Chapter Two: Hands
The starport the ship had docked at was a hive of activity - freighters landed and were unloaded by workers bearing slave collars around their throats. Many of them were human with the occasional salarian or asari among them. Whatever their race, they all bore the same resigned look on their faces and moved with the same stoop shouldered shuffling gait. Batarians in black armour walked the perimeter of the port and snipers maintained overwatch from guard towers.
Occasionally, a slave stumbled attempting to move a heavy piece of cargo and would receive a lash from a neural whip. Shepard cursed inwardly at the cries of pain.
Shepard twisted her head from side to side as she walked, hoping to see the Lieutenant but, aside from a few other humans who had apparently been captured as well, there was nobody else she knew.
As her captors herded her towards a waiting vehicle, the Spectre looked up at the night sky, attempting to locate any familiar stars or planetary bodies that would give her an inkling of where she was but found nothing familiar. A hand shoved her forward, its owner apparently dissatisfied with her progress. Shepard faced forward again, taking in as much of her surroundings as she could, committing them to memory.
Her footsteps as she walked towards the vehicle felt lighter than usual; this was probably a lower-G world. The atmosphere was evidently breathable without an environment suit though whether that was the result of a terra-forming project or not, Shepard couldn't be sure. The air felt cool and dry and the faint breeze carried the odour of exhaust fumes from the ships.
Shepard and her escorts reached the vehicle - it resembled a prison van like the one she'd seen in old vids, and sat on four wide-profile tyres. The vehicle's armour-plated hull was painted matte black.
Turning her head to face the helmeted batarian to her right, Shepard said, "You guys have a real fetish for black, don't you? And those helmets? It's like something out of a kinky porno. What are you guys doing here? Aside from slaving, obviously? Making bad amateur skin flicks?"
Ignoring her, the batarian slammed a fist into the side of the van and a door at the rear slid open, revealing two long, narrow benches. There were no other occupants in the rear.
"Let's see if you're as flippant once you meet the boss. Get in."
Shepard ducked her head beneath the rear hatchway and settled herself on the right hand bench. As she sat, hands still cuffed behind her, an audible gurgle came from her stomach, pointedly reminding her that she'd had nothing to eat since...she didn't no how long.
The two guards sat opposite her, assault rifles resting in their laps, faceless helmets revealing nothing.
The van's rear door hissed shut as it drove off, cutting off her view of the spaceport.
---
"The thing you gotta understand about humans is that they're completely unpredictable," Karn said, scooping up yet another handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar.
"No, no they're not," Lurn shook his head, gazing at the wallscreen. He pointed to the images of a well-built human male running for his life across the cracked and broken road surface. The man threw a glance over his shoulder every few steps, terror clearly marked on his features.
"See that?"
"Yeah?"
"He's running."
"And?" Karn said, pausing to chew, "What's your point?"
"My point is, running for your life when being pursued by the Twins is entire predictable. Which tends to discount your assertion that humans are unpredictable."
The image changed to that of a pair of asari huntresses - known as the Twins, who with their long, loping strides were quickly closing in on the fleeing human.
Lurn nodded towards the screen, "In my opinion, unpredictable would be that chump turning around and heading right at the girls. He'd be slaughtered in seconds but what's he accomplishing by running?"
"Um...Hey Kirin, you've been around humans, tell this idiot how unpredictable they can be," Karn made this appeal to the volus bartender.
With a hissing intake of breath, Kirin replied, "Well, batarian-clan, whilst it has been my experience that the Earth-clan are indeed capable of acting in an unpredictable manner at times," Kirin paused to take another gasp of ammonia through his suit before continuing, "Your companion raises a valid point. Fleeing from the huntresses is entirely predictable."
Lurn looked triumphantly at his friend. "See? Oh...that's gotta hurt!" Lurn winced in sympathy as, onscreen one of the Twins, an expression of joy on her beauteous face, cut the man's legs off at the knee. Her sister, a smile beaming from her equally gorgeous face lopped off his arms, one at a time.
The man's piercing screams rang out through the tavern, drawing hoots of derision from the mostly batarian crowd.
Onscreen, the asari twins had linked arms and were dancing around their latest victim.
"Who would have thought that slicing a person to death like that could be so much fun to watch? Those girls...I wonder if they have a fan club?"
"Right, Karn, like they'd be interested in hearing from you. I heard they only ever have it off with the females of other races, anyhow."
"Hey, I'd pay to watch that!"
