Chapter 2 Debriefing

"Is he going to be alright?"

The old Doctor dropped the used syringe into the disposal unit on the sidewall and turned to look at his commanding officer. A grand juvenile laugh, which always reminded the XO of the Santa Claus vids her mother, forced her to watch every Christmas, emitted from the aged Caribbean Doctor.

"The Corporal just needs to sleep it off. Though, the toxins he ingested won't do his immune system any good for a few weeks. I'll have to give him sick leave from any ground missions for at least eight days."

"Do you have any idea what he took this time?"

"From what I can tell, looks like Lobe dust."

"Lobe dust? Not heard of that one."

"It's an old drug, the salarian's were originally developing it to give their operatives temporary psychic abilities. The council banned its use over five hundred years ago, but its been popping up in the recreational drug sector on and off ever since. Never seen a turian stupid enough to use it though."

There was a disgruntled groan from the conscience turian in the room, all eyes on his location as if he were on fire. His arms folded defensively across his chest, as if to prevent himself from exasperated actions, as he watched his comatose subordinate. The younger turian's eyes were dancing violently, under closed lids, as he slept off the drug in his system innocently.

"He's going to be alright, Dharam." Ioik, sincerely reassured her companion, forcing her words into a turian dialect in order to protect the old soldiers sense of pride. A subtle hand, meant to comfort, sneaked its way passed the turians defences and rested upon a tense shoulder.

There was a reluctant nod of agreement from the older turian, his thoughts lost within a sea of another's tomfoolery, gesturing his head away to glance at the well-intentioned hand violating his personal space.

The turian male was at an age where change in ideals did not come easy, tagging along the feeling of succumbing to the enemy. Even after the years working with one another, most of which under his command as fellow soldiers on the ground force team, Dharam still found their interactions puzzling. The problem wasn't as simple as not getting along, quite the opposite, but finding mutual ground between customs. Was the woman a turian or a human, both felt unacceptable, much like putting a tomato in the fruit bowl then serving it as a soup starter. Every time his mind was adjusted to a turian presence she would do something human, like violate his private space, when it was reasserted to human company she would articulate in his tongue and complain about the cold. The issue created awkward tension, and on occasion hilarity, Dharam could rarely decide when to scold, accept or simply allow a gesture to slide out an airlock. It annoyed him, much like the idea of being an old relic, but a greater part relished in the intellectual stimulation that the relationship brought with it like strategy in war.

Alongside the awkward companions, the Doctor took his chance to clean up the mess caused by the flailing Corporal. A trey, some containers and a selection of medical instruments were scattered around the floor and concealed mischievously under the examination beds.

There was a silent pause, in which eyes locked and a hand was retrieved, before the commanding officer continued.

"It's the next time that bothers me."

"I agree." Dharam sighed reflectively. "His recreational curiosity is becoming a problem. I had to cut lunch with my spouse short in order to rescue him from Chora's den."

"I didn't realize you were with Venor when I called. I would have brought someone else."

"Someone else you know with skin resistant to turian teeth?" The older Turian emitted a short deep snigger bringing a smile to his commander's eyes.

"What I'd really like to know," returning to standard Galactic the woman turned to look at the Doctor, crouching stiff and curiously under a bed, trying to retrieve a vial. "Is what you were doing at Chora's Den, Omari?"

The Doctors head bounded upwards and collided suddenly with the bottom of the examination cot followed by curses, in an eclectic arrangement of languages, as he arose slow and unsure footed. Standing, with a look of pained defiance, the old human dumped the vial clutched between his fingers on top of his desk only to watch as it rolled spitefully back to the floor as he rubbed the top of his bruised head. Sighing at the futility of artificial gravity, aging bodies and the current topic, from which there was the remotest escape, Dr. Omari Anguilla Harrigan turned to face the music he had hoped none would play.

"I think we all know what I was doing there. Saving a patient and paying a booty call." The Doctor flailed a hand, unimportantly, signalling he would answer no more prying questions.

"Booty call?" Dharam looked towards his commanding officer, with an intrigued and quizzical look, hoping her human experience would know better than his second-hand study.

The half-human merely shrugged, embarrassed at her inadequate knowledge, in response and returned the turians gaze. Watching the pair's mystified reaction the Doctor felt a victorious amusement, followed by heartfelt laughter, that shook his rounded tummy as if full of jelly and other jiggling things. It was with that, the old Caribbean human, managed to surgically remove himself from suspicion.

As with most of the Doctors moments of joviality, which Dharam often feigned understanding, the old soldier allowed his thoughts to assemble tactically rather than wait for subconscious dreams at the end of the day. A survival instinct he practiced with the utmost diligence. It was more efficient to do the job now than wait for a later whose continued existence, most probably, depended on a forgotten detail of an earlier instance.

Amongst these recollections a forgotten loose end suddenly became apparent, causing the turian to stand to attention as if stricken by an order, his memories now vocalised occupied with a sense of urgency.

