Nick stood alone in the elevator, absently picking at something stuck in his teeth as he waited for the lift to reach the hangar.

It had taken roughly half an hour for Doctor Chakwas to run him through his duties in the medical bay before she'd released him to go speak with Shepard. While there was some advanced equipment the young medic would need to be trained on, he'd be more or less working as a medical clerk when he wasn't operating with the ground detachment—preparing reports, running lab work, and tending to minor injuries while Chakwas was off duty.

It wasn't glamorous or exciting work, but he'd spent several months doing much the same thing at Paladin—so in some sense he'd gotten his wish for something familiar. Still, Doctor Chakwas had been practicing medicine longer than Nickeli had been tying his own shoes, and he was undoubtedly very fortunate to be working under the tutelage of someone so experienced. It did mean that when he wasn't groundside he'd be spending most of his on duty hours cooped-up in the infirmary, but he supposed it wasn't any worse than standing watch in the CIC or helping full-time in the armory.

Notably, the old Englishwoman was also aware of Nick's true history and apparently had been since he'd come aboard after Eden Prime, no doubt partially because of her rank and partially because she'd be teaching him the last century of combat medicine and xenobiology. At the very least, it saved him trying to explain away a lack of knowledge on a number of topics closely related to his job as a medic.

For her part, the doctor had taken the news in stride—stating she was happy to have an extra set of hands in the med bay, and quipping that now there was someone else around that might share her taste in music. Nickeli supposed that decades in the medical field and living through mankind's first contact with intelligent alien life meant that not much fazed her these days.

The elevator jolted to a halt as it reached the hangar and Nick quickly surveyed the room for Shepard as he stepped out. Spotting her conversing with a crewman near a stack of cargo crates behind the Mako, he made his way over.

Spotting his approach, the fiery-haired officer flashed a smile.

"Vandas, perfect timing." The commander greeted. "I was about to come looking for ya'." She indicated the man she'd been talking with. "Nick, this is Gunnery Chief Greene—he's our head of requisition and procurement aboard."

The corpsman gave a polite nod. "Chief."

The man nodded back, the bill of his dark blue cap shading his coffee complexion. He looked around Shepard's age but was of slighter build with a scruffy patch of hair on his chin. Judging by his clean hands and unwrinkled uniform, Nick supposed the chief mostly handled paperwork.

"Greene, Private First Class Vandas," Shepard continued, jerking her head in the medic's direction. "Ground team's new corpsman, one I talked to you about needing a requisition for."

"Right." Greene glanced to Nick. "Just a second."

Pulling what the marine had initially assumed was a datapad from where he had it tucked beneath his arm, the gunnery chief revealed the object to in fact be a plastic clipboard and, flipping open the cover, withdrew a small stack of forms and handed them to Vandas.

The sheets, the typical black on white of government paperwork, were covered in line after line of boxes to be checked and serial numbers to be filled, and Nickeli shuffled through them with an astounded look on his face.

"This…it's paper."

"Uh…yeah." The chief replied hesitantly, glancing at Shepard with a look of mild concern.

The commander just chuckled, clapping Greene on the shoulder. "I'll make sure he gets squared away, chief. You can get back to it."

The senior enlisted man nodded, glancing back at the pair as he headed off to his duties elsewhere.

Once he had gotten out of earshot, Jane laughed, an amused grin crossing her lips as she turned to Nick. "What's the matter? Too high-tech for 'ya? Want a stone and chisel instead?"

"No," Nick replied glumly, "It's just…nothin', never mind."

If he was honest, the medic had been expecting something that was a little more…well, sophisticated. More holographic interfaces or maybe just another datapad or something. To be handed a pen and paper to sign for his equipment was just little…underwhelming.

Shepard shrugged, seeming to understanding the sentiment. "Yeah, I know. Unfortunately, we haven't rounded up all the bureaucrats and thrown them into a star or something, so until we do that, most of the procurement stuff to transfer equipment onto the ship has to be done in hard copy."

"Anyhow, the Normandy left Arcturus without her full inventory, so we've spent the last couple days docked here bringing aboard a lot of the ground team's hardware. Unfortunately, that doesn't include your gear, and since we're expecting to get underway in the next seventy-two hours, it means you're going to have to head to the supply center the Alliance has in the Citadel Wards and submit it there—they can expedite the request for a ship on notice to leave port."

"So, I'm going to the other side of the station to wait in line." Vandas remarked dryly. "Got it. Anything else, commander?"