The two batarians clicked their beer steins together.
---
After being knocked cold by the batarians, Storm had come to in the rear of what turned out to be a prison van. The van halted inside a cavernous garage and Storm, along with four other captives - all bearing the same stunned expressions - were herded out by a pair of batarians clad in the now-familiar black hardsuits and helmets.
Storm's head ached and dried blood had crusted into her eyebrow. Maybe next time you'll think twice before mouthing off at gun-wielding batarians she chided herself.
The other four captives, all human men, were separated from the Lieutenant and marched deeper into the complex by one of the guards. The other aimed his rifle at her head and jerked his own in the direction of a nearby elevator.
"Are you going to be a good girl and walk when I tell you to or do you require another object lesson?"
Storm merely eyed the batarian and for a brief moment imagined him in the digital sights of her sniper rifle. Slip up even once, batarian, and I'll make sure it's the last thing you do.
"Lead on," was all she said.
Hands still cuffed behind her, Storm began walking across the grease and oil stained floor of the vehicle garage, trying to observe the activity around her without drawing another blow to the head from her new friend. Technicians and mechanics serviced vehicles ranging from basic trucks and cargo haulers to military vehicles similar in size to an Alliance Mako.
The elevator loomed ahead of them and Hailstorm wandered why she had been separated from the others, what the batarians intended to do with her and what had become of Commander Shepard.
The interior of the elevator was similar to that of the cell she'd woken up in. "You guys have really cornered the market on drab interior design," she smirked. She couldn't help herself, stressful situations brought out the sarcastic quips. Eyes closed, she waited for the blow to fall. It didn't. The batarian hadn't reacted at all. Cautiously, Storm's eyes opened and she glanced up at the display of floor numbers above the lift doors. Though she couldn't read what was likely batarian numerals, each light blinked on and off in sequence as the lift ascended.
The lift came to a stop and doors opened, revealing more of the same grey interior design and lighting panels. Storm forced herself to bite her tongue, the pain reminding her not to say or do anything to make her situation worse. "Get out," her escort ordered.
Storm began walking along the corridor. Doors spaced along both sides of the corridor at regular intervals were closed and locked down - as evidenced by the red-lit control panels. Eyeing them as they passed by, Storm observed that they conformed to the standard type used throughout the galaxy and could be easily cracked with a standard omni-tool.
That's comforting to know. If I ever get my hands on an omni-tool.
Human and batarian halted before the door at the end of the hall. Like the others, the control panel glowed red. The batarian positioned his body so as to block her view of the panel and tapped in a code. The panel turned green as the door slid aside.
Entering the room, Storm's eyes widened as they took in the mounted heads on display.
"Welcome, human. I am Karrick."
Her wide eyed gaze snapped from the heads to the man wearing what she assumed was the batarian equivalent of business attire. She observed that Karrick wore a sidearm on his hip though his body language and demeanour seemed as non-threatening as the situation could allow.
"You must have many questions and I will answer what I can. Would you care for some refreshments?" Karrick spoke standard well and without the harsh accent of the guards from the ship.
"Why don't we skip the pleasantries? Where's Shepard and what are you planning to do with us?"
"Very well. I am what you might call an entrepreneur-"
"Oh, so that's what you call being a slaver these days?"
Karrick raised a hand and shook his head. Looking over her shoulder, Storm saw the guard lower his gun from where it had been about ready to strike.
"I run the most successful sporting events in this sector of space," he paused and again Storm eyed the severed heads.
"As you may have surmised, these sports involve the hunting of sentient beings. Most of them are worthless pirates or other scum but occasionally our capture teams pull in you Alliance types. And Spectres. You will participate in the latest round of hunts. If you are very lucky you may even survive more than a few minutes. You must understand that the viewers weary of seeing the same thing day in and day out. They want something more...you are that something more."
"I'll die before I compete in any..sports," she snapped, stiffening with anger.
Karrick sighed before grasping his pistol and disengaging the safety. "If I had a credit for every time I've heard that...I could retire a very rich man." Pointing the weapon at her, Karrick went on, "Where do you want it? The head or the gut?"
Storm felt her eyes widen as her heart rate ramped up. Sweat suddenly form on her forehead and she hated herself for showing fear. The batarian smiled, "You humans are all the same. You carelessly throw out declarations that you are ready to die but I can see the fear in your eyes. You are not ready. But you soon will be, I think."
Still holding the gun on her, Karrick addressed the guard standing behind her, "Take her away."
