On Elaaden, Drack kneels in dry sand and rips a piece of armor off a scavenger, tossing it away and pulling at broken belts and clasps. The dead turian's plates have crumbled beneath the weight of Drack's blood rage, already brittle as a side effect of cryo-stasis degeneration. It still takes far too long to find the stolen datadisc that he is looking for. He tucks it into his armor when he finds it.
And when Drack is done with the turian he stays in position for a moment, leaning over deep cerulean hues. He breathes deeply, ignoring the acrid scent of dextro blood and the pain that whispers along his spine. His fists clench and he rushes on to the next one.
A salarian, hiding behind a shuttle. Wide eyes, colorful face.
Drack's fist slams into it and she falls, with a bullet ripping through her culturally valuable forehead as a final insult when she hits the ground. The splash of green is a memory of the blanket his granddaughter used to wrap herself with, seeping into the sand.
Another breath, with more pain this time.
He should probably stop charging into these assholes. One more, he tells himself silently, and then he will stop to assess the damage. There is more blood, rushing with the heat of Elaaden's sun, and he can taste it in the back of his throat when he roars.
Another turian. Rough plates, ripping against skin.
An asari.
Another salarian. A splash of green.
Everything is punctuated by the shot in the head, almost rhythmically. And Ryder jogs to join Drack when it is over, grinning wildly through the glass of her helmet. She takes it off, tucking it under her arm, and her sniper rifle hangs loosely at her back. The sun of Elaaden reflects violently across her armor.
"No sympathy, old man," she calls out in a swirl of dust.
He glares down at her and hands her five datadiscs. "Was I asking for it, kid?"
She hesitates, unsure at first, and then winks up at him. "The exiles were," she replies. "And they're not getting it," she adds sweetly.
The corpses receive a very solid kick beneath her boot, and then she moves on. Drack drapes her in his shadow to protect her from the heat.
Sara Ryder is the Pathfinder of the Ark Hyperion, and she is insane. Any human who can do as much damage as she does must be a little off. But he does more damage with her than alone and they both like to shoot things. It is an uncomplicated friendship.
They drive through the wastes of Elaaden, cleansing it of everything they can find. She is a storm of imprecise violence and flat one-liners, and he says very little. But there is a combining krogan roar and human yell whenever they pass a kett camp, because there is always another waiting in the sandy wastes of the western hemisphere. And Ryder always stops.
She grins at Drack when they get out of the terrain vehicle, deeply appreciative of his enthusiasm for simple brutalities, and a funny feeling creeps through the pain guarding his nerves. Drack snorts and pushes the feeling away before it is even a thought. He has scabs on his ass older than her.
And Drack has been around long enough to know the expression on her face while she fights; that the promise of battle running through her mind is the only thing that can still her thoughts.
Ryder rushes at the kett. She rips into an alien soldier, blood gushing past her blade.
The asari trailing behind them offers biotic support from behind cover. She muses about violence on the comm. She does so playfully, but alarm occasionally threatens the edges of her words.
Sara rises up into the air and then dives back toward another kett; omni-blade crackling electricity against her armor, tears staining the edges of her eyes. She is deathly calm.
Danger has lost its meaning for her. Drack knows this because he is the same. He takes a deep breath, and his own lack of redundant systems shoots white spots across his vision. He joins her with a roar.
And there is pain everywhere, staining everything he touches. But his thoughts grow quiet as they fight.