"That's about it." Shepard answered with a smirk. "All non-essential crew have twenty-four hours of liberty aboard the station—I suggest you get your supply situation squared away first thing. That way, you've got some time to go out and see the sights."

The corpsman chuckled. "Do you really think that's wise, ma'am—turning a time traveler loose on a giant space station? You're not worried I'm part of some sort of conspiracy to go into the future and usher in the apocalypse? Or that I'll run into a future version of myself and that the universe will tear itself apart?"

The officer rolled her eyes. "I'll take my chances—though I am reasonably concerned about you getting yourself arrested or put in the hospital." She activated her omni-tool and entered a few keystrokes, causing a light on Nickeli's left wrist to flash. "There. Now I've got your contact information and you've got mine. If there is an emergency, call me. If you call me and you are not in serious trouble, I assure you that you will be when you get back to the ship."

"'Don't bother the boss with stupid shit'—understood commander."

"Good. And I was serious about seeing the sights. The Citadel's a pretty incredible place. It might be a bit of culture shock, but I think you may enjoy it." Jane said with an earnest smile. "Oh, and you should check out the markets in the Wards." She added as an afterthought. "It'll give you the chance to get your hands on some better equipment."

A perturbed look crossed the medic's face. "'Better' equipment?"

Shepard gave an apologetic shrug. "Don't get me wrong—the Alliance supplies its fleet marines with good hardware, but smaller ships tend to wind up receiving older inventory and, unfortunately, the Normandy is no exception in that regard. Some of the rifles in the armory have been in service longer than I have. Anything you need the Alliance will issues you, but the fact is some of this stuff just isn't top of the line anymore, and they're a hassle to maintain."

"So we're better off buying our own gear." Nick concluded with a pained expression.

In Afghanistan, there had been a few guys that bought some of their own equipment, but that had mostly been small stuff—a new multi-tool, a shemagh for the guys riding with the LAVs, things like that. Frankly, the marine wasn't sure he liked the idea of being responsible for supplying his own weapons and body armor.

"You can buy your own." The officer clarified. "The Alliance will still provide you with all your equipment, but Anderson's given Sergeant Major Ouder discretion to equip the ground detachment as he sees fit. He's got a list of non-standard hardware he wants his team carrying into the field, but he's sourcing that stuff himself. He's given the rest of the squad permission to adjust their kit as they think is appropriate. Armor-wise, I wouldn't worry about trying to find something newer—the Navy does a good job of keeping on top of its combat hardsuits and you're going to have a hard time getting anything better on the civilian market. Anything else you want though, a different style of chest rig or a high-end omni-tool, comes out of your pocket. Just make sure you get the schematics license so we can fabricate replacement parts, and don't overdo it. Anderson may change his mind."

Nickeli scratched thoughtfully at the short stubble on his chin. "What about that Berretta I came aboard with? Would I be able to carry that?"

If he was honest, the corpsman had become rather attached to the sidearm the Marine Corps had issued him. The pistol, a veteran of more tours in the Middle East than the young medic and with the paint wearing thin in spots, had been a constant and faithful companion during his time in Afghanistan.

Shepard actually seemed a bit surprised by the question. "You mean that old handgun you had on Eden Prime? I mean, I guess," She rubbed the back of her neck uncomfortably and it was evident that the he'd put her on the spot. "But you'd have to figure out a way to get parts and more ammunition, and—honestly—I…I really don't know how effective it'll be." She shrugged rather sheepishly. "But if Ouder doesn't object, then…maybe?"

Well, it wasn't a "no", at least.

"Thank you, commander. I'll get squared away here then do my running around."

Brice glanced up from his console where he was running diagnostics on the Mako's autoloader in time to see Nick, the new medic Amy had introduced to him a little while ago, leaving. Offering Shepard a quick salute, he turned and headed back toward the elevator as the officer moved toward the far wall of the hangar where the arms locker was situated.

Seeing the pleased expression on the commander's face, the sergeant allowed himself a contended smile. The burly Pole had been among the first handful of enlisted men selected when Anderson had started putting together a roster, and he'd seen that a lot of the crew were hesitant to approach Shepard. It was reasonable, in some regards—the commander was certainly a woman whose reputation proceeded her, but still, Brice had hardly found that to be a reason to shy away from her.

He had conversed with her on a few occasions while he was standing watch in the CIC and from what he'd seen so far, he approved. Nalwitz hadn't had the opportunity to see her in combat as of yet, but there were certainly stories aplenty, and that was enough for the machine gunner to allow himself to be content serving under her.