"That turian, the one who entered a moment ago, were we expecting him on board?"

There was a, swift purposeful, pause from the XO as she searched her memory for the afore mentioned turian.

"Yes. I believe that was our Spectre." She sighed, realizing; she'd probably be in some form of trouble after yelling at a higher-ranking officer.

Dharam relaxed a minute proportion, now placing his loose end into its correct folder, but could not out of principle manage a complete surrendering of suspicion.

"Spectre means trouble." An aggravated mumble sprang forth.

"Failing to carry out orders and accept the Spectre on board means more trouble." The Lieutenant-commander smiled grimly as she walked unwillingly, like a lamb to the slaughter, towards the med lab door. "I better meet and greet."

____________________________________

Nano sprinted, breathlessly, up along docking bay 19 section 8 looking flustered as she past an eclectic arrangement of ships none of which her own. Her lungs ached, with the swift in take of each breath, the young woman's skin and hair moist with perspiration making her feel sticky and dejected. She was supposed to be on board her ship already, settling into her new quarter's and meeting the crew, but it had taken forty-five minutes just to find directions from some unruly looking dockworkers to section 8 of the huge complex.

The young woman's first day out of military academy was not going well by any standards, especially not the militaries high expectations. Nano's aunts words filled her, shocked and numbing, ears, '…don't go getting known for being at the right places at the wrong time…" A mist of panic fogged her vision forming into wild imaginings, like dark rain clouds promising doom, as she pelted onwards through a personal onslaught of hell.

Perhaps, she thought, they've already departed without me. Perhaps, they've reported my tardiness and the military have kicked me out.

Other such speculations filled her head, leaving little or no room for concentration, Nano found herself for a brief tranquil moment, hurled up and forwards, suspended in mid air. For that split second she blissfully forgot about everything that was troubling her and allowed an unperturbed smile to wash across her lips, as if her frantic mind was numbed with morphine.

At that exact instant another individual nearby was feeling a similar euphoria, though his mind was rarely troubled by little more than stacking arrangements. He watched as the athletic figure ripped past him in a blaze of fiery red hair, almost dropping the crate in between his arms, before reality hit them both with a wincing thud.

Nano hit the sturdy deck; headfirst, and rolled forward a few turns before coming to a sudden, violent stop. She lay perfectly still and crumpled on her back, tangled with her own limbs, her breath creating condensation above her body as the warmth met the cold reaching arms of space.

The human male, who had witnessed the event, encapsulated in an instant of shock let go of his burdening crate with an expensive sounding crash and hurried off to play hero and help his scarlet beauty to her feet.

"Areyou ok?" The husky Russian accent seeped inside the woman's ears, like irresistible honey, as she opened her eyes eagerly and looked up at the man crouching beside her.

A blurry vision hovered above her line of sight, pieces of which, coming into perspective and gaining texture. A pair of worried, but determined, brown orbs locked the woman's uncooperative eyes into some stability before releasing them as suddenly from captivity. Nano watched as the, stubbled and lightly tanned, Russian glanced over her body looking for signs of serious injury. A distracted smile washed over the young woman's face as a hand hovered upwards and clung at a tuft of, short, dark and unruly, hair.

"God you're beautiful."

The Russian looked taken aback before realizing it was probably a concussion talking. Disentangling her from his unwashed hair, the man knelt closer, sliding both hands under her shoulders and lifting her up gently.

"Lean on me and we'll get you to your feet. Give a yell if anything hurts."

Nano obeyed the honey soaking voice that filled her ears and latched her arms around his neck. Slumping her head forward into his chest, with a sigh, she nuzzled against the Russian taking in his scent.

"Uh-humph!" A particularly disgruntled looking asari appeared, unnoticed, from within the ship.

The man almost dropped his burden, confronted with a similar feeling of getting caught by his mother performing some adolescent dirty deed, or at least thinking about it. Something about the asari's expression told him she knew exactly what filthy manner of thoughts were gracing his mind.

"She fell!"

"And you just had to sexually harass the female in a fragile state." One of the asari's boots began to thump the floor violently as she watched him reproachful.

The Russian, in a state of unravelling apprehension, looked down at the awkward position he was caught in and realized his right hand had miraculously slid across the woman's breastplate, cupping a handful.

"My hand slipped!" He hurriedly moved the accused limb elsewhere, walking the wavering woman to a nearby crate and releasing her gently onto it, before moving out of the spotlight of shame created by the asari's disapproving gaze.

The asari grunted, shaking her head in silence, and made her way towards the groaning redhead clutching at her forehead and swaying gently.

"What happened?" The asari squatted purposely, pushing the women's head upwards with little affection, searching into a befuddled emerald gaze.

"She was running along the dock and tripped over the Engineers driver coil."

"So that's where that got to." The asari moved a single finger left and right in front of Nano's eyes, checking her reactions were right, before continuing. "Do you know who and where you are?"

"Uh… I'm definitely still me and I'm definitely still here. My head hurts to much to be anyone else anywhere else."