---
Rygon looked up in annoyance as the doors to his clinic opened. The latest blood-work from the Reaver was less than encouraging. The krogan hunter had been ambushed, itself a remarkable event by the turian he had been pursuing. The turian who Rygon had secretly been hoping would triumph had managed to reach one of the supply caches scattered throughout the hunting grounds and armed himself with an old pistol.
The caches were Karrick's idea of 'evening the odds' for his unwilling competitors. Most of the unfortunate wretches who were captured and forced to fight were so horror-struck by the entire affair that they simply took leave of their senses and fled screaming. Those few with some kind of formal combat training managed to elude the hunters long enough to find a weapon and defend themselves. The turian not only eluded the hunters, found a supply cache and armed himself but he had also mounted a particularly effective series of ambushes on a number of hunters.
Four to be precise. Though Rygon had long since learned to ignore the constant hunts broadcast to his clinic vidscreen, he had felt himself drawn into this turian's struggle to remain alive, just a little longer. After the first kill, when the turian had dropped down from the second story fire escape of an abandoned apartment complex behind his would-be assailant and shot him, point-blank in the back of the skull, Rygon had felt a most unusual emotion course through him. After careful analysis, he realised the emotion was...hope.
Hope, that was something the salarian medic hadn't felt in some years. Leaning forward in his chair, Rygon had felt an eagerness to see what the turian would do next. He even got up from his seat and turned up the volume on the screen, which was something he thought he'd never do. Turning the vids off was impossible - the off button was disabled somehow but Rygon always kept the sound muted. It was his way of defying the batarians.
The second of the turian's victims was, absurdly, in Rygon's opinion, human. And not a slave forced to fight for the batarians either. She seemed to be there of her own free will, which surprised Rygon and he'd thought he'd seen everything these five years as a slave. The human, tall for her gender, possessed hair that had either been dyed pink or was the result of gene manipulation. She may have been considered 'pretty' by the males of her species but for the dead-eyed stare and the death's head rictus of a smile.
The huntress had been armed with quite the arsenal - twin pistols, rifle, shotgun and wore a hardsuit bearing the words Born to Kill stencilled across the breastplate. Born to kill she may have considered herself to be but she had come unstuck after the turian lunged out from an alleyway, and taking her completely by surprise, tore the shotgun from her grasp, pressed the muzzle under her jaw and pulled the trigger.
Never had Rygon seen a human's head explode in such a way. The scene was replayed several times - in slow motion, from multiple camera angles, in monochrome and even in thermal vision. By this point, Rygon was almost beside himself with glee. For an encore, the turian, armed with the dead woman's rifle opened fire from inside a burned out house at a pair of batarians. Rygon couldn't contain himself and pumped the air with a fist as one, then the other piece of four-eyed scum fell.
Then Rygon did something stupid. He allowed himself to hope that this turian would not only triumph over the hunters but would be able to carry the fight right back to Karrick's office and put him in the ground. That hope was extinguished when the Reaver, a krogan of massive proportions, happened upon the turian. Though he executed another ambush and even managed to injure the krogan, he was soon outmatched by the quality of the Reaver's body amour. Head down as though walking against a gale-force wind, the Reaver closed the distance to the turian, ablative plating absorbing most of the incoming fire, grabbed his target by the head and snapped his neck with brute force. For the benefit of the cameras, the krogan spread his arms wide and roared at the sky.
Rygon slumped back in his chair, hope lost. Later that day, the Reaver showed up in Rygon's clinic, his hide bearing the scars of his encounter with the turian. The ammunition loaded into one of the turian's weapons had apparently been laced with a particularly toxic compound and now the Reaver was suffering an acute form of blood poisoning. Rygon found it quite ironic that the toxic ammunition had been that used by the pink-haired huntress. That the Reaver had effectively been poisoned by a weapon used by a fellow hunter filled Rygon with grim good humour.
His humour was lessened when Karrick personally arrived to make sure that the Reaver received the best treatment possible.
Rygon hadn't needed to be told what would happen to him should the Reaver expire.
So now he sat analysing the results of the blood tests and had pretty much decided both he and the Reaver were so much dead meat when the clinic doors opened, revealing a batarian guard and a human female. Rygon sighed at this interruption. "What is it?" he snapped at the guard. The woman he ignored entirely.
"Usual drill," the batarian sounded bored, "Make sure it's fit for combat then send it along." The batarian paused to remove the human's restraints.
