to a halt as she joins Kal in the carefully observing Veetor's project: children, human and quarian, running terrified from a cloud of angry lines. An alien creature reaching for a fallen mother, horrifying claws dragging her into the swarm, and piercing eyes penetrating the darkness. When Veetor has finished, he drops the stylus and curls into a fetal position, embraced by his chair. He latches his arms around his legs and sobs quietly, his stare fixed upon Kal.
Doctor Shiya's voice modulator clicks on and off twice before she finally speaks. She reaches across the table and taps the glowing lines of the nightmare. "Veetor, I too am afraid of insects, of the bacteria they carry and spread, of the implications their presence invokes, but the Flotilla has stringent sterilization procedures that guarantee the safety-"
"No, no," Veetor corrects. "The swarms. They freeze you and take you away."
"Oh, Veetor." The doctor's shoulders sag, expressing exhaustion. She's gone over this with him time and time again. She starts to explain the improbability of a Collector attack when Kal sits forward, stalling her.
"That is scary," Kal admits, exerting every effort not to exaggerate the tension in the room. He studies the drawing with an intensity, then holds up his own for comparison and sighs. "I think we're on the same screen, kid."
Veetor's anxious shaking slows. "You can't hide. They'll find you. They're coming."
"I know. I'm trying to stop them, Veetor." Kal taps the frame of his own artistic rendering. "I need your help, though. The Admirals think the footage is doctored. I can't fight something no one believes in."
"They don't..." Veetor's feet spring out from under him and plant on the metal grate with a cloth muffled thump. He presses his palms against the table and peers at Kal. "My notes. I gave them my notes."
"The notes were illegible, Veetor." Doctor Shiya shakes her head to punctuate the regret. The files had been corrupted, whether by Cerberus or simple exposure, and the functional ones were nothing more than the harshly scrawled messages of a victim.
Kal mirrors Veetor's pose, conscious to press the topic without appearing too demanding. "I need you to tell me what you saw. How you hid. What stopped them."
Veetor waivers. "I... I can't. I..."
Kal reaches forward and squeezes Veetor's hand. "I need you, Veetor. You can do this."
...
Veetor never quite finds the confidence to explain the situation in session, but it doesn't take long for his cell to fill up with graphics and sketches of insectoid monsters. The notes highlight small scouting bugs, large armored bipedal soldiers, and strange glowing creatures with superior strength. There are grand ships with organic lines, chitinous coffins, footprints, and marching patterns. The penetrating imagery of the ominous glowing eyes manages to work its way into several different slides to deliver the point.
"They are organized, efficient and dangerous," Kal'Reegar explains to the Admiralty board as they review images passed through their datapads. "They appear to be after something specific."
Admiral Han'Gerrel sets down his datapad, pushing aside all the imagery with a single tiny gesture. "Do they pose a direct threat to The Fleet?"
"The Collectors are very real and very dangerous to anyone in the crosshairs of their clients."
Han'Gerrel's sigh is inaudible but his mask-light flickers impatiently. "And are the quarians interesting?"
Kal hesitates: the Collectors are a threat to the galaxy but mounting evidence indicates no immediate danger toward quarians. The simple fact that Veetor'Nara survived the attack on Freedom's Progress proves the point. "No. Evidence shows no interest in quarians or the Flotilla."
"Then we shall exert no action against them until such time." Han'Gerrel taps a mallet against the podium. "We do not have the resources to hunt down every shadow and the monsters behind them."
Kal cringes as he presses a foot forward in defiance, every obedient molecule in his body arguing against what he's about to do. "Excuse me, sir-"
"Kal'Reegar," the Admiral warns. "Your dedication to the mission is commendable and you have earned the respect of the Fleet. Upon conclusion of this hearing, you will be reassigned toward a mission much more suited for your talents. Should anything further arise from the current topic, it will fall to the capable hands of fleet security."
The marine clenches his fists and reluctantly steps back. "Yes, sir."
"That will be all, Lieutenant," Han'Gerrel dismisses. "Please report to your superior officer for further instruction."
...
Before he departs for Haestrom, Kal'Reegar visits the medical wing. It's after visiting hours, but he just can't shake the feeling that he's abandoning a brother in arms. His knuckles rap softly on Doctor Shiya's office door and when it opens, she looks surprised to see him.
"Lieutenant! I didn't expect to see you back so soon. Did you want to revise your stance on purple being an aggressive color?"
"No." He laughs, feeling slightly foolish. He made the statement haphazardly and he's sure she'll never let it go. "I've been reassigned. I wanted to ..." He finds himself twiddling his thumbs and quickly reins in the nerves by adjusting his stance. "I wanted to thank Veetor'Nara for all his hard work and dedication before I left."
"I see." The woman's hand settles on her hip in a manner all too reminiscent of his mother for Kal'Reegar to miss. He wonders if he's about to be scolded for being so blatantly inconsiderate of the professionals that operate this end of the ship. "Unfortunately, it's against regulations for me to retrieve him on such short notice. It would disturb the other patients."
"I ... understand."
"But I'd be remiss to send you along empty handed. If you have a moment, come look at these." The doctor ushers the marine into her office and closes the door before stepping behind her desk and shuffling through patient files on her omni-tool. A set of quiet keystrokes projects a handful of drawings onto the pristine silver wall, each bearing the unmistakable style of Veetor'Nara's stylus. "Normally, these wouldn't be on display. I hold my doctor-patient confidentiality in the highest regard, as you're aware. These, however..."
Kal pivots and crosses his arms against his chest, studying each piece in turn. The lines of each become noticeably more clear and precise, more controlled and steady. Most of the drawings are simple sketches of fleets and colonies, mostly devoid of threat or fear. All of them, however, picture a thickly framed quarian.
"Is that..."
"I think think someone has a crush on you," Doctor Shiya jabs playfully.
"But I..."
"Come now, Lieutenant. There's a definable line between a marine's dedication and a man's concern for another individual. You connected with him on a level that most people don't even try for."
Kal leans in for a closer inspection of his portraits and praises the ancestors his red cheeks can't be seen through his purple mask. "Should I be concerned?"
The doctor hesitates. "In his condition, obsession is always monitored very carefully for potential delusion and self harm but Veetor's fixation with this gold suited hero appears to be helping him. He's responding very well to treatment; even visiting other patients." She shakes her head. "If you're uncomfortable with the role, however, we can work toward replacing the ideal with another figure."
"No. No, I'm ... I'm honored."
"Superb! There's one last piece you should see, then." Elan'Shiya shuffles through her omni-tool and settles on one last file, beaming it to Kal's own device. It chimes in receipt.
Kal brings up his forearm and taps the keys on his own omni-tool, a slightly more sluggish and rugged version of the doctor's. The image that springs to life is one of Veetor clinging to Kal's arm while Kal brandishes a shotgun at an oncoming swarm. There's a level of cartoon heroics involved that suggests the entire piece is light-hearted and hopeful, devoid of fear or pain.
"He says 'you keep the monsters away.'"
Kal's face burns even hotter, his eyes misting up. "I try."
In a moment of self reflection he closes the file and nods to the doctor. "Thank you, ma'am."
"I'll start filing visitation forms as soon as you return. They'll be here when you're ready." She snaps to attention and gives him her most crisp salute. "Go be that hero."