The asari felt a smile brush her lips at the woman's response, but it was gone to quickly for anybody to notice.

"Its not concussion. Just a bump." She concluded and stood, pushing the hovering Russian a few paces away from his hearts, well one of his organs at least, desire, picking up a crate and getting back to work.

"That's reassuring." The Russian sighed. "Are you sure we shouldn't bring her on board and examine her?"

The asari stared at the human male darkly; the man had a suspicion his thoughts of exploring the woman personally were in plain view to her and not appreciated. It was moments like these, he considered, he felt he could understand what having a mother was like. Though, he could never say such a thing to his associate, without the fear of retaliation, she was many times his senior from what little he knew but would probably take his opinion as insulting as was frequently the case.

"She'll live. I'm sure she has somewhere more important to continue scurrying towards."

"OH!"

The asari and the human both started at the sound of the woman's exclamation, as if some prehistoric predator were close on their trails, and turned in unison to regard her bout of energy.

"I need to get to my ship! I'm late!" Nano bounded upwards, latching onto her bag with one quick stroke, and hopped to a restless pause in between the pair. "I don't suppose either of you knows where I can find the Hierarchy III?"

Both asari and Russian stared at one another, for once the same look upon their faces, in un-amused mutual bewilderment.

"Is she being serious?"

The man shrugged in response and turned to Nano, silently, raising a hand upwards to the ten-foot letters that spelt "Hierarchy III" on the side of their ship.

"Oh douche ba- Ow!" Nano exclaimed, smacking her bruised forehead with the palm of her hand, before fighting back both relieved and pained tears.

________________________________________________

The door hissed beside Garrus and a woman, Lieutenant-Commander Ioik, stepped out in front of him. She paused and looked at him, for the briefest of moments, then moved towards a console on a sidewall.

There was no doubt, about what his mind told him was not possible, his eyes scanned her form cataloguing her like information. The body was turian in design, tall, wide hipped and gated leading up a tight waist to a slight human torso. The shoulders were a little broader, than any human female he'd seen, and he noticed a short spine poking out from her elbows not unlike the one that stuck out from his calves.

The Spectre attempted to get a closer look at her face, whilst trying not to alert her to his information gathering, and pivoted a little forward pretending to check a loose piece of armour on his right leg. The face was the most strikingly meshed of the two species attributes, a general human shape with a small flat-ridged nose. The ears were definitely of a turian design, though, there seemed little of a sound chitin structure leaving a big weakness to bare skin. The top of her head was covered in human hair, short and peach blond contrasting with her light mahogany skin, and a metallic plume on either side of her ears emerged from under the wiry mane.

The XO sighed despondently and struck a button on the console, she had retreated to rather than make second contact with the bewildered Spectre, with the side of a closed fist. Hearing the inter-com', surprised and submissive, beep in response to her violence she began her address to the ships crew.

"This is Lieutenant-Commander Ioik, I need all crew members to report to the mess hall in forty-five minutes for a debriefing. I also expect my cargo onboard and packed away before the docking warden saddles me with another health and safety violation."

The woman struck the button again, hearing the inter-com beep a cry of pain, junctioning to look at the Spectre as if he were an abnormal after thought. She motioned closer to the new turian, feeling somewhat queasy at the prospect of good relations after having just chastised the authoritative figure, and stuck a four-fingered hand out to shake.

"I'm Lieutenant-Commander Toriamos Ioik, of Citadel military, in charge of this frigate. The crew generally refers to me as Tori, but which ever you prefer."

Garrus took a moment to stare perversely at the pre-offered hand; the talon's at the end of her human fingers short and claw like in contrast to his own. The Spectre battled with his instinctive urge to recoil, there was something truly alien about the half-breed, an estrangement that he'd never experienced before even when surrounded by true foreign species swam along his veins incurably. It felt to the Spectre that this, Toriamos Ioik, represented a worrying future possibility for his species and yet he found his body take over once more, reaching out to the hand and shaking it for the briefest possible instance. The skin he'd made contact with was thick and harder than a human's, but no way in comparison to the toughness of his own, with a warm soft sensation.

"Garrus Vakarian, Spectre."

Tori eyed the discontented man, keeping her features expressionless of her true thoughts, and nodded agreeably to the turians reply. She always dreaded meeting new humans and turians, or any other species for that matter; their reactions towards her were more often than not of disgust, pity or anger.

At least he shook my hand, she pondered, there might be hope for this one. A soft smile traced her lips, out of the turians-probing gaze, as the XO turned signalling a hand for the Spectre to follow.

"I'll show you to your quarters and let you get settled. As you no-doubt heard, I've scheduled a meeting with the crew in forty minutes. Any questions you have about the ship or the crew I'll be happy to answer you now."

They walked, in preoccupied amity, along a nonspecific cramped corridor and up a flight of stairs to the above level. The newly fledged Spectre was unable to keep his thoughts entirely on questions he needed to ask her, only the ones he wanted to, but there very utterance would be far boorish than he believed himself capable. Thus, he responded to the situation civilly by walking in silence, their dull periodic footsteps were the only sound to break the ice between one another.

