Remember! Every time you comment, Grunt kills a kitten. But an evil kitten, so it's a good thing. Enjoy.
Sidonis considered Hank Weaver a likeable guy. For a human. He was Alliance thirty years ago. He'd enlisted during the First Contact War, but the day he finished basic was the day the war ended. His life continued to be a series of missed opportunities and kicks in the teeth. Passed over for officer positions because he was too damn good at being a grunt and too damn nice to everybody. He could never make the sacrifices required of a leader. Passed over for C-Sec after leaving the service because he was a human. So he joined up with Elanus Risk Control Services and started killing pirates and slavers. It wasn't long before he found the corporation as dirty as those they were trying to stop, so he struck out on his own. He'd eventually caught wind of this Archangel character on Omega and was among the first to join him. Now he had at most one year of fighting in him before his degenerative brain disease would turn him into a vegetable. The worst it did to him until then was a stammer and the occasional twitch.
Weaver was the rare example of a truly good and decent man, and the universe decided to shit on him for it. And Weaver was the kind of guy who would just shrug, smile, and soldier on.
"If he's not a doctor, how can he do anything?" Erash sulked from the back seat of the Hornet transport vehicle as he, Weaver, and Sidonis sped through Omega's tunnels. Weaver had suggested starting the search for his contact at Capsule, a seedier bar on the outskirts of the market district. Well, seedy by Omega standards, anyhow.
"He's done medical work," Weaver said slowly, leaning to one side to peer out the window as the vehicle landed.
"On batarians?"
"Oh, sure. On everything." The human popped the door open and hopped out.
There was something he wasn't telling them. Sidonis watched the human warily, before looking about. The dark street was wet from a leaking sewage pipe overhead and was illuminated by flickering ads for alcohol and cheap food. A pair of vorcha brawled on the corner, while a human female wearing hardly anything trailed behind the trio unsteadily, offering a three-for-the-price-of-two special. Weaver jogged up the steps and ducked into the bar.
Inside wasn't much of an improvement over outside. It was much darker in here, and it smelled like someone had recently urinated near the jukebox that was creaking out a mournful batarian love song. Two salarians, clearly high on Hallex, were huddled in the corner, one swearing to the other that he "totally met a yahg once." A turian had a human woman pinned in the corner, his hand around her wrist, demanding in a low, harsh whisper that she give him his damn money. Sidonis' hands clenched as he watched. There was no time to intervene now, but he made a point of memorizing the turian's face.
"Does he have a name?" Erash had been grilling Weaver the entire ride over. Is he human? Can we trust him? Will he be armed? Can he shoot? Is he going to help? Should we just grab him and run? What does he look like? Not that a description would help much. Aside from their coloring, all humans looked pretty much alike.
"Yeah. Th-there he is. Monty!" Weaver jogged towards the bar where a human male in his forties sat hunched, hand on a bottle, dark hair in his face.
'Monty' stirred, then turned to the voice, bloodshot eyes focusing on Weaver. "Th' fuck are you doing here, boy scout? I thought you were dead!"
"He's drunk!" Erash cried, his voice shaking with rage. They needed him to perform delicate surgery immediately and by the looks of it, the human could barely stand.
Weaver flashed a grin, sliding a hand under the drunk's arm to pull him to his feet. "Not yet. And I was looking for you. Sidonis, this is Ernesto Monteague. Um, little help here."
Sidonis scowled and stepped to Monteague's other side, grabbing him as he swayed unsteadily. "We need to sober him up fast. Coffee works on you humans, right?"
"What about punching really hard?" Erash growled.
"Pfffftt," Monteague sputtered, turning to look at the turian, "I'm not drunk, skull face. What th' fuck do you to want? What, you got a b'tarian, too? Shit, Weaver, trying to collect the whole set?"
"Ugh." Sidonis turned his face away from the man. What was the human expression? Drunk as a stunk? Something like that. This guy reeked. "Thank you for that. Breathing right in my face, that just capped off my night."
"Coffee works," Weaver muttered, guiding Monteague towards the exit, "Cold shower, too. Monty, we're in a tight sp-spot here, we really need you. C'mon, we can explain on the way. There's a hundred credits in it for you." Weaver locked eyes with the agitated batarian, his voice suddenly serious, "We'll get him working, Erash, I give you my word. We are not going to let anything happen to Vor."
The turian and human tossed Monteague bodily into the back of the Hornet, where he promptly emptied his late dinner of picked asari squid and booze on the floor mats. "Uugh… oh, now I feel better."
Erash's entire body was trembling with rage now, shoving the drunken man to the opposite side of the vehicle to make room for himself. "You're supposed to be a doctor?"
Monteague coughed, then laughed, rolling himself into a seated position, "Fuuuck no, four eyes. I'm a motherfucking embalmer."