For his part, Brice didn't mind the new posting aboard the Normandy. It wasn't his first time starside, so he wasn't as excited as some of the greenhorns were, but it was a badly needed change of scenery from garrison detail. Though he'd enjoyed his time on Watson, it was a beautiful little world full of absolutely lovely people, colonial duty just wasn't for him. Spending every day surrounded by families had made him more than a little homesick for his own, and a nightly video call over the extranet was a poor consolation.

The Normandy had been an improvement. He'd gotten two weeks of leave while he transited back to Arcturus, which had been time enough to spend a few days at home with his Celine and daughter Abella. It was hard-seeing how much she'd grown without him around, taking her in his arms and ruffling stringy blond hair that hadn't been there when he'd shipped out. She was nearly eighteen months old now, and even though he'd called Celine every night while he was on Watson, knowing how much he had missed still ate at him from time to time. Perhaps the new sights and experiences of being posted aboard a starship would provide ample diversion.

Brice was stirred from his thoughts by the distinctive tread of combat boots approaching in measured strides.

The sergeant knew in an instant who it was, but still looked up from his work as a matter of courtesy. "Sergeant Major."

"Just checkin' in, Brice." Ouder said gruffly, glancing around the hangar. He was in his working uniform, a stained rag clutched in one hand he was using to rub at a blotch of dark silver on his forearm. If Brice had to guess, he'd been lending Adams an extra set of hands in engineering.

"Nothing to report, Pat. I'm just finishing up a systems check on the Mako."

"That's good," The sergeant major said, still look around the room. The Polish sergeant could tell by the man's tone he hadn't come over to make small talk. "You met the newbie yet?"

Christ, Brice knew where this was going.

"Vandas?" Nalwitz asked, feigning obliviousness. "Yeah, Amy introduced him a bit ago. He was talking to Shepard—you just missed him."

"What's your read on 'im?"

The dark-haired sergeant gave a sigh, realizing Ouder was determined to drag him into whatever matter was apparently preoccupying him.

"I think he's alright," The machine gunner began, picking his words carefully. Patrick was a fine man—driven, courageous, but he was also as hot-blooded as they came. If he'd caught the sergeant major in a combative mood, any chance for a rational discussion might quickly go out the window. Yet at the same time, there was no sense in dragging this out by playing coy. "But I think you don't think so."

"What's that supposed ta' mean?" The squad leader returned guardedly.

Brice scoffed. "Christ, Pat—we did three tours together in the Traverse, remember? I know how you get after an argument. You argued with the kid in the elevator earlier, and you argued with Anderson a couple of days ago. And since you never argue with Anderson, I'll wager it's about the same thing."

"That's got nothing to do with—"

"You were both red in the face when you got off the lift. I know Anderson wanted you to make sure the squad was up to snuff, but I don't recall you grilling Caroline or Tolo this hard."

"I've got my reasons." Ouder grumbled. If it had been anyone else saying such a thing, they'd have been very quickly reminded of the chain of command. Not so with Brice, though. They'd shed blood alongside one another during the Blitz and he'd been the old marine's first choice for a teamleader when the Normandy detachment was being assembled, which meant the sergeant major had to tolerate some backtalk from him, despite the disparity in rank. "I saw his file when he came aboard-spooks have got their fingerprints all over this damn kid's paperwork. He's hiding something."

"The captain wouldn't have brought him aboard if he was a risk. Besides, Shepard's probably seen his files too, and she seems to like him."

"The commander likes everyone."

"And so should you!" The sergeant chuckled. "It'd make you a lot more agreeable."

Ouder glared.

"All I'm saying is give the kid a chance." The machine gunner offered with a shrug. "I'm sure he's got a few things to learn, but he seems alright, spooks or no. Besides, if he really did fight his way across Eden Prime with that museum piece, he's got guts at the very least."

The sergeant major just sighed. Whether he was hoping to win Brice over to his side or if he was just trying to reassure his own suspicions, Nalwitz couldn't say, but the older man was clearly growing a bit frustrated. Running his fingers through his cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Ouder just shook his head, his tone growing heated. "I just…forget it. Forget I said anything."

As the squad leader turned and headed for the elevator, Brice began to call him back but quickly thought better of it. Instead, he turned back to his console, sorrowfully shaking his head. As much as he hated to let Ouder storm off, he knew if the sergeant major had stuck around things would inevitably devolve into a shouting match. This way, he'd probably head to the crew deck and bury himself for an hour or two in all the paperwork that Khang usually handled. By dinner he'd back making his rounds. It was just the way of things.

