"Witch Doctor, radio check." Nick called into his headset, quickly receiving a confirmation.
The briefing once they'd gotten into orbit over Feros had been short, not least because their intel was spotty at best. The geth had arrived some time ago and had been launching raids against a small settlement of human colonists. Indications were that the colony was still holding out, but the situation was no doubt getting dire.
Feros was, as Vandas understood it, a graveyard of a planet. The surface was a sea of ancient ruins under smog-choked skies, enormous concrete towers looted millennia ago and left to decay. And all that was before the geth showed up. What would possess people to settle in such a barren hellhole was beyond him.
Within the confines of his helmet, the medic snorted.
That was humans for you—for every planet out there with a poisonous atmosphere or continent with spiders the size of dinner plates, there were a hundred people who thought they seemed like nice places to live. He supposed the turians hadn't exactly been wrongto call humanity "foolhardy".
Nick had assembled with the rest of the Normandy's marine detachment on the command deck. What intel they had suggested that the geth force on the planet was comparatively small, perhaps only a single frigate's worth of infantry and support platforms, but the squad was loaded for bear at the prospect of driving back an assault on the colony. The troopers, laden down in full armor and combat gear, lined the narrow walkway that connected the CIC to the cockpit, making final equipment checks and chatting quietly amongst themselves as they awaited orders to disembark.
For Nickeli, it was mostly the former.
His medium plate armor, identical to what most of the ship's other marines wore, had been delivered to the Normandy only shortly before they'd departed the Citadel, the polish on its outer shell still gleaming faintly in the light of the command deck. The hardsuit was the latest generation of Alliance combat gear, it boasted excellent kinetic barriers, improved electronics, and integrated life support systems that drastically improved temperature management and reduced his infrared signature. The inside of the thing also stank—reeking of industrial-grade disinfectant and the acrid smell of new plastic. Hell, this gear was so new he practically squeakedwhen he walked.
Not that he was going to complain too loudly. While there were a few places it was a little toosnugfor his liking, most of the suit was surprisingly comfortable, despite how much heavier it was than his old USMC kit. The first part consisted of a padded black underlayer that fit like a thick, hoodless dive suit. Beneath the hex-patterned exterior was a mesh of circuitry, sensors, and ballistic padding meant to keep him alive in a firefight. After all, hypervelocity projectiles were grizzly business—they tended to either poke neat holes through soft-tissue without dissipating most of their kinetic energy, or they rip and tear their way through muscle and bone.
The hardsuit's exterior was equally important. Unlike the more modest coverage of his old gear, now he was almost entirely armored—his upper chest, his shins, it was all encased in rugged ballistic plate made of artificial ceramic, designed to deflect shrapnel and stop mass driver rounds that his kinetic barriers had slowed down. The hardsuit reminded him of a medieval man-at-arms, covered from head to toe in durable plate armor. Though, he couldn't say he was a fan the paint job—much preferring tan desert camouflage to the scheme of blues, blacks, and greys.
The rest of the new gear would take some getting used to as well.
His helmet was one of the few pieces of his armor that distinguished him from the rest of the squad. It was a different model than the other marines, sporting a wide, full-face visor and crammed full of advanced diagnostic software and scanners. Glancing around CIC, his heads-up display marked each marine with the outline of a dark green diamond bearing their name and rank. Focusing briefly on one of his squadmates, a few more details appeared—blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and a few other readings gathered by their armor.
As useful as it was, for the time being it was just another set of data on top of a HUD already crowded with a dizzying number of communications controls, equipment monitors, and other information. The medic had been somewhat hurried to get geared up after the briefing, but once he had some down time he'd dig out the manual and figure out how to turn them down to something a bit more manageable.
Fortunately, while Williams had been familiarizing him with his gear, he'd taken the opportunity to organize his chest rig. So, despite the new armor and unfamiliar equipment, all of the essentials were in exactly the same spots he'd carried them in Afghanistan—a pair of dark grey tourniquets were secured neatly on his left shoulder strap, and just below them the handles of a pair of heavy duty trauma shears poked up from his top left pouch beside his combat knife in its worn, dark grey sheath. Rectangular pouches on his stomach, where he'd have formerly carried extra magazines for his rifle, held combat dressings and packets of medigel. Other pouches held markers in various colors, signaling gear, and a few other things he didn't want to have to look for in the middle of a firefight.