"This is the mess hall." The Lieutenant-Commander hammered another console impartially, administered with the side of a tensed paw, forcing illumination into the room. "We typically hold debriefings, staff meetings and social events in here. If you haven't seen it already; the command centre simply isn't suitable for more than five or six individuals at once. This is, fundamentally, the biggest space we have."

It was small, a reoccurring mechanic of the frigates general scheme, the largest object a five-seater table possessing the room miraculously surrounded by ten chairs. On the east side of the space was a cosy looking area with a couple of comfy sitting places, a rug and a few pillows on the floor, worn but noticeably cared for fondly. A shelf of books, OSD disks no-doubt containing vids, along with a sorry looking cactus plant wearing a sombrero and sunglasses, and a jumble of severely warn board games graced a corner like a pokey eyesore. The walls themselves were smeared thick with a miss-mash of posters the crew had collected from places they had visited; a large notice board, covering most of the northern wall, stuck out amongst the vibrant colours plied with a mixture of important notices, trivial fliers and the odd crude scribbling. It was homely, Garrus had to admit, but chaotic.

"Its best you know now before you make a mistake and call the Engineer. You need to thump some of the wall consoles around here. There has been an issue with the sensitivity since the Hierarchy III was built seven years ago. The Military doesn't think it's worth sending the repair teams to re-fit the entire set-up when we can still make them work with a good smack."

Garrus felt a rise of amusement at the bureaucracy. Perhaps even the Citadel fleet suffers the same noose of idiocy C-sec does, he mused blissfully.

"Over there," the XO pointed, at a mysterious door, behind the table and chairs, "is the kitchen. Left sides for dextro-amino, right sides levo-amino, if you ever feel the need to eat on the chef's off hours."

The Lieutenant-Commander moved back towards the exit, a purposefulness to her steps that tugged at the Spectre's free will as if awakening an old instinct that needed performance, waiting for the turian to pass her before beating on the light switch firmly to end a minor electricity bill. She continued down the, mind numbingly monotonous, corridor and turned right into another of its kin lined with doors five feet between the last.

"Crew quarters. Joint bathroom." The woman waved a hand dismissively at the spectacle before turning back on herself, dodging an unsuspecting Spectre with cool ease, and taking the left route this time to a singular door hidden away in an alcove.

Gently pressing the entry release she stepped inside the large room followed, inquisitive at the prospect of a mysterious area, by her eager lapdog. It was roughly the same size as the mess hall; a sizeable bed to the far end, a small table and chair in the centre and two desks lined the wall in an L shape.

"This used to be the old Commanding officers quarters and office. It has a private shower room over there."

Garrus peered around the room as if on recognisance or valuing a recently vacated premise for resale; it was orderly, sparse and efficient. He liked it, as much as he could bring himself to appreciate his overpriced apartment on the citadel, already.

"Why haven't you taken it?"

"I prefer the smaller rooms."

This seemed like a highly doubtful response to the Spectre; nobody, with more than two brain cells to rub together, would turn down a luxurious room on a second rate frigate, they were forced on board, with working consoles, a private shower and air conditioning. The Ex-C-sec officer felt himself swiftly become suspicious of the room, as if it would ply him with drugs take pictures of his inebriation and sell them on the extranet for cookies, unable to prevent his instinctive urge to search its nooks and crannies for deformities with his trained gaze. On the other taloned paw, I don't expect I'll be staying in this place long enough to inadvertently find its flaws, he concluded as he tossed his folder of files onto a desk.

_______________________________________

Hauling up a cargo container, between anxious and tired hands, the asari placed the last of the ships supplies with its fellow peers. The storage bay was now crammed full barely leaving any room, through which, to manoeuvre the treacherous hills of weighty boxes.

Stepping away from the towering crates she dusted herself vigorously, returning the dark uniform to a presentable state, and groaned irritated at a scuff on the side of a boot before striding the lengthy bay to its uncomfortably wide opening. Keying the command to close the vessels extensive wound that was the bay doors, she watched her surroundings turn into gloomy darkness, as they stole the last of the space stations synthetic light from her crystal clear eyes. An overwhelming sense of loneliness suddenly filled the asari, the overflow attempting to push out her other sentiments, as she heard the emotionless hiss of the hydraulics sealing her impenetrable within the ship.

Perhaps it was because she really was alone down there, surrounded by non-sentient goods with even less general concern than herself, no other beings neighbouring her with their sentimental aura. For a moment the asari felt an unusual longing for the human boy, as it contented her to refer to him, to hastily return back to her company and hassle her with his bothersome banter.

The human child had fled, leaving her alone to finish their work, as soon as a ship wide broadcast had emitted from the small frigate warning of the possibility a disgruntled commanding officer might in still punishment to whom ever was found near by the unpacked crates. He had snuck away on the pretence of guiding a lightly bruised human female officer, another child for the boy to play with, to the ships Doctor. Wherever he had really taken the young women, the malcontent asari was sure, she did not want to know or even imagine.