"Now serving—number eighty-one."

Nickeli's quiet dozing came to an abrupt end as he snapped awake with a snort, sitting up in the waiting area chair he'd settled into.

"Number eighty-one to window four, please. Eighty-one, window four." A cheerful, synthesized voice continued as the medic quickly collected himself and rose to his feet.

The requisition office had been a lot more upscale than Nick had expected—the waiting area more resembling the lobby of a corporation than the grungy supply offices he was accustomed to. The place was swarming with contractors wearing civilian clothes and junior officers in their service uniforms, most of whom were probably running errands for their commanders. Tucked away in a far corner in his utilities, the infantryman looked comparatively underdressed.

Still, a bureaucracy was a bureaucracy, so despite the polished floors and other window dressing, the medic had found some time to doze while he was waiting, a welcome opportunity to make up for the rough few nights spent at the Irin Center. He wasn't particularly exhausted, but after a few poor nights of sleep, a few minutes of shut-eye in the lobby was a welcome chance to take the edge off.

It had been three hours since he'd disembarked from the Normandy, and another thirty since he'd spoken with Shepard in the hangar. He hadn't taken the time to properly unpack his duffle bag yet, but he'd dug out the shaving kit he'd been issued and stopped by the head to get himself cleaned up a bit before he left. He grabbed his Berretta as well, and the handgun—empty, of course—had spent the afternoon banging around in one of the oversized cargo pockets on his thigh. It was far from ideal, but since he'd scrapped his old holster on Eden Prime, he was planning on stopping by the markets before he headed back to the ship and the only way to be sure the weapon would fit was to bring it along. He'd left his knife behind—carrying around his sidearm was probably asking for trouble enough, not to mention Nick didn't have a pocket big enough to hide the enormous blade in.

"Uh, hi." The corpsman greeted hesitantly as he approached the high counter. The station, designated by a hanging sign displaying a large number four, was flanked on either side by wide pillars, blocking its neighbors from view. On the other side of the desk, an unassuming man about twice the marine's age glanced up briefly from his computer to give him a once over before returning to the console in front of him.

He was a civilian, judging by his attire, and he sipped from a blue coffee mug with some horridly cliché bit of office humor written on the side as he read the file open on his screen.

Setting the drink aside, he cleared his throat. "Good afternoon. Do you have your ID today, sir?"

When Nick provided it to him with a wave of his omni-tool, the clerk took a minute to glance through it before giving an approving murmur. "And what can I do for you today, Private Vandas?"

"I needed to fill a requisition to the ship I'm posted on. Expedited." The medic stated.

"Of course. I'll just need to see the AN 3161 for the order."

Vandas returned a blank stare, and after a long moment the clerk leaned forward, looking a bit embarrassed for both of them.

"The piece of paper you're holding."

"Oh!" The marine said with a start, handing him the form.

Following that, Nickeli stood twiddling his thumbs as the older man worked through the paperwork. After a few minutes of quietly watching the official work to the sound of quiet conversation in the background and the occasional chime over the intercom calling the next person forward, the medic was presented with a small stack of forms that he quickly worked his way through, signing along a few dotted lines and scrawling his initials in a half dozen places before laying them down on the counter.

The clerk grabbed them and, after quickly leafing through the pages, secured them with a staple in the top corner. Setting the packet down in a black tray marked "out", he turned and gave the medic a meek smile.

"The Normandy is scheduled to take on a logistical package at the end the day tomorrow, which will include all of your equipment. Speak to the ship's chief of supply and from there he'll issue them out from there."

Nick thanked the man and departed, ducking around a group of officers in their service uniforms as they entered and heading out into the street.

Being "outside" on the station still felt alien to the young corpsman—and not just due to the number of nonhumans walking by. The wide foot path he was on resembled the corridor of an enormous ship, metal decks and walls lit by glowing signs and overhead lights.

It made Vandas feel oddly uneasy as he walked.

The whole place was just too…artificial. Too still.

In Afghanistan, the light of the late summer sun was warm, the alpine air was chilly against bare skin, and the wind carried the earthy smell of the mountains.

Growing up, home was tall oaks in the springtime that the breeze sent rolling in green waves and the grainy feel of tiny shells collected on the lake shore.

What he had seen of the Citadel was none of those things. Despite the bustle and chattering of the population all around, the brightly-lit avenue seemed utterly lifeless. The air was neither warm nor cold, and the faultless metal bulkheads were painted a lusterless grey.

It didn't feel right. It was a stale place. A steel casket.