"Fine, fine" Rygon spat. "Get out of my clinic."
"Watch your tone, salarian."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" Rygon gazed steadily at the batarian, large black eyes unblinking. He didn't fear death, not any more, not after everything he'd seen in this place. His only hope was that, when his time came, it would swift and painless. Though that last was probably wishful thinking.
"Plenty more doctors where you came from," the batarian replied and walked away. The door closed and locked as he left.
That left Rygon with the human. She stood in the doorway, rubbing the red marks on her wrists, eyeing Rygon cautiously.
"Well? Get in here, we don't have all day."
"Where'd you learn your bedside manner?" the woman shot back. Rygon rolled his eyes. This was going to be one of those days, he could tell.
---
Shepard stood before the batarian who called himself Karrick, the apparent architect of her capture and smiled. It wasn't the prettiest of smiles, her face having been subjected to a number of blows from the batarian as he worked off his frustrations on her. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back and a pair of guards held her upright. Shepard smirked as she imagined using her biotics to hurl the batarian into the wall behind him. Oh to be free of these restraints..."What's the matter, Karrick? Not man enough to take me on without my hands tied behind me?" Shepard knew baiting the batarian was pointless but couldn't help herself. Besides, she told herself as his fist looped through the air and slammed into her cheek, pain helps you focus.
Initially, the 'meeting' between herself and Karrick had been not amicable exactly but civil enough. Shepard had commented on the trophy heads, "Nice collection. Needs more four-eyes, though."
"Shepard, I brought you here for a reason," Karrick began.
"Yeah, I kinda figured that when I woke up on your big fancy ship and realised I wasn't dead."
"Your insolence is a poor mask for your fear, human," Karrick stepped towards her until their faces were inches apart.
"Yeah, I get that a lot," she said, smiling. "You have no idea. You do realise that capturing a Spectre will have major repercussions for you? Normally the Council wouldn't care much about about a half-assed gang of batarians snatching people but one of their own agents? My friend, you are, as we say back home, screwed."
"I think not, Shepard. Your vaunted Council isn't going to risk open war with the Terminus Systems over a missing Spectre. Not even for their precious Saviour of the Citadel." Karrick's face twisted with hate.
Shepard allowed a small smile, having goaded the batarian into letting some intelligence slip. The Terminus Systems, she'd suspected as much and, she had to admit, Karrick was right about the Council - they currently lacked the naval capacity to carry the fight to this lawless region of space and even if they had the fleets, they would be loath to drag the galaxy into another large conflict so soon after the geth war.
"I suppose this is the part where you unveil your grand plan to take over the galaxy? That didn't impress me when I was dealing with Saren, you may have heard of him, and I'm gonna be even less impressed by whatever you're about to spew out. But please, humour me."
Karrick took his time explaining about the hunts and how his ratings were beginning to slip - at this Shepard said, "Oh my heart bleeds. I can almost hear the violins." Karrick whirled and struck her in the face. "I grow tired of your insolence, Shepard."
Shepard's tongue emerged from between her lips, tasting the blood oozing from the corner of her mouth.
"Our peoples are perhaps more alike than you might like to admit, Shepard," Karrick said at length.
"We're nothing alike!" Shepard hissed.
"A volus merchant friend of mine considers himself quite the scholar of human history. He feels that understanding a culture's past makes it easier for him to conduct business with his clients."
Shepard stared mutely over his shoulder.
"He told me about the gladiatorial combats that took place during the time of the ancient Roman Empire...on Earth, Shepard. No doubt you think us animals for pitting people against one another for entertainment-"
"You're reading my goddamn mind, I'm amazed," she replied. The Spectre's head rocked to the left as Karrick struck her again. "I dislike being interrupted, human." Karrick went on, "Your own people, thousands of years ago used bloodsport as a form of entertainment for the masses. Man against man, man against beast. They fed people to carnivores called 'lions' did you know that? And you say our people have nothing in common."
"We evolved past that, you sick freaks!" Shepard shouted, bloody spittle flying from her lips.
Karrick merely smiled. "I caught a recording of the most recent heavyweight boxing match beamed directly from Earth, Spectre. Would you like to see it? It is quite brutal, even by my standards. Blood was flying, Shepard. So, how far have you evolved, really?"
"Go to hell, batarian," she ground out. She was unsurprised when he hit her in the face again.