The bulk of his medical gear was stowed in the black, oblong bag that hugged the small of his back, attached at either hip by quick-release clips. In Afghanistan, he'd carried an entire backpack of supplies, an endless series of zippered compartments stuffed with dressings, combat meds, and other supplies for long, isolated patrols. Now, with his chest rig no longer weighed down with magazines, his gear was distributed a bit better. It might take some getting used to, but doing away with the enormous rucksack was certainly felt like an improvement.
His Berretta sat against his right thigh, the black holster that held two extra magazines blending in quite nicely with the rest of his rigging. He laid a hand on his sidearm, flicking the hinged tab that held it in place back and forth a few times. Having the weight of weathered handgun at his side would be one of the few things familiar about this mission.
From behind, there came the sound of lumbering footfalls and Nick turned to watch the small crowd of marines lining the CIC walkway press themselves to the sides as Wrex marched to the airlock. The krogan, covered from head to toe in weathered, dark red armor with an enormous shotgun strapped across his back, resembled an armored vehicle on legs. He regarded the squad with a look of mild amusement, though whether it was for the armored humans themselves or how they quickly got out of his way, Vandas couldn't be sure.
Catching the medic staring, the massive alien gave a snort as he passed, moving to join Shepard, Williams, and Garrus near the cockpit. The commander and Ashley both acknowledged Wrex with wordless nods, though the turian seemed to ignore the warlord aside from a brief, wary look. As the group began to enter the airlock, Shepard turned to Ouder, issuing some las minute instructions. The sergeant major tensed for a moment, a flash of worried surprise on his face, but he gave a quick affirmation.
Nick frowned. He recognized that look—the situation on the ground had probably gotten worse since they'd been briefed.
The commander stepped into the airlock but turned as Ouder said something, no doubt wishing her luck. Shepard replied with a broad, confident grin, giving the sergeant major a wink just before the airlock doors closed between them. Vandas saw the man slowly shake his head, his expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
The "Ground Team," as Shepard had taken to calling them, would be the first group to cycle through the ship's small airlock. They'd be providing most of the firepower to break the siege of the colony, backed by the bulk of the Normandy's marine detachment, including Nick. A few members of the ship's security team under the command of Lieutenant Alenko would stay behind to secure the ship and hangar bay, but otherwise it was all hands on deck.
Admittedly, Nickeli was anxious. He couldn't understand how Shepard could seem so casual.
The prospect of fighting the geth scared the hell out of the corpsman, and for good reason. They didn't hesitate, didn't feel fear or pain, and they communicated and processed information at the speed of light. He'd mostly taken a back seat when Shepard's team had been fighting the geth on Eden Prime, but even fully armed and armored, he didn't relish the idea.
"Alright, listen up!" Ouder barked, joining the rest of the marines with his helmet tucked under his arm. In the dim light of the bridge, his expression seemed particularly grave. The assembled marines immediately fell silent, turning their attention forward. "Our timetable's changed—the geth are hitting the colony as we speak. We're movin' out now."
A somber quiet fell over the squad as they absorbed the news, glancing uncertainly to one another. After a moment, Ouder turned for the airlock and they shuffled forward, quickly finding themselves crowded elbow to elbow in the confines of the small chamber. As the cycle started, the only sounds were the hissing of the vents and the muffled shifting of equipment.
Closest to the doors, the corpsman caught a glance of Ouder. His face was stern, but the man looked utterly unshakable. With his gloved thumb, he casually brushed at his neat, salt-and-pepper beard, his rifle clutched across his chest and pointed downward. According to Scarpasky, the man had seen action in every human conflict since the First Contact War—for him, going into combat against an unknown and unexpected enemy was probably just business as usual. In a way, Vandas envied his calm.
Beside him, Brice had his helmet off, but still stood almost half a head taller than anyone else in the airlock. His expression was tight but anxious, betraying his worry as he looked to the younger marines around him. For a fleeting moment, the medic locked eyes with him, the sergeant giving a slight nod.
Nick took a slow breath, trying to clear his head. A mix of fear tinged with excitement churned in his stomach. He always felt like this—before every firefight, every risky patrol. Battle was a drug—an indescribable rush of adrenaline and emotion that tasted of copper and gunpower, that left him feeling exhausted and yet restless.
