Onto Chapter Six. Hm. Was someone missing from the story? How many team members did Archangel have? Remember! Every comment you make is matched* with a comment to fund Kure for Kepral's towards Kepral's Syndrome research. (*up to 50,000 comments.) Enjoy!
"How long have I been saying we need a medic on this team?"
Garrus sighed, picking up a towel to wipe the medi-gel from his palm. "You were right."
Sidonis lifted a brow and smirked, "I'm sorry, I was what? Can I hear that again? Can I get it on a plaque?"
They went through far too much medi-gel, and it seemed like lately they were buying more of that than thermal clips. But Vortash… someone in the Blood Pack base must have somehow seen him from his surveillance spot across the street. Sidonis had found the batarian bleeding out from a single sniper wound to the neck.
Archangel's crew had regrouped in the more secure of their bases, and the mood was understandably somber. Vortash was in bad shape, Garm got away, and the explosives placed outside the Blood Pack base didn't do much in terms of structural damage at all. This battle had been a wasted effort. Sensat had excused himself shortly after bringing the injured batarian back, and the remaining nine of them stood together in a small dark room, figuring out the next step.
The injured batarian was the first priority to everyone but Krul. The big krogan was pacing the room in a rage. "You let him get away!"
"Krul…" Garrus' voice was almost pleading.
"The only reason I joined up with you was to bring Garm down and you let him get away!" Krul advanced on Garrus, stabbing a finger against his injured chest. "I should have let you bleed out on that sidewalk, sure as hell wouldn't have hauled your bony ass back here if I knew that you let him get away!"
Garrus swatted the hand away, wincing, "We are going to get him, Krul!"
Erash stood in a corner, arms crossed, scowling. "We need get Vortash to a clinic," he growled, returning the conversation to the more pressing concern.
Sidonis shook his head, "No, the only clinic on Omega is in Blue Suns territory, they know him. Soon as a member sees him or you, he's dead."
"The medi-gel stopped the bleeding," Garrus murmured, inspecting his own injury. A vorcha bullet had caught him in the thigh. It went straight through, no major damage. His plastron was cracked thanks to Garm's biotics, making it painful to breathe deeply and get poked by a pissed off krogan, but again, it wouldn't slow him down and would stitch itself back together in a week or two.
The large batarian growled, advancing on the turian, "You know fuck all about batarians. It stopped the bleeding by closing off that artery. He needs to go to a clinic and get it stitched back together." There was enough blood swimming around in his brain and supplied by a secondary artery to keep him alive. But there were two other major arteries drawing blood back out of Vortash's brain. Twice as much coming out as going in. Add to this the fact he'd lost a lot of blood already and it summed up to a dire situation. Without medical aid, Vortash would be dead by morning.
"So we need to bring somebody here," Garrus said, pushing himself off the desk and to his feet, shifting his weight to his injured leg cautiously. "Who knows somebody we can trust and who can get here fast?"
His men exchanged looks in silence.
Garrus sighed, "Come on, somebody."
Erash growled again, grabbing a grenade launcher from the weapon rack, "We are going to that fucking clinic and we'll turn anyone who tries to stop us into stinking piles of smoking meat!"
"W-wait wait wait." Weaver spoke up suddenly, holding up his hand, stepping in front of Erash. "I know a guy. He's-… well, he's not a doctor, he's an asshole, b-but he could do this. And he's on Omega."
Garrus looked off, bony brows pulling together as he stared at the door leading to the room where Vortash laid. Damn it, he shouldn't have left Vortash alone. He shouldn't have left anyone alone, everyone should have had a partner. That should have come before having all his bases covered. He'd spread himself too thin. Stupid mistake. His mistake. He clicked his tongue and nodded, turning back to Weaver, "Go pick him up."