Shaking her head, at her own discontented thoughts, she paced in between the maze of crates that cluttered the considerable space followed unwilling by her own echoing footsteps. It was almost as if the ship was attempting to console, the gnawing ache the asari felt, mimicking her steps like speech and wrapping her in its cold metallic shadows. She paused, bringing her vessels words into silence, and sighed looking slowly upwards trailing the unprejudiced runs of a ladder.

"Do you join their civilization again or no?" She whispered softly, though not softly enough, the cold walls repeating her utterance irritatingly softer. "Oh shut up! I'm going already."

The asari snorted devilishly and began to climb the ladder upwards, an annoyed rage building inside her like a pyre filling with kindling building with every run, pulling herself onto the next level and sliding the previously opened trap door shut below. The grey corridor she now stood in was just as empty as the storage bay, a frustration ensued the asari sparking flame at the kindling she wrapped herself with, the people she tended to seek isolation from were for once quarantining themselves from her and she couldn't help but miss their troublesome company.

A few minutes later, having had time to vent some anger on insensitive light switches along the way, the asari stomped onto the command deck with an impatient frown. Lieutenant Karaten was busy energetically prodding his console, as he had nothing more interesting to prod, equating complex navigational mathematics as habitual. The salarian was too engrossed with his work to pay the asari any mind, not that she cared whether or not his interests spanned in her direction; someone else in the room had caught her attention absolutely like a sweet sticky substance to a fictional bear.

Her heavy footsteps became steadily soft and lighter as she moved closer, all un-pleasantry evaporating out of her eyes and rising with soft enthused warmth, an expectant tender hand glided over the top of an encounter suits helmet. The occupant inclined the enclosed head into the asari's eager palm, brushing against one another's spirit as only lovers can, envisioning that through the hard cold layers her touch was felt and all consuming.

"Anyaba." The volus lightly inhaled metallic air.

"Dorlan."

The asari slid proficiently into the pilots seat next to her comm. officer and began checking the vessels systems, a new air of calm breezing through her body and radiating against the closest aura, working methodically in silence.

______________________________________________

Dharam continued to watch his unconscious subordinate, with a paternal air, daring him to rouse and face some particularly unpleasant variety of wrath. The experienced male, after great deliberation over the years, had long ago decided the younger turian's loose recreational morals had there foundations based from the lack of a male role model guiding and shaping him as a youth. Today, this bewildering strain of moment, was not the first that he found his professional visor slide from his grasp revealing a deeper caring for his youthful friend and comrade. A consideration that went, a little uncomfortably, beyond the pride and honour that ought to connect the unit.

"My father was right, having children does make you an old man." Dharam concluded his internal dispute.

"No wonder I never grew up then."

The turian stared side long at the Doctor before realizing he had spoken his own thoughts, out loud and despairingly, and got an answer from the greying human fiddling with some infectious looking vials and liquids. Dharam shook his head, as if throwing off the literal spirit of his unit nagging at him vivaciously, with a low and quiet chuckle.

"How is the wife and brood?"

"Busy." Dharam nodded. "The boys are still small, noisy and illogical. I look forward to when they are a little more grown and able to understand."

"Ah, but they grow up quicker than you expect, spread wings and leave."

"Turian's do not have wings."

Omari suddenly burst out laughing, enjoying every moment of his associate' innocent misunderstandings, taking sometime to quieten down and catch his breath before he could explain himself to the agitated turian.

"It was a metaphor, Dharam."

"Oh." Dharam, not as surprised as the Doctor hoped he would be, thought the sentence through again in his head then translated into wording he could comprehend. "I see what you mean. My two sons will grow, develop their skills and join the turian military before I have taught them everything I have planned."

"Sounds to me you're a little plan crazy."

"Not in the least. I merely wish to bring structure an-"

A hissing sound emitted by the med lab door, followed by enthusiastic laughter from two human's ready to crack their own ribs, caught the two men by surprise. Both craned their necks fast enough to cause whiplash to watch the human couple clamber through the opening, clutching at one another playfully, eyes streaming from giggle fits.

Dharam's right arm was already reached around his back, instinctively stroking the length of his assault rifle with a deprived caress, as he glared at the second stranger of the day on his ship; calculating the odds of her abilities against his own.

___________________________________________

In the little mess hall, under the garish fluorescent lights, Lieutenant-Commander Ioik sat at the logic-defying table rereading the report sent to her by citadel military headquarters. There was a thick stuffy quality to the air surrounding the distracted woman, threatening malignantly to suffocate as if a toothless vampire, pestering her senses like a well placed detonation of sulphur and ringing bells. She wafted a free hand through the air, as if trying to fight off a horde of tooth faeries, stirring the thick climate to no avail as rebellious thoughts began to fill her unwilling mind.