It had been almost a year and half since the last time Vandas had last seen combat, but he was reminded that for most of the team, it would be their first time setting foot in a war zone. This would be their christening as infantry marines.
Ahead of them, the doors opened.
The colony was exactly the godforsaken hellhole the briefing had advertised.
The air inside the collapsing tower was thin and stale, choked with smoke and ancient smog. Every corner of the place smelled of battle, the reek of fresh weapon fire and the heavy stench of death. The colonists lived out of the hold of a ruined freighter and a few small, badly weathered prefab, scraping out a pathetic existence. Reliant on a failing system of pumps and water condensers, it seemed only a matter of time before they all died of thirst.
It seemed like just the kind of place Wrex would keep a summer home, were he the type.
Though, why a bunch of humans would subject themselves to such a place, the warlord didn't care to wonder.
Humans. The krogan snorted as he trudged through the ruined settlement.
In truth, Wrex had been intrigued, even somewhat excited, when he'd heard a new race had been discovered, though the Council hadn't shared his sentiments. As far as they were concerned, humans were a race of brash, violent upstarts who had no respect for the refinement or convention of galactic politics. The warlord approved of them on principle—any race whose introduction to the galaxy left a pile of dead turians in their wake was alright in his book.
That was, until he'd finally met one. He'd heard that they'd waged war against one another since long before they'd mastered metalworking, and the krogan couldn't help but imagine a people not unlike his own—a broad, powerful race with robust bodies and tough hide.
Instead, on a rare trip to the Citadel years ago, he had been confronted with a tiny, pink, wriggling creature that looked up at him with wide eyes, with the gall to demand to know what he was. The sight baffled Wrex, incensed him. How had such a frail mammal, with its spindly, five-fingered hands and two long tufts of decorated, red hair jutting out of its head, defeated the turians in battle?! It was an outrage!
With a growl, the warrior had demanded that the human explain itself, that if their race was so exceptional it should prove itself against him in single combat. Instead, the pathetic little creature scampered away, tightly clutching a stuffed elcor and hiding behind the leg of a larger human accompanying it, and Wrex had departed with a disgusted huff.
It hadn't taken him long after that to tire of the newcomers. For all the rumors of human aggression and audacity, the warlord had quickly figured out that, compared to the krogan, they were just as squishy as the other races.
On Feroes, so far the only "exceptional" thing the colonists had demonstrated against the geth was that they excelled at dying.
Not that the geth were much better—they might've spooked the humans, but after nearly a thousand years of killing pretty much anything that walked or crawled, there was very little that got anything out of Wrex beyond an irritated grunt. Hell, the synthetics were even less interesting to kill than the last time he'd fought them.
Almost on cue, a geth soldier appeared in front of him, giving a garbled squeal as it raised its rifle. The warlord dispatched the machine without breaking stride, a single blast from his shotgun nearly cleaving the trooper in two. Privately, he wondered how many it would take before they realized they shouldn't charge him.
Apparently, it was more than they'd been attacking the colony with—the assault force had been steadily pushing back the settlers, but they had been too few to serious threaten the ground team. Elsewhere, the Normandy's marines were holding back geth reinforcements while the rest of the ground team swept the settlement. Since the millennia-old warrior was still hearing distant gunfire, he could only assume that meant the Alliance troops hadn't all been slaughtered by the geth by now.
Suddenly, a rush of dark grey armor and crimson hair raced passed, and Wrex cracked a smirk as his gaze followed Shepard toward the battle.
The redheaded spectre might turn out to be an exception to his opinions on humans, if what he'd seen on the Citadel was anything to judge by. She'd kicked in the front door of Cora's Den when she'd needed to get to Fist, and she'd taken point from the moment they'd left the Normandy. Even if Shepard was a little too... principled for his tastes, at least behind all the rank and protocol, she didn't mince her words. It was a hard quality to find on the Citadel these days.
From ahead, Wrex heard the clamor of a firefight, drawing a wide, curling grin to his face. Combat was like a second home to the old krogan—the thunderous echo of gunfire off the concrete ceiling, the smell of scorched carbon and the coppery tang of blood that hung in the air, it was reinvigorating.
A line of makeshift fortifications had been erected along the perimeter of the colony, empty metal crates filled with debris and slabs of broken concrete propped upright to provide some measure of protection against the storm of incoming fire.