"You like that, don't you? Makes you feel like a big man, smacking women around. You told me a little story and I'd like to repay the favour. You remind me of a guy from back home. Now, I never had the pleasure of knowing him personally but I heard stories. He fancied himself as king of the whores, had himself a nice little harem of girls only he called them his bitches. And he certainly did like to hit his girls, excuse me, bitches whenever the mood took him. Which was frequently. One day, so the story goes, the girls...sorry bitches decided they didn't want to be beaten up until they were bleeding and then forced right back to work so they lured him into a trap. Set him up good. You know what they did, batarian?"
Karrick said nothing but Shepard noted the tension in his arms as he clenched his fists.
"They cut off his hands. With a chainsaw. Can you fathom it? Now, as I said, I didn't see any of this personally and I only got the story from second and third hand sources but I hope it's true. I really hope it's true, Karrick. And you know why I'm telling you all this? Because if it's the absolute last thing I do, I'm going to come back here and take your hands."
With an inarticulate bellow of rage, Karrick went to work on her in earnest.
As the guards dragged the bloodied, semi-conscious woman out the door and out of sight, she called out to him in a manic, ragged voice, "His hands, Karrick! With a chainsaw!"
---
"Oh, thank you so much for dumping that half-dead pile of bloody meat on my sterile floor!" Rygon snapped, exasperated as the guards flung their burden to the white tiled floor. The body - Rygon couldn't even tell what gender it was - thudded heavily to floor and slid forward a few inches, slick with its own blood.
"Karrick wants her patched up and ready to go within an hour," one of the guards said, as he bent over the still form and removed the cuffs, while the other covered him. The body's hands plopped bonelessly to the floor.
"Then perhaps Karrick should restrain himself from beating people half to death and expecting me to work miracles on them!"
"Just do your job, salarian. Let's go," the batarian said, motioning to his comrade.
Heaving a sigh, Rygon turned to the cabinets holding his medical supplies and removed several units of medigel.
Turning back to his patient, Rygon saw that it was a human woman, her face a veritable mask of blood. Lank black hair clung to her forehead and she breathed in short gasps. Rygon took a step towards her and she scrambled backwards, feet propelling her away from him. "Don't come near me!" she hissed at him.
"Human, I am merely wanting to help..." he began. To his surprise the woman laughed briefly then coughed, holding a hand to her side. Ribs bruised or broken, he thought, beginning to catalogue her injuries.
"You want to help? Help me find a gun."
"Human, that is quite impossible. The armouries are locked down and even if you did procure a weapon, you would not live long enough to make a meaningful impact with it. Even if you could kill Karrick, what then?"
"I think best on the fly, doctor." the woman asked, slumping back against the wall. Blood dripped from her split lip and splashed onto the collar of her uniform.
Rygon shook his head, somewhat amazed that his patient was even capable of entertaining such thoughts. Clearly though her body was damaged, her spirit wasn't. It really was a shame that she had come to this place.
Dismissing the thought, Rygon cautiously extended a hand to the woman. She looked up at him from her place on the floor then extended her own arm. Rygon pulled her upright and almost fell down as her weight collapsed on him. Awkwardly, Rygon guided the woman to an exam table covered with a white disposable sheet and she lay atop it, unable to suppress a moan.
"I'd ask what happened but I have a fairly good idea," the medic said dryly. Again the woman laughed and coughed. "I walked into a door. Thirty or forty times." Her smile didn't contain an ounce of humour. Rygon cocked his head to the side, confused.
"Old joke. Commence the poking and prodding, doctor."
Rygon began by running a hand-held medical scanner over his patient from head to toe. After a few seconds, the scanner emitted a cheerful sounding bleep, indicating that the scan was completed. Rygon consulted the initial readings. Despite the heavy bruising already beginning to form on her face and the bleeding, the human was in excellent condition. Interesting, Rygon thought as he continued to study the data.
"You are biotic," it wasn't a statement.
The woman sat up, the paper sheet making faint crinkling sounds as she moved. "I am."
"That will be quite a surprise to most of the hunters, I imagine."
"Oh, they won't know what hit them."
"Well you are quite a breath of fresh air when compared to the dregs of society I'm usually forced to deal with," Rygon answered, removing a penlight from his coat. "Follow the light," he instructed his patient, checking for the correct pupil responses. "Good."
"You know what I'm finding quite amusing about this entire situation?" the woman asked. Rygon gave her a quizical look. "They want to ensure that I'm in the best condition possible so I can be hunted down and killed like a rabid dog."