I hope the Spectre appreciates the working air purifiers in his office; Tori paused her agitated reading in order to give a distant console, flashing the universal red light of warning, a thorough glare of annoyance. The XO felt strongly that the grieving vessel had some bitter vendetta against her, most notably when it pulled pranks like switching between scolding hot and ice cold water during only her shower encounters and deleting her personal files, perhaps because of her inexperience or initial unwillingness to take command after the superior officers deaths. Things felt simpler back in the days when she was just a Lieutenant, times now feed for nostalgia once unfavourably looked upon as well, following regimented assignments and always having someone else to look up to in times of jeopardy.

'Things that stay the same get stale and boring…', Tori listened to her mothers advice, on mental playback, wondering defiantly if boring might still be the improved choice when compared to moments of insanity like having hour long arguments with a non-sentient spaceship. It had crossed the XO's mind, on several exasperated occasions, that the Hierarchy III might be half or perhaps just a particularly slow Reaper in disguise. However, that would purely be too convenient an explanation, especially in the kind of universe that allows blue human male sexual fantasies to exist, and whole-heartedly unbelievable at her court-martial if she were to finally send the mutinous frigate direct to human hell.

Scanning through the uniformed documents, using a sharp digit to discern one line from another like a pre-school child, her right hand snuck away before returning in order to direct something that looked suspiciously like a sickly orange prawn cracker to her mouth; with a satisfactory crunch. It wasn't long until other members of the crew, each annoyed they were not the last to arrive, began appearing for the pre-arranged briefing. Amongst the beginning populous slid Garrus Vakarian, eyes in a constant twitching motion attempting to put names to faces, into a fuse of chatting companions all waiting for something interesting to happen. The Spectre, now mildly irritated at the sheer stubborn thickness to the air, found himself a vacant seat along the middle of the table whilst they waited for the last of the crew to assemble and settle down.

The XO looked up at the turian, noticing a hint of well-concealed nervousness, and grinned inwardly. She pushed the plate of cracker things towards him unceremoniously and nodded, attempting to coerce the Spectre with treats, before returning to her mundane reading.

"My mother has a saying, '…never go to battle on an empty stomach…'"

Garrus looked at the plate, flaring his mandibles as he pondered the prospect of poisoning, and instantly recognised the morsels as a type of turian biscuit he despised as a child. Not wanting to seem rude to the gesture, or the unusual advice it came partnered with, he took one regardless of his past dislike and slipped it elegantly onto his tongue. As he crunched down on the biscuit he was relieved nobody was looking directly at him, eyes overflowing with anguish at the repulsive taste, texture, everything, as the Spectre fought with the urge to upchuck the contents of his maw over the worn metal table. Secretively sliding the napkin out from under the rest of the crackers, like only a C-sec officer with experience in petty theft could, he skilfully dumped the orange mush in his mouth before wrapping and sliding into a slot on his armour for later. That out of the way Garrus found his nerves quietened, or severely distracted by the ordeal of the snack, but his stomach now raged with revolted fury and he felt the urge to find some pebbles.

The crew began filling seats around the table, like an unusual game of musical chairs without music or the desire to actually sit down, the last to arrive were the two salarian crew members wanting to use their time to its fullest efficiency whilst on duty. Karaten took to standing beside the Spectre, as there was a lack of seating now with two extra bodies present, whilst the female Engineer sat in between a disappointed looking asari and an eager human woman she didn't recognize.

Tori looked up, as the noise within the room reached critical, suddenly realizing her crew was entirely present. Folding over the manuscripts binding, that had almost sent her to sleep with its dreary story telling, she stood clearing her throat gently looking for not to much attention.

"Everybody, who can be, is here. Good." The XO began before a young human male, predictably, raised his hand lazily.

"Yes?"

"Could I not be here?" The Russians voice, lubed with flattery and self-assurance, attempted to assault the Lieutenant-commanders will as a single woman but was easily deflected with ignorance. The XO could feel a headache coming on, in more than one way, and decided to simply ignore him before he became a migraine.

"Alright crew, we've been routining Serpent Nebula for the past six months. Headquarters has sent us some new orders and people." Tori inclined her head towards the human female, paying far to much attention for the XO's preferences, and peered at her files moving her lips silently over a list of supplies. "You'll be the new solider we requested. Private Nano Hanora Carbery?"

"That's me!" Nano raised a hand concisely.

"You'll be working with Corporal Pallas Gungnir and Lieutenant Dharam Kshatri."

"Meet me in the Cargo bay below deck afterwards." Dharam nodded.

"I don't suppose they sent the new engineers?"

"I'm afraid no engineers this time, Heranon." The XO tugged at her uniform collar and cleared her throat gently.

"I can't keep working in these conditions!" The Engineer fired a fist to the table before instantly recoiling it with a yelp.

"I know-"

"No! I don't think you do! There's supposed to be a minimum of three engineers down there and I'm on my own!"