Through the haze, the half dozen figures manning the barricade were just barely visible. Covered in grey concrete dust and crouched low to avoid the geth projectiles that streak overhead as pale blue starbursts, it was difficult to tell the unarmored colonists from the armored marines. One of the defenders rose, resting his weapon across a chunk of shattered concrete and firing a long burst, the report of the light machinegun echoing like thunder off the stone ceiling.
A pair of advancing synthetics were caught by the heavy fire. The machines seeming unperturbed by the rounds cutting into them, continuing to march forward until their systems failed and they collapsed.
As the pair of troopers fell, Brice ducked back into cover, his weapon's muzzle glowing a dusky red. Thumbing the release, the machinegun's detachable heatsink dropped, its filaments glowing white-hot as the blocky device landed with a dense thunk. Sweaty and grim-faced behind his helmet, he greeted Shepard with a nod as he reloaded. "Commander."
The N7 returned the nod, firing a few shots before crouching next to him. "How's it looking?"
"We'll hold." The enormous man assured, indicating behind him where Private Grenado and a few colonists were firing from amidst the rubble. "Scarpasky's team reported that the geth pulled back deeper into the tower once you took out their assault team." He jerked his head in the direction of the incoming fire. "These are just some holdouts."
Wrex grunted. For as many times as they'd failed to take the colony by frontal assault, the geth sure weren't getting any smarter. The krogan trudged up to the barricade and peered across the clearing towards their positions, ignoring the hiss of the passing projectiles and the indignant squawks of the colonist he'd pushed aside.
A handful of synthetics had found safety in one of the ancient tower's stairwells, the small arms fire from the marines and colonists doing little more than cutting small divots into its thick walls. So, while contained, the remaining geth were proving themselves to be difficult for the Alliance troops to dislodge.
"Wrex?" There was curiosity that stopped just sort of mild alarm in Shepard's voice as the krogan stepped atop the pile of rubble she was using for cover. The warlord flashed a grin.
A violet aura formed around him and he rushed forward with a roar, much to the surprise of the commander and the assembled marines. Even the geth seemed somewhat shocked. There was a brief but noticeable pause before they shifted their fire to respond to the new threat, no doubt needing a moment to process the metric ton of angry krogan suddenly coming their direction.
The old warrior's devilish smile broadened as incoming fire deflected harmlessly off his barrier.
He lowered his head as he charged into the confines of the stairwell, lifting the geth standing in the doorway off its feet and slamming it into the opposite wall with a satisfying, metallic crunch. Wrex felt a sharp string in his upper arm and backhanded a trooper, the synthetic briefly leaving its feet and bouncing off the wall before settling in a heap. The last of the three machines fared no better, its single, glassy eye seeming to regard the enormous warrior with an almost despairing look as he ripped the rifle from its grasp and tossed the weapon aside.
With one hand, Wrex seized the trooper's wiry neck, the flexible, silver sheathing crumpling beneath his fingers. The machine gave an electronic squeal as the warlord wrenched, its scream distorting as wires snapped and tubes broke, spraying shiny, white ichor across the grey concrete. With a final jerk, the geth's head separated from its shoulders, leaving its body staggering in place, but miraculously still standing. Sneering, Wrex reluctantly drew his shotgun and fired, blowing a messy hole through its chest and sending the headless and lifeless body tumbling down the cement stairs.
A pair of marines entered behind the warlord, Scarpasky surveying the scene of spilled geth blood and crumpled synthetic corpses with an approving nod. A few shots rang out as her companion finished off one of the incapacitated geth.
With a wild grin, the krogan turned and tossed Amy the geth's severed head, shoving the sapper back half a step and nearly knocking her rifle out of her hands. Taking a moment to inspect it, she passed it to Vandas as Wrex marched back toward the colony. The medic, realizing what he'd been handed, hastily discarded it.
Blood trickling from the fresh wound on his arm and tendrils of fading biotic power licking at his armor, the warlord pounded his fists together with a triumphant roar for the small audience of stunned colonists and one beaming Alliance commander that stood atop the barricade.
Yup—he still had it.
Nickeli worked diligently, carefully passing the suture back and forth to close the wound a section at a time. Pausing a moment, he inspected his work in the light of the desk lamp that was serving as his impromptu surgical lighting in the colony's infirmary.