"Yes, the irony around here is so plentiful, I could almost bottle and sell it. This will sting a bit," Rygon warned, and began dabbing medigel into the woman's facial injuries. She bore the iciness stoically.
As the medic worked on her, Shepard asked, "What do you know about these hunts? I need intel."
"What? Didn't Karrick give you the...what is the phrase, chapter and verse?"
"I think he was too busy trying to work my face into new and interesting shapes. He'll pay for that, trust me." Rygon knew by the tone of her voice that the woman wasn't making an idle threat.
"Very well, I will tell you what I know. Keep in mind that I have been...a guest of the batarians here for about five years now. I rarely leave my clinic."
"Five years?"
"After a time, one almost forgets about the collar," the doctor stated, lifting his chin to emphasise the slave collar around his neck. A red light glowed steadily, like a malignant ruby. "The hunts, then. Karrick sees himself as a businessman and from what I can tell business has been good, until now. People from across the system actually pay to watch sentients hunt and kill one another."
"Go on," Shepard verbally prodded him, forcing her fingers to relax their grip on the table.
"The hunts are carried out in an abandoned urban sprawl. At some point in the past, a thriving colony was established here. Something happened to the colony. I do not know what. The colonists either left en masse or died somehow. Either way, the colony buildings remain and function for, as humans say, games of cat and mouse."
Shepard nodded, absorbing this fact. Urban sprawl, plenty of places to lay in wait and ambush people. Plenty of places to, hopefully, escape and evade the enemy. Then what? Find the Lieutenant, come up with a plan. Execute both it and Karrick. A smile slowly appeared on Shepard's face.
"Well, I have done all I can to treat your injuries. I regret to inform you that I must summon the guards-"
"Wait," Shepard held up a hand, the salarian looked her expectantly. "When I was captured, I was with another officer, I don't know what happened to her. Maybe she's been through here?"
"Perhaps. Describe her."
"A little shorter than me, blonde hair...yellow, you know? Brown eyes."
"Oh yes, her. She came through here a little over an hour ago. If she's very lucky and good, she may even still be alive."
Shoulders slumping, Shepard heaved a sigh. "What shape was she in?"
"I'm sorry but I cannot discuss the details of her case," seeing the incredulous look on the woman's face, Rygon snapped, "I may be a slave but I'm still a doctor and I took an oath!"
Waving a hand dismissively, his patient replied, "Fine. Was she in better shape than I am, at least?"
"Yes," Rygon nodded. Shepard felt as though an almost physical weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The safety of her subordinates was her responsibility and ever since finding herself on the batarian ship, Shepard had been consumed with guilt over dragging the younger woman down with her.
As she moved to get up from the bench, the Spectre was gripped by a powerful hunger pang. For a moment it felt as though a hand had twisted itself through her innards and clenched into a fist.
Feeling the ache ease off, Shepard looked to the Salarian. "I don't suppose you have anything to eat in here?"
Rygon put on a show of looking around the clinic before slapping a hand to his forehead in a very human gesture of frustration, "Oh that's right, I forgot. This is a medical clinic, not an all you can eat buffet!"
"Listen to me, if I'm to have any chance at all of getting out of this alive, I need enough calories to power my biotics. At this point, I'd gladly settle for sugar stirred into water."
"Fine, fine. I may have something suitable for humans in the back. Don't touch anything." The doctor headed towards the rear of the clinic, to a door marked Storage and disappeared from Shepard's view. Immediately, she began inspecting the medical supplies, mindful of the ever-present cameras. Working quickly, Shepard liberated a small supply cabinet of medigel and, with a furtive glance at the store room door, stepped up to a trayful of surgical instruments laid out in precise order. The scalpels and scissors gleamed, bathed in light from the overhead panels. Back to the camera, Shepard slid a scalpel from the tray, concealing it inside the waistband of her briefs.
When Rygon returned carrying an armload of MREs, Shepard was back at the exam table.
"Here," the medic thrust the field rations at his patient. "Now I really must summon the guards. I'd wish you luck, human but I doubt it would amount to much."
It was only after the batarians arrived to escort the woman out that Rygon noticed one of his scalpels was missing.
Somebody's going to get a surprise, he thought, with a rare smile.
---
A/N: I meant to have this posted a little earlier but work, Top Gear, Good News Week and Dexter kinda got in the way. Don't normally write such long chapters and I hope your eyes didn't glaze over too much. As always, I appreciate feedback.