"If you went back to home world you wouldn't be alone." Karaten skilfully sniped the Engineers last nerve, whose eyes lit a blaze with wild vehemence, finding a plate of crackers bowled aimlessly in his direction. After dodging the attack, with unreasonable ease, the salarian male frowned as he grabbed for Garrus' folder of papers and held it above his head ready to hurl.

"Stop that both of you!"

The salarian pair froze, hearing the length of calm scolding in their commanding officers voice, and ceased their aggressions somewhat sluggishly. Neither salarian desired to put their chosen flinging object down first, along with the majority of the room eager to see an amusing scrap, so were in the process of gradual lowering whilst vividly glaring. Something told them, in a loud and undeniable inner tone, their next moves could prove fatal if unchecked, though Karaten could not forcefully banish the smug grin that ravaged his face.

"Thank you." The XO, wishing she was elsewhere, sighed. "I'd appreciate if you two resolved this inconvenient spat for good this time. We cannot keep having these disruptions around the ship."

"Especially when I'm the one who has to clean up after you two!" The Russian added drenched in amusement.

There was a dull mumbling from the pair; whether they were apologizes, insults or threats was inaudible. Tori shrugged, knowing too well this would not be the end, and continued with the rest of the meeting.

"Our orders are to ferry and facilitate any assistance required by the Citadels representative." She inclined her head towards the Spectre. "You are all to follow the representatives orders. However, the representative does not carry authority, above myself, in relation to the safety and general management of the ship and its crew. If you are asked to carry out a contradicting order by both of us, you'll complete my command. Is that understood?"

A series of nods and yes sounds quietly reverberated around the room, punctuated by a look of distain originating from the turian Lieutenant thrust at Garrus hoping he would melt away into nothing, as the crew digested the new information. The commanding officer, satisfied with the response, turned the floor over to their new resident Spectre whom stood with a defiant reservation.

"Garrus Vakarian, Spectre." Not one for small talk, because he didn't know how, he dove directly into the heat of things hoping he wouldn't get burnt along the way. "Over the last year, there has been a number of unusual reports from ships passing the adjoining areas between Citadel space and beyond the Perseus veil.

Just over six months ago, before the attack on the Citadel, a number of Geth bases were found in Citadel space and destroyed by Spectre Shepard.

We know the Geth were working with the Reaper, Sovereign, and also appear to worship the synthetic species. With the continuing reports coming from the, afore mentioned, adjacent systems the council has decided to undertake an investigation into the possible threat of an invasion by the Geth.

We are to proceed to the surrounding systems and search for possible bases, fleets and any data we can ascertain from space within the Perseus veil."

"The council wants a small, lightly armed frigate to look for Geth and enter the Perseus Veil alone?"

Garrus found his eyes unable to break the lock, however much he mentally gouged his retina, which Dharam had captured him with. The serious authority in the older turians voice, edged with just a dab of venom, made the Spectre feel like a small child. It took all of his willpower, even sheer stupidity came to help, in order to with strain the urge to fidget and hide under the table pistol ready.

"A lone, small vessel is less detectable than a fleet."

"I agree with Dharam. Its suicide." The asari looked fiercely, folding her arms as if this would strengthen her addition to the conversation, towards her commanding officer.

"There's an old saying my mother once told me." Lieutenant-Commander Ioik, lost in a mysterious cloud of reflection, rested her chin upon her palm supported via an elbow on table. '…If you have lemons, make a salsa…'"

"I don't see any salsa in this situation, Tori." Dharam continued. "We go in, look for Geth, and most likely die if they're there. Geth are highly organized in large groups. I would rather face a Krogan army than an unknown Geth fleet."

"Maybe I should give you a psychiatric evaluation because you sound crazy." The Doctor chimed in, revelling in his favourite person to torment, with a short bout of laughter.

"Krogan are predictable. They attack what is in front of them until either their prey or they are dead. They do not respect the idea of teamwork or strategy. The Geth, on the other hand, will bait us with traps and work together as an efficient unit. They know what each other know at all times thanks to their network. The Geth are a formidable opponent."

"I concur." Garrus dropped the file of papers he'd been reading from, to create a dramatic tension his monotonous voice was unable to, on the table and sat down apprehensively. "However, we have no orders to enter combat with the Geth at present. We are to only observe and leave at any sign of danger. A small fleet will be waiting at the next jump point in case we run into any trouble."

"A battle can be lost in the time it takes for a fleet to enter a jump point."

"Then will just have to be fortunate enough to not gain, if they are even there, the Geth's attention. I've read this ship seems to have a uncanny talent at getting lucky from its past mission reports."

"The ship but not its crew." Lieutenant-Commander Ioik sighed, the rest of the crew mimicking her expression of anguish, and pushed her body back into her chair staring down at her hands.