"We're almost done, sweetheart." The corpsman assured behind his mask. His seven-year old patient mustered a brave nod in return, though Vandas could tell by her welling tears that the local anesthesia he'd administered was starting to wear off.
The gun battle for control of the colony had ended nearly an hour ago, leaving the settlement badly damaged, but still standing. The Ground Team had set off some time ago and most of the marines had returned to the hangar, wary that the geth might exploit the tower's vast network of hidden tunnels and unmapped corridors to strike at the Normandy. That left only a few Alliance personnel like Nick to help sort out the aftermath of the attack.
It had been an ugly fight.
The medic's combat experience had been in Afghanistan—the battles there little more than exchanges of fire between distant mountain peaks and the ever-present hazard of IEDs. The firefight with the geth had been something else entirely—they'd been hardly twenty meters away from each other, the fight at times threatening to break down into a frantic hand-to-hand melee. The perimeter had held, but it had come at a steep cost.
In less than two hours of fighting, two colonists had been killed and almost half dozen others had been wounded, several quite seriously—nobody has paused to count the geth destroyed, but it was of little consolation anyway.
Tolo had been the Normandy's only casualty, taking a minor peppering from a geth grenade—nothing too serious, but Vandas had dressed his bloodied arm and quickly had him evacuated to the Normandy. At present, he was probably being treated by Chakwas along with the wounded colonists.
Unfortunately, that left Nickeli as the closest thing Zhu's Hope had to a for the time being. After the wounded had been evacuated, the colony's leader, a man by the name of Fai Dan, had approached him. The man was probably only in his early thirties, but battered and exhausted after everything he'd endured, he could've passed for fifty.
After politely introducing himself, he'd led the corpsman toward a small, weathered prefabricated building that sat by itself on the far side of the colony.
Nick knew the battered structure was serving as the settlement's morgue before Fai Dan said a word—they'd halted almost a full twenty yards from the entrance, but the smell of decomposition was still distinct in the smoky air. There was no sadness in the man's voice as he spoke, only a tremendous weight, as if the death of so many colonists at the hands of the geth was something he'd simply made peace with.
He explained that there was nowhere to bury them—that it wouldn't seem right to just toss them from the side of the tower like a piece of refuse, but he wasn't sure how else to dispose of the bodies. Fai Dan had seemed torn, wishing for nothing more than for someone else to help him shoulder the awful task he'd been presented.
In truth, Nickeli didn't know either, it was something he had no experience with. Yes, on occasion, he'd overseen the grim task of recovering the dead, but he was corpsman, not a mortician. In the end, he'd lied—promised he'd see what he could do, before heading for the colony's clinic to tend to those he could still help. He was grateful for his helmet's mirrored visor.
For now, treating minor injuries was a welcome distraction.
The young girl, one of the settlement's few children, had a decent-sized cut on the top of her forearm from a jagged piece of rebar in the rubble that littered the colony. It wasn't serious or a complicated injury to treat, but with the colony's physician dead at the hands of the geth and the settlement under almost constant attack, there had been more serious casualties that had needed tended to.
Fortunately, the colony had a reasonably well-equipped, if somewhat cramped, medical center, though its supplies were rather depleted and some of the equipment had been damaged in the fighting. Still, a quick search of the building's small storage area had produced a suture kit and a dose of anesthetic, and Nick had gotten to work. Putting in a few stitches wasn't a particularly complicated procedure for the experience corpsman, but it was a little time-consuming without an extra set of hands to help him out.
"You know, when I have to do this on any of the marines they're all really afraid of the needle." The medic said in a cheerful, teasing tone. "You're doing really well."
The young girl seemed surprised by this, absorbing the "revelation" with a look of wordless astonishment. After a moment, she spoke in an awed whisper. "Really?"
Nickeli gave a proud nod. "Mhm."
"Even the big krogan?" His patient inquired hesitantly, forgetting the pain in her arm for the time being.
"He's even worse." He answered in a conspiratorial whisper, much to her delight. "I have to chase him all around the ship and sit on top of him when I catch him so he doesn't run away again."
The girl gave a pleased giggle as Nick closed the last suture, taking a moment to look over his handiwork before giving an approving grunt. Dissolvable stitches may've been rather quaint compared to medigel or the array of other futuristic treatments available, but sutures had been in use for thousands of years chiefly for two reasons—they were simple, and they worked.
