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"I'm not sure that I understand," Thane said, "You take these mammals and extract the fluid they produce to feed their young. You then extract the fat from this fluid, and agitate it until it congeals, at which point you spread it on bread?" He was speaking to Kasumi Goto over breakfast, eating his own bowl of fruit while she munched on a piece of toast.
"Well, when you say it like that it sounds disgusting, yes, but it's good! Toast just isn't right without butter," she said. Thane shook his head. There were some things that he would never understand about other races, and human food was looking to be one of them. He had thought, initially, that their diets were fairly similar; meat, vegetables, fruits, grains, but then he had seen some crew members pouring a white liquid onto the cereal they often ate for the first meal of the day, and had asked what it was. The more he learned about milk, the more he decided that he was glad Drell didn't produce it.
"If you think that's bad, you should ask Miranda about her favorite cheese," Garrus piped up, "They take milk, then let it curdle, squish all of the curds together, and wait for it to get full of mold before eating it." The Turian gave an exaggerated shudder of disgust.
"Most species have different eating habits, tastes," said Mordin. The Salarian doctor was an endless source of logical information with little tact, a fact that Thane had learned entertained most of the crew to no end. "Humans find Salarian dishes containing insects repulsive, Turian fondness for raw meat disgusting. Fortunate that Normandy has supplies for most tastes and chiralities." Murmurs of agreement were voiced by most of the crew present.
"I'll stick to my toast," said Kasumi, taking another bite of the crunchy, cow-fluid-fat covered bread. Thane turned his attention back to his own meal. It was nice, to have so many other people present, talking and joking in this familiar way. He may not always be at the centre of the liveliest conversations, but he appreciated the camaraderie. Much of his life had been spent alone, out on assignments and contracts, or training to keep his body in peak condition. This friendly interaction was new to him, but he found himself enjoying it, even if it might be from the fringes.
The breakfast shift ended, and crew members went off to their own stations and posts. Meals were eaten in shifts, coinciding with who was on what rotation, so that the Mess was never filled beyond capacity, and so that people on night shift rotations weren't expected to eat breakfast when they were going to sleep for the day. Thane was impressed by the efficiency of the ship. He would have expected this sort of discipline in a military vessel, but Cerberus was composed mostly of civilians, so the competence of the crew and the scheduling spoke highly to Shepard's ability to command. He was in danger of getting lost in thought about the commander when Mordin approached him, and pulled him off to the side.
"Thane, would like to speak with you," he said, his words the usual fast and clipped, as though he was always in a rush to finish what he was saying and get on to the next thought, "Come by the lab when you have a moment. Important things to discuss."
"Of course, doctor," said Thane, "I'll be up in a few minutes." Mordin nodded, and then hurried off in the direction of the elevators. Thane was curious. What could the doctor have to discuss with him that was important? It couldn't have anything to do with his Kepral's Syndrome – that was Dr. Chakwas's area of expertise – and Thane didn't have any knowledge that would be helpful to a biologist, at least none that he knew of. His interest piqued, he hurried to his quarters in life support to get his morning exercises done before going to see Mordin.
These exercises were an important part of his treatment for the disease that slowly was removing his body's ability to process oxygen. In order to keep his lungs working as long as possible, he had a set workout every day, sometimes more than once if he didn't get out on a mission. He removed the leather jacket-shirt that he wore, draping it over the back of the room's chair, leaving himself in nothing but the close-fitting pants he customarily wore. His clothing was not just an aesthetic choice. The shirt and jacket, combined into one piece, had a variety of clips and holsters for various weapons and implements. The front of his shirt bared his chest between the pectoral muscles, allowing him easier breathing. The pants were tight to prevent them from getting caught on anything when he shimmied through ductwork or slipped into locked rooms. Even the color was chosen with a specific intent, dark like the shadows, allowing him the blend into the darkness. He did admit, however, that the collar on the coat was a concession to style, but he couldn't be blamed for wanting to look his best. He knelt on the floor, and prepared himself for his exercise routine.
It began with stretching slowly, is body sliding into various positions, gracefully moving from one to another. As he continued, his pace quickened, each pose coming faster, straining his muscles and lungs more. If he had been human, he would have been slick with sweat, but Drell didn't sweat. Having evolved on a desert planet, sweating was a waste of water unaffordable when it wasn't always certain when more water would be available to replace what was lost. While this meant that Drell couldn't regulate their body temperature in the same way as humans or Asari, it suited Thane just fine. He liked warmth, also something stemming from his ancestors' desert-dwelling lifestyles, and he didn't begin to smell strongly when anxious or exerting himself. This was especially valuable in the life of an assassin, as scent could give him away just as much as sound or sight. He felt his lungs complaining at the paces he was putting them through, but ignored his body's protesting. Several months ago, these exercises had been easier on him, and he knew that he had to work to make sure they didn't get harder any faster than they already were.
Knowing that he was dying was a part of his life, now. When he had first been diagnosed, two years previously, with the disease that threatened every Drell who lived on Kahje, a planet so opposite from the desert they had come from, he had been both angry and relieved. His anger was at the unfairness of his situation, an immature reaction that he had quickly moved beyond. Relief had come from the knowledge that he wouldn't have to live for too much longer in a world where he had no one. It was different now, though. He was no longer alone, and reflecting on the short amount of time that he had left made him melancholy. He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on his breathing and the movement of each limb, each muscle. He finished the final poses, resisting the urge to rush in order to see Mordin sooner, and straightened up. One last centering breath, a moment to just breathe in and out steadily, and he was done. He grabbed his shirt, pulling it on and heading for the elevator. He had to know what the mad Salarian was up to.