"Come on, you saw the way he took out all those geth, didn't you? He just charged in and killed them with his bare hands! It was fucking badass!"

"Which is exactly why he wouldn't win."

Ouder looked up briefly from the datapad he was holding, glancing over to the long workbench opposite the Mako where Tolo and Scarpasky were stripping weapons and cleaning their pair were, from what the seasoned squad leader had overheard, rather loudly debating who would win in a hypothetical fight between Wrex and the entirety of the Normandy's marine detail. The sergeant major took this as a sign that they were both in good spirits after mission on Feros.

Despite the fresh bandage wrapped around his upper arm as he held up a piece of his armor to inspect the repair the fabrication unit had performed, it seemed the private's enthusiasm had survived his encounter with the geth grenade. Amelia, on the other hand, didn't share his excitement, apparently more interested in getting her freshly cleaned rifle reassembled than making conversation. Aside from the ambient hum of the ship and the occasional snore from the pile of crates where Wrex dozed, they were the only source of noise in the otherwise quiet hangar.

The downtime immediately after missions was always a strange time, even if the routine was still the same. Most of the ground team was still coming down from the rush of their first time seeing combat, with all the jitters and mood swings that entailed. Feros had only been a taste of what their mission against Saren had in store for them, and adjusting to the cycle of quiet duty aboard the ship and frantic action groundside would be one of the hardest parts. The seasoned marine knew the stress it put on his younger subordinates wasn't something that could be ignored.

Eventually, the team would find their own ways to cope, but in the meantime he'd have to keep a careful eye on them. Fighting, drinking, and fucking were all popular ways to deal with the stress. Pat was less concerned about the latter given that the Normandy was a fairly small ship, but with a mixed-gender roster, there was always the possibility of members of the crew sneaking off somewhere quiet for a roll.

For the longest time, smoking had been the sergeant major's personal go-to, but he'd kicked the habit a few years back, not least because it was damn near impossible to find anywhere to smoke aboard an Alliance warship. Instead, the end of a peppermint stick jutted out of the corner of his lips like a stubby, white cigar, the man occasionally biting off and chewing a portion or rolling it to the other side of his mouth.

At the moment, Ouder was putting the finishing touches on an after-action report to be submitted to Shepard. It was nothing unusual—a summarization of the detachment's actions on the ground, remarks on enemy tactics and displacement, perhaps a few comments on the performance of individual marines.

After damn near thirty years, the old sergeant major could practically write them in his sleep. Even so, he wasn't ignorant of the significance of this particular debriefing.

Given the political turmoil surrounding the attack of Eden Prime and the subsequent decision to turn the Normandy over to the Council, his report would be quickly pushed up the chain of command to be picked over and passed around by boardrooms full of flag officers on Arcturus, exaggerated and discredited in a dozen different ways, until it eventually found its way onto the desk of some clerk to be put to rest in a filing system somewhere. Unless he fucked up somewhere down the line, he could safely assume he'd never heard about it again. That was the Alliance bureaucracy for you.

Ouder idly scratched as his chin, heading for the elevator.

All things considered, the marine could probably count himself lucky. Under different circumstances, he would've been dragged in front of a subcommittee on Arcturus for a formal debriefing about the geth, as if an afternoon of being shot at by them made him some sort of expert.

It was the cycle of surprise discovery followed by panicked inquiry he'd grown oddly familiar with. Thirty years ago, it was about the turians, now it would be about the geth. Pat had seen action in every major human conflict in the past thirty years, and as one of the most senior noncommissioned officers in Alliance space still in frontline service, his advice was somewhat sought-after. Before Anderson had gotten Hackett to transfer him from Arcturus to the Normandy, it was something he couldn't escape.

Conferences, consultations, the list went on. Hell, he had to stay away from the Alliance Military Academy because a colonel that taught there had come across some writing he'd done on infantry tactics and wouldn't quit making favorable references to Rommel whenever the sergeant major was around. It was unbearable. If one more buck lieutenant rushed up to him at a military function and started prodding him for advice, he was liable to get his hands on one of those fancy soup spoons and do someone bodily harm with it.

Ouder pressed the call button, and when the door opened a few moments later he was thankful to find the elevator was empty. He stepped inside and a tap at the panel on the wall sent the lift slowly rising to the second deck as he settled in the center of the car, his hands loosely clutched together behind his back.

Patrick was a soldier. Plain and simple. He went where the Alliance needed him, and he'd seen more of the galaxy that way than most; Mars, Shanxi, the Citadel, the Traverse, even a peaceful visit to Palaven once upon a time.

The memories drew a quiet chuckle from the man. At this point, he'd probably been shelled, bombed, and shot at on more stellar bodies than anyone else in human history. A somewhat dubious honor, to be sure, but the notion was accompanied by a strange swell of pride.

The elevator lurched slightly as it reached the top, the sergeant major not waiting for the overhead door to finish opening before stepping out, his boots drumming across the metal deck as he headed for the captain's quarters.

With Anderson gone, they were now technically Shepard's, though the newly-promoted executive officer seemed as bothered as the rest of the crew by the sudden change, understandably reluctant to make use of them. Still, aboard a ship the size of the Normandy space was at a premium, and the commander had begun to make use of the space as an office, since she couldn't exactly use the cubby-hole that constituted the executive officer's quarters to speak to members of the crew in private.