Setting aside the pair of forceps he'd been using and tugging off his blue surgical gloves, the medic gently helped the young girl off of the cot and into the waiting arms of her mother. Watching as the child inspected the blue threads in her arm with a look of wonder, Vandas turned to address her parents.
The corpsman briefly explained the proper way to care for and gently wash the injury as he began to clean up, the man and woman nodding along. Thanking the medic profusely, they headed toward the door, Vandas returning the enthusiastic wave the girl gave from over her mother's shoulder. Tali stood just inside the door, giving a polite smile and quickly stepping aside for the family, the quarian seeming a bit amused at the girl's awed stare.
"Did you have some time to help me with something?" The engineer inquired, her hands tucked behind her back as she watched the corpsman clean up the area he'd been working in.
Removing his surgical mask and tossing it into a disposal bin along with his gloves, he gave a nod. "Sure, just a second."
Collecting his rifle, chest rigging, and helmet from where he'd stacked them atop one of the far cots, he jerked his head toward the door, indicating for the quarian to lead the way as he pulled his chest rig over his head and stowed his rifle on his back.
The pair quickly made their way out of the infirmary, leaving behind the filtered and comfortably cool environment of the medical center for the stagnant air of the colony. As they made their way back toward the center of the settlement, they passed by colonists repairing the damage done by the geth, sweeping up rubble or working in teams to move chunks of broken concrete.
Looking around at the exhausted settlers and their battered town, Tali shook her head mournfully. "These people have endured so much."
Vandas nodded his agreement. "Not knowing when to give up is one of humanity's many endearing qualities."
The engineer turned to look at him, sounding surprised at his matter-of-fact tone. "Do you think they should?"
He shrugged, not really having an answer.
As much as he admired the colony's pioneer spirit, the grim realist couldn't help but wonder if the venture had been doomed from the start. No natural sources, limited access to water, and a complete reliance on imported foodstuffs and fragile hydroponics to keep the handful of settlers alive. Barring a minor miracle or an incredible amount of resources from an outside source, it didn't matter what happened—the colonists weren't about to turn this crumbling hellhole into some kind of verdant paradise. They'd never do more than survive.
"So what did you need my help with?" Vandas inquired.
The lingering look Tali gave the medic made it clear that his sidestepping her question hadn't gone unnoticed, though, fortunately, she seemed satisfied to move on to the task at hand. "The colony's water supply was damaged during the attack. I've gotten the main pump working again, but I need you to help me reset the relays along the pipeline."
Pushing buttons? Yeah, he could probably do that.
The medic gave curse as he stumbled over another chunk of broken concrete, only narrowly staying on his feet. With an irritated sigh, he paused once more to survey the maze of dark, claustrophobic tunnels he'd found himself in.
"You know, I can't help but feel you were intentionally vague to get me to agree to go down into the creepy tunnels and fix your relays." Nick remarked dryly, shining the beam from his omni-tool down one of the many dark, winding corridors that disappeared further into the depths of the tower.
On the other end of the radio, Tali laughed musically. "Well, I have to be vague, otherwise no one agrees to help."
The corpsman snorted, warily surveying his surroundings as he walked, his rifle shifting slightly in his arms. At present, the quarian on the other end of the radio was his only company as he followed the large, rusty pipe that connected the relay pumps.
Admittedly, he was inclined to agree with her—if he'd known that resetting a few relays entailed a lonesome foray into the ancient spire's labyrinth of collapsing service tunnels, he probably wouldn't have been so eager to lend a hand. Still, conversation was enough to distract him from the feeling he was wandering into a bad horror movie plot. At least he was almost done.
"Aw, come on. Don't tell me that you didn't have a whole pack of quarian boys back home running around doing your bidding." The medic replied, grinning at the embarrassed silence that followed.
Rounding the corner, Nickeli found the last pump station, a single console adjacent to the pipe, marked with a dim, hazy orange light. With a few button presses, and a strong pull on the machine's rusty circuit breaker, the pump thrummed to life. "Okay, the last pump is online."
"Right!" The quarian answered, still sounding a bit flustered. "I've got a good reading up here, everything's up and running again. You can come back up."
Suddenly, the marine spun, rising his rifle and aiming it down the darkened tunnel. For a long few seconds, He'd heard… something.
