Remember! Every time you comment, Anders gets a kitten. A non-evil one. And yes, I know that isn't a ME reference. But he really likes kittens. Enjoy!

"P-pathologist," Weaver corrected.

"Jeeesus Christ, Weaver!" Butler shook his head, placing his hand on his hip while his other hand pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seriously? This was the best you could come up with?"

"Alliance p-pathologist!"

"Jeeesus Chriiist…"

"I'm sorry, I fail to see how an Alliance pathologist can help our current situation any." Sidonis crossed his arms, looking over at Monteague. They'd hauled him into the base half an hour ago

Garrus had slipped quietly into the room a few moments after they'd arrived, cursed, spun on a heel, and quickly slinked back into the hall, lifting his hand to conceal his face. For once he wasn't being paranoid. He knew Monteague. Back in his early Citadel days, the lousy drunk had to be thrown in the tank on more than one occasion. Monteague was no medical doctor, he worked in the morgue, up until he got fired and left the Citadel for good, much to the delight of everyone on C-Sec. This was the medical professional Weaver knew? The human was at this moment probably too drunk recognize him if he remembered him at all, which was also just wonderful. Garrus shook his head as he leaned against the wall outside the room, listening. Erash was keeping Monteague's coffee cup full and repeatedly offered to slap him.

"Former Alliance pathologist," Monteague muttered, leaning away from Erash, hand up to shield his face. "Embalmer now. Fuuck… I'm gonna be sick again…"

Erash cocked his head to the right with a growl, subtly giving the human the batarian version of the middle finger. He snagged Monteague by the back of his shirt and shoved him towards the john.

"He was-… well. They were keeping sp-specimens. So we'd know how to kill… you." Weaver grimaced, motioning awkwardly. "Back after the war. When everything was still… tense. Every time we had an incident with an alien ship, we-… they kept the bodies for study. Monteague was… in that dep-partment."

"Jesus Christ, Weaver."

Sidonis' eyes narrowed on the human, "So… the fact that he is familiar with batarian physiology is because he performed autopsies on dead batarian prisoners?"

Weaver looked both so sorrowful and apologetic that Sidonis almost felt bad for asking in such a disgusted tone. "I-… yeah."

Mierin, who had his headphones off for once, was sitting perched on the edge of a table, listening closely to the conversation. "Don't act so high and mighty, Sid. Turians did it, too. So did the salarians. Hell, I've heard rumors of salarian task forces kidnapping and studying humans centuries before first contact." He lifted his hands, long fingers wiggling as he adopted his spooky voice, "Humans called us Grays."

Butler rubbed his face with both hands, "Shut up, Mierin."

There was splashing from the bathroom, then screeching and the sounds of a struggle. "Aaugh! Okay! OKAY, I'M SOBER! SHIT! Gimme the fucking scalpel already, fuck!" A moment later, a disgruntled Monteague emerged from the bathroom, soaking wet, his black hair plastered to his forehead.

Trailing behind him was a smug Erash. The batarian glanced at Sidonis and shrugged, "He wasn't puking. So I dunked him."

The mostly sober Monteague wiped his face with both hands. "Shit. Fine. Christ. So. You're not mercs, right?" He eyed the tattoo on Erash's chin warily. "I don't work for mercs."

Weaver rolled his eyes, "No, Monteague, we are not mercs."

"Do you even have medical supplies here?"

Weaver hopped to his feet, nodding. "Yeah. We've got 'em in his room." Six months ago, a pirate vessel intercepted a ship full of medical supplies that the clinic on Omega had ordered. The pirates delivered the supplies to their original destination, but asked for three times what the clinic had already paid for them. Archangel caught wind of the situation and showed up with his then team of seven. Sixteen dead pirates later, the clinic got its supplies. The doctor, a human named Whelton, had shown her appreciation by rewarding Archangel with a small but generous cache of medical supplies, including medi-gel, painkillers, quarian grade antibiotics, and basic surgical equipment.

If Whelton hadn't been killed two weeks later, she would have been brought here instead of Monteague. They had no idea who was operating the clinic now, and no way of knowing if that doctor could be trusted. Of course, one of Garrus' backup plans had been to kidnap him anyways.

Monteague nodded, adopting a more serious expression, wiping his hands on his shirt. "I'm going to need to wash up." He closed his eyes, bringing up in his mind the structure of the batarian neck. Four carotid arteries: left anterior, left posterior, right anterior, right posterior. Two of each had probably evolved in part due to the weakness that was the batarian spine. The creatures were more cartilage than bone, like sharks. Everything is more flexible, but it puts more stress on the circulatory system. Bending too far can stretch blood vessels to their breaking point, and batarians were very prone to bruising. So evolution decided to double up on veins and arteries to make up for it. But as far as what needed to be done, a stent or just stitching it back together, he'd have to see the damage himself to make that decision.

Cybernetics were out of the question. Too far outside his own expertise. As was operating on a living subject, to be honest.

"Is he conscious?" Monteague opened his eyes. "We don't have the luxury of an anesthesiologist." Forget what the vids say, sedating a patient is no easy task. Age, weight, allergies, and species all come into figuring out what to give and how much. There's little room for error.

"He's in and out," Butler said, watching Monteague cautiously. "You sure you're up for this?"

The pathologist shrugged, "Gonna have to be. Weaver and you. Grab the strongest booze you got, wash up, and meet me in there."