The collective thoughts of the crew, forming ominous rainclouds above their heads and clearing the humid environment for the broken air conditioning system with an icy breeze, for fallen comrades dearly missed. Garrus Vakarian suddenly felt like a lecherous dog having brought the entire crew into a mild depression, like only a turian Spectre declaring doom can, and sought vigorously for words to uplift the mood. However, there was only one thought, so totally unimportant for an ex-C-sec officer to ignore, which nagged at the back of his mind like an untrained poodle.

"What exactly is salsa?"

"I believe it is a human mating ritual." The salarian navigation officer was the first to leap upon the question, and hump it if he could, followed by a sharp synthetic rush of breath from the volus Comm.'s officer.

"No, it's a dance. You remember Anyaba?"

"If you're referring to that strange human man, with the red earth flower between his teeth, telling me '…sway your hips senorita…' then no."

"Then why exactly have we been looking for a human mating dance in a death trap of a mission?" Dharam folded his arms defensively.

A sudden outburst of laughter from the human's around the table, who had been listening mischievously, brought the aliens discussion to an abrupt halt. A number of mighty frowns attempted to pierce the soft squishy pink species, with the exception of the older turian who seemed beyond dreaming deep in thought, as they continued to hoot and thump the table wrapped in mirth the Russian physically falling back in his chair to the ground before clambering back up. Tori cleared her throat gently, tapping the edges of the military documents she had been scanning until perfectly neat, rolling her shoulders back and forth until most of the hilarity in the area along with her tension had subsided.

"Salsa is a form of dance, not anymore a mating ritual then any other dance, but it is also a food dip. My mother and her family eat it with tortilla chips as a snack."

"That explains the use of the lemon I suppose." Karaten added a mental note.

The dawn of realization, struggling to make its presence bright and cheerful, clambered onto and attached itself to most of the alien's faces like an unusually colourful piece of S & M gear. The human's were still chuckling quietly to themselves, about the obvious mistakes made, but were soon ready to continue the meeting with a professional if not amused air. Dharam also decided to return, from his expedition of daily memories, somewhat annoyed at the realization he'd left a light on in the lower deck garage.

"You all understand the mission, its vital importance to Citadel space and its dangers. We'll go in, collect the data and be out ASAP."

"I still think we could do with a couple of cruisers and a dreadnaught, Spectre."

Garrus could feel the older turians talons digging into the dirt; his years of experience teaching him to be cautious of everything but the younger turian had his own telling the newly fledged Spectre that dangerous choices sometimes had to be made in order to progress and save the unit. He only wished the council had sent him alone, or at least allowed him to select his own crew like Sheppard had picked him, this crew felt increasingly like emotional baggage that would hinder instead of assist. The turian also found himself disliking the vessels commanding officer, a small piece of which he had to admit were for aesthetic motives, who seemed inexperienced and unable to keep her crew in check. Not to mention also exhibiting repetitive habits, as he watched her clawing at her collar for the fifth time of the day and clearing her throat softly, that screamed borderline maniac to the ex-C-sec officer.

As if on cue, the XO stood sharply, peering around at the faces bordering her with a deliberate air.

"If we've all finished stating are reservations about the mission, lets get back to are jobs and get the Hierarchy III away from this multicultural paradise before the inhabitants realize how ugly it is and kick us out. I expect the ship prepped and ready to leave in the next hour, no excuses.

Heranon, as soon as Corporal Gungnir is up and awake I'll assign him to help you in engineering."

"I'll have him up and ready for duty after a good detox in a few hours."

"Thank you, Omari. You can handle down below with Private Carbery, Dharam. You don't need a tech down there for the time being."

"That should be fine. Though, I hope to get my Corporal back at some point."

"Pallas's deferral from ground team is for another eight days. You'll get him back then but, seeing how it goes, I might put him on alternating shifts between you and Heranon." Tori waited for a customary nod of agreement from her Lieutenant before she continued but received an unusual grunt of tolerance. "Heranon, I want you to work the Corporal hard and Doctor, don't detoxify him too much. Perhaps a bitter tasting hangover will dissuade him from taking misjudged alliances with suspicious substances. Crew dismissed."

There was a chorus of 'yes sir', and a solo 'yes ma'am' performed with the objective to annoy the commanding officer, followed by chairs scrapping the floor and the padding of hurried footsteps across the meshed deck. Garrus found himself sitting firmly in his seat, after having fought the urge to obey a 'crew dismissed' order, watching the Lieutenant-Commander with mild wander as she picked up her perfectly organised folder. Perhaps I judged to quickly, he reasserted his opinions, but there's still something wrong about that one.

A quick glance from the XO, as she looked up and moved from the table to the door, made the Spectre suddenly remember the soggy napkin filled mess he was hiding in his armour. He stood uncomfortably fumbling in the slot, using all of his concentration to coax the weakened paper out without spillage, before looking around for some way of permanent disposal and noticing the human male now cleaning the remnants of plate and turian biscuits from the floor.

"Uh… here."

The Russian frowned at the damp napkin parcel now in his palm, pondering what sort of contents could create such a horrid odour, not even noticing the Spectre leave.

"Thanks, I'll treasure it always."