"Nick?" He nearly jumped at the sound of Tali's voice on the radio. She sounded a bit concerned. "Are you alright?"
He took a breath, trying to force himself to relax. He was just a little on edge from the morning's fighting—these tunnels were drafty and partially collapsed, it was probably nothing. "Yeah, I just thought I—"
There it was again! A sort of cackling howl that echoed and seemed to come from every direction. A spike of icy dread shot through him. It wasn't the darkness, or the sound, or even the fact that he was alone that scared him. It was that whatever it was, it sounded human.
"There's something else down here." His voice was a strained whisper.
That should've been his cue to leave—to get back to the colony, regroup with the rest of the squad, and then decide if whatever was down in the tunnels was worth sending a bunch of guys with really big guns to look for.
That's not what he did, but it's what he should've done.
Making a quick check of his rifle, he slowly began in the direction he thought the sound had come from. Walking at a careful pace with his weapon shouldered, he made meticulously checked each corridor as he passed, the blinding beam of his tactical light illuminating the empty halls as he went.
He had decided against informing Tali, partially because he didn't need someone else to tell him it was a bad idea, and partially because he didn't want to risk his last words being, 'I'm going to go check it out.'
The sound seemed louder now, though Nick wasn't certain that meant he was getting closer. As he walked, he spotted tracks in the concrete dust and debris that layered the floor—a pair of parallel marks roughly the width of his boot, as if someone had walked without lifting their feet. At regular intervals, there were small, dark circles in the chalky grey dust.
Blood, the medic realized with quiet alarm.
At first, only a few drops that quickly become messy streaks, and then small pools. Swiping the tip of his boot through one, he found that it was beginning to thicken, but was still fresh. The blood and footprints got closer together, stumbling back and forth between the narrow corridor's walls, leaving behind handprints in dark red. Considering how much there was, he couldn't help but wonder if whoever it belonged was beginning to miss it.
He gave a grunt. At least it seemed whatever he was tracking was human. As the corpsman reached a turn, he paused for a moment, listening carefully.
The sound he'd been hunting was a voice, the walls echoing with their shouting, but Vandas could only pick out a few words of their rambling, "roots" and "minds" and "master". Everything else was simply incoherent. Whoever it was, they were only a little further down the corridor.
Rounding the corner with his rifle raised but his flashlight switched off, he spotted a figure roughly twenty meters away, silhouetted by light coming in through a broken section of ceiling. They stood bent over and facing away from him, as if they were concentrating intently on something—alternating between murmuring to themselves and shouting, seemingly at no one.
Watching this as he slowly crept down the darkened corridor toward the man, Nick couldn't help be more than a little disturbed at the sight.
Coming to a halt, the enlisted man activated his flashlight, aiming its beam at the center of the man's back. "Hey! Put your hands in the air! Do it now!"
Slowly, the man turned, ignoring Nick's commands. A look of shock flashing across his face, the medic paused his advanced, giving the man a wide berth with his rifle still trained on him.
The flesh of his forearms hung in bloody shreds, the faint shimmer of pale bone peeking through in spots. In one hand, the colonist clutched a short piece of broken rebar, one end worked to a crude point and coated in blood. Somehow, the man hadn't bled to death, though it certainly didn't appear to be for lack of trying.
The colonist regarded Nickeli with a sneer that curled the skin of his gaunt face. "I see the fools are still trying to defend the colony and that they've lured more into their web." He gave a coarse laugh.. "Don't you understand that this whole place is a trap? First the geth and now the Alliance, both after the—" The colonist howled in agony, doubling over.
"Listen, my name's Private Vandas, I'm a corpsman, I want to help—"
"There is no help!" The man screamed, forcing himself upright. "The master controls this place! There's no escaping it! There's no—"
The rest of the disturbed man's rant was cut off by the sound of a pair of low-velocity concussion rounds hitting him in the stomach, sending him tumbling to the ground with a faint groan.
Lowering his rifle, the medic gave a snort, carefully closing the distance. Impact rounds may not have been the gentlest way to pacify him, but he wasn't going to stand around trying to reason with a lunatic, and he certainly wasn't going to try to wrestle that piece of rebar out of his hand. Besides, with the amount of damage the guy had already done to himself, the possibility of a broken rib or two was the least of his worries.
