Damn Your Lettuce
The young krogan were tearing around the compound, yelling insults to each other, or encouragements to their own team mates, while the adults watched on with pride. The game was an obstacle course, set up to run through the weapons training arena, through the female's meeting area, through the food storage crates, then across an open field to the finish line.
The race was on between two young males, each of them the last in their relay teams, each determined to reach the finish line first. They'd climbed the stack of crates filled with dried varren meat. They'd crawled under the vines growing the tuchankan equivalent of pumpkins. They'd dodged the knives used for slicing up slaughtered pyjacks.
But as the slightly older, slightly faster male rounded the corner of the last hurdle before a sprint across the open field, he happened to catch a glimpse of the stray supplies left out on the counter, happened to reach out and grab a handful of green leaves, tumbling them to the groundā¦
And as the younger krogan rounded the corner, he stepped on the spilled produce, green and leafy, just slick enough to cause him to skid and slide and fall to the floor in an undignified heap, giving the older krogan the clear lead in the race for the finish.
And as he lay flat on his back, the krogan youth could be heard to mutter a half-hearted, defeat-laden curse.
"Damn your lettuceā¦"