Nickeli paused, forcing himself to take a deep breath—trying to remind himself that he was being paranoid.

As he stood, the marine was privately relieved to catch sight of a taxi stand. He only had a handful of credits to make use of at the moment, but he still wanted to take a look around the markets in the Wards like Shepard had suggested.

If the Citadel was a major trade hub, then it seemed like the place to look for someone who could keep his Beretta serviceable. With all the unfamiliar gear he'd spent the early part of the afternoon requisitioning, Nick wanted his sidearm to be something he was comfortable with. However, there were a few things he needed to find if he was going to carry the trusty pistol into combat, namely parts, cleaning oil, and more ammunition.

The last item was particularly pressing—he'd only been carrying thirty-one rounds between two magazines on Eden Prime, and he'd expended most of them. In fact, Nick had counted when they've given him his Beretta back, and he had exactly nine rounds left, which left him what a rather difficult question.

Where did one look for M882 ball ammo on the Citadel? An antique store, or a gun shop?

It was something he'd have to look into during the cab ride, he decided. However, as he drew nearer to the console on the far side of the walkway, a figure lingering nearby roused his suspicions.

It was one of those…what were they called? It had been one of the races he'd read about while he was still being held at the Irin Center. The fork-headed aliens, they had a member on the Council—slime-ians?

For the life of him, Nickeli couldn't think of the name.

The race looked sort of reptilian, with narrow, wiry limbs, and with a pair of wide-set black eyes. The medic's suspicions that the alien was waiting for him was confirmed when its face lit up as he near closer.

If it meant him harm, Vandas might actually be in some trouble—his handgun was still empty and stowed in his thigh pocket. He wouldn't be able to draw it, much less load it, if something happened.

He was getting ahead of himself, though.

The alien was wearing street clothes, a light purple jacket with a high collar on the back. It wasn't visibly carrying a weapon—in fact, the figure wasn't carrying anything at all, but it seemed rather clear that it had been specifically waiting on Nick.

"Mister Vandas?" The alien's voice was high, approaching nasally.

"Uh, yes?"

Suly-iod? No, he was getting further away from it now. It was an 'S' word though, the human was sure of that much.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I was sent by Barla Von's office. There are a few matters regarding your account that Mr. Von would like to meet with you about. If it's not too much trouble, I have a car waiting to take you there."

"Look, this really isn't a great time…" Nick mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

He hadn't a clue who this "Barla Von" guy was, but the medic was fairly confident that no one was sending someone to talk about the whole five-hundred credits he had in his wallet.

It was probably a con—"Barla Von" would have "a large sum of money waiting for him to claim" and all the marine would have to do is front a couple hundred bucks for "paperwork fees" or something like that. It seemed odd that he'd be someone to get targeted, but he likely stuck out in the crowd as a foreigner in his dark blue utility uniform and they'd probably found a way to lift his name from his omni-tool.

"Please, sir. Mr. Von stressed that it was important that you got your affairs in order as soon as possible. It's especially pressing given that the Normandy is due to depart the station within the next few days."

Whatever tiny bit of wry amusement Nick felt vanished at the alien's statement.

Information regarding Alliance vessels was heavily restricted—bordering secret, which the medic imagined went doubly for a prototype like the Normandy. Even the crew hadn't been made aware of their orders as yet, and Nick had to stop himself from demanding how the amphibian creature knew anything about the ship.

Taking a deep breath, Vandas inspected the messenger as he considered his options.

Despite the smile pasted on his expression, the alien seemed impatient and even a bit bored. He was probably just a go-between for someone who was sitting higher-up—not everyone found out about the movements of Alliance warships, but the marine imagined those who did had ears in especially good places.

But if he walked away now he'd never know who that someone was, and the thought of never finding out suddenly turned the matter into a nagging curiosity.

"Alright," Nick relented. "I'll meet your boss."

It was a bad idea, both in principle and in actuality. Something would probably go horribly wrong, and then Vandas would have to call Shepard and he'd almost certainly never hear the end of it. And he'd be getting exactly what he deserved.

"Excellent," The amphibian creature replied cheerfully, pointing to a dark green car landed on a platform nearby. "If you'll just come right this was."

He was not a child being lured in the back of a van with the promise of candy, Nickeli sternly reminded himself as he followed the alien to the craft. He was an adult, being lured into a flying car with the promise of money. There existed a difference.

Still, as the vehicles canopy closed, a worried voice in the marine's gut couldn't help but wonder what he'd gotten himself into.