The metal shiv clattering loudly across the floor as Nick kicked it well out of reach, he rolled the dazed colonist onto his stomach and quickly produced a pair of flex cuffs to secure his hands.
With the man now properly restrained, the corpsman moved on to applying a tourniquet to both of his badly mangled arms. The marine would need to properly assess them to see exactly what the damage was, but that would have to wait until they were back at the colony. Until then, a generous dose of painkillers would keep him quiet.
"NICK?"
His feet left the ground and he gave a shocked yelp at the sound of his name across the radio. The medic wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or throw up—she'd nearly given him a heart attack. Leaning heavily against the wall at his back as he collected himself, he gave a shaky gasp. "Holy shit, Tali, don't scare me like that."
"You stopped answering your radio, what happened?"
"I, uh, I found a colonist wandering in the tunnels… he's in pretty bad shape."
"Hang on, I'm accessing your helmet camera." The engineer replied. Nickeli rolled his eyes—he supposed that explained how she'd turned his radio volume back up. "Keelah…"
"Yeah," The marine agreed, "I'm bringing him back now. You may want to let Fai Dan know I found one his people."
"I'll do that." After a moment, she added, "Be careful."
"Soul of caution," Vandas chuckled, lifting the unconscious man across his shoulders, finding that he was surprisingly light. Privately, the medic wondering how long he'd been down here.
Clutching his rifle in one hand, Nick peered down the dark corridor he'd arrived by, giving a weary huff. He had quite the walk ahead of him.
"Really, Doc, it's not that bad. I'm fine."
Chakwas snorted quietly at the marine's protests, using a bottle of saline to gently irrigate one of the larger lacerations in his arm. While the man's wounds, from a geth grenade, she'd been told, weren't too serious, she was glad Private Vandas had seen fit to send him back to the ship. Otherwise, Tolo almost certainly would've chosen to grit his teeth and continue the mission, as if the shrapnel in his arm were little more than a minor inconvenience.
Even for all her years spent posted aboard dozens of ships and stations, she would never fully comprehend the obsession and, indeed, fascination Alliance soldiers of all ranks seemed to have with laughing off any injuries that weren't immediately incapacitating. In the past, when war had been primarily a male profession, perhaps it could've been partially attributed to young men's competitiveness to be seen as the toughest and most fearless, but these days ranking officers like Shepard were just as liable to proudly show off their battle scars as anyone else.
The doctor shook her head, applying a bit of bonding agent to seal the small, v-shaped wound shut. Perhaps bragging about scars was as inherent to soldiering as receiving them was.
"There." The silver-haired medic declared in a satisfied tone, gently rotating the man's arm to check for any other lacerations that needed tended to. Christian's forearm was an array of fresh bruises and tiny cuts, the smallest fragments from the grenade that had gotten passed his armor creating patches of bloody pinpricks that had barely pierced his skin, resembling a bad case of razor burn.
Tolo would heal nicely in a few days times, though, privately, the doctor tried not to be troubled that one of the ship's marines had already been wounded after less than a day of fighting against the geth.
Near the back of the medbay, one of the wounded colonists began to stir, trying to sit up and pawing at the IV line in his arm. With a small frown, she set aside the small bottle of medical glue and removed her surgical gloves, quickly making her way over to the man's cot.
Gently restraining the man's hands as he tugged at the needle taped to his elbow, she spoke in a slow, reassuring tone. "Try to stay calm. My name is Doctor Chakwas, you're aboard the Normandy, an Alliance warsh—"
As she spoke, the man's bleary eyes locked on her and he sprung forward, landing a staggering blow on the doctor. Catching herself against the opposite medical bed, the silver-haired officer gave a pained hiss, her vision swimming.
In the course of a rather long career in medicine she had, on occasion, found herself on the receiving end of the odd punch or kick from a patient—after all, wounded soldiers, in terrible pain and coming to in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers, were liable to do such things.
As her vision began to clear, Chakwas realized that this was something else entirely. The colonist rose from the medical bed. Ripping the IV line out, the man didn't even flinch as the needle tore a jagged track in his arm. He loomed over the physician, a murderous look on his face and his eyes glazed over.
"Doc!" Tolo had sprung from his seat, taking the colonist to the ground with a flying tackle as he took another step forward, giving her a chance to bring herself to her feet.
Scrambling to her desk, Chakwas found the intercom. "Security to the medbay, now!"