Anderson's departure had come as a shock, especially to senior members of the crew. On a ship as small as the Normandy, the man had been a constant presence; he stalked the decks keeping an eye on officers and enlisted alike, often dropping by the hangar to watch the marines train and to solicit their opinions on the equipment they were being issued. Despite the occasional disagreement, he was still one of the finest officers the sergeant major had ever served under. While Pat didn't consider himself a particularly sentimental man, he honestly missed the stubborn old bastard already.

The two of had met over of a decade-and-a-half ago during an anti-piracy campaign in the Traverse, back when the captain had been an active N7 operative with the Alliance Joint Special Warfare Group and he'd been a hard-charging staff sergeant with a marine expeditionary unit. After six months of hunting down slavers and pirates in a dozen different hellholes that the folks back home never even heard about in the news, it was inadequate to say he had anything less than a profound respect for the man.

They'd remained good friends throughout the years and David, knowing the sergeant was getting fat and bored behind a desk on Arcturus, had reached out to him about putting together and leading a crack squad to serve aboard the Normandy.

While internal politics had played havoc with that plan in some regards, Ouder had come aboard with an unusual amount of optimism. Yes, his men were green, but he was serving under an experienced captain, aboard a cutting-edge warship, with the time and resources to whip them into shape.

Naturally, it hadn't lasted. Geth had attacked Eden Prime, and backroom politics had forced Anderson to step down to turn the ship over to the Council. Now, Patrick was leading a squad of rookie troopers against the geth under the command of a junior officer half the captain's age. Served the sergeant major right for trying to be optimistic.

It wasn't that Ouder doubted Shepard's combat experience—quite the opposite, in fact. She'd served with distinction as both a marine and an N7, and the woman was probably one of the finest small unit tacticians in the Alliance. But Pat worried serving as a strike team leader had suited the redhead better than serving as a naval officer.

A warship wasn't a rifle platoon. Anderson was well-liked by those under his command, but he still demanded excellence from them and had readily doled out discipline as necessary to ensure those standards were met. While Shepard was one of the more popular officers aboard, her not-entirely-unspoken disdain for regulations was widely known. While that may've been just fine within the closely-knit environment of an N-corps strike team or in a line unit where there were higher-ranking officers to maintain discipline, one couldn't command a crew of almost eighty based on camaraderie alone.

Ouder paused at the entrance to the captain's quarters, rapping twice on the alloy door.

"Enter." A voice called from inside.

The door opened and he stepped inside, his boots clapping together as he snapped to attention and rendered a smart salute. "Sergeant Major Ouder reporting, ma'am."

The lieutenant commander sat at Anderson's old desk, working her way through a small stack of datapads. The computer console on the desk cast a faint glow, silhouetting her in the mostly dark room and accentuating the deep creases in her forehead.

Pat couldn't say he was surprised—Shepard had cleared everyone out of the comm room so she could report to the Council, and given the way she'd stalked out afterwards, he had some impression of how the conversation had gone. It was just another reason Ouder had never sought a commission—the higher you rose, the more political things got. Some of those who shared Pat's rank may've viewed leaving a position on Arcturus Station for a small command aboard a frigate as a step down, but he didn't mind. Being a ground pounder was dirty, but at least it was honest.

Rotating in her chair, Shepard caught sight of his rigid posture and raised an eyebrow—looking unsure whether to be exasperated or wryly amused.

They'd been over this.

When she'd first come aboard, the woman had made it clear she hated being addressed "ma'am" and had seemed baffled by the storm of hand salutes directed towards her, much preferring her own style of informal, first-name basis leadership. With nothing much to do as the executive officer of a docked warship, Shepard had spent her first few weeks aboard strolling the decks and striking up conversations with anyone and everyone she came across. A couple times, the sergeant would've sworn he'd seen her step off the elevator into the mess or the hangar, realize she'd recently spoken to everyone present, and disappear back into the lift without a word.

In spite of the reputation he'd acquired for being an ornery, old son of a bitch, Ouder had never been a stickler for regulations and he didn't particularly enjoy playing one, but he knew his role. Strictly speaking, as the senior enlisted man of the detachment, he was only directly responsible for the ship's marines, with a bit of overlap for the security teams if they were ever deployed ashore. However, he spent just as much time working closely with the department chiefs to deal with personnel management and the occasional disciplinary issue—the Normandy was small, even for a frigate, so they didn't have the luxury of a dedicated administrative team.

While Patrick had no doubt that Shepard stood behind the decisions made by her junior officers and senior enlisted personnel, her somewhat lax attitude toward discipline made their jobs harder. The commander bred a sort of familiarity with her crew that undermined the strictly defined, professional relationship between a ranking officer and those under their command. While she was a capable officer and he commended the commander for wanting to have a good relationship with the crew, a part of him worried she was setting herself up for trouble in the future.

Finally, the lieutenant commander stood and returned the salute, though by her tone it was clear she felt she was humoring the squad leader. Ouder knew she didn't mean any disrespect, she simply didn't see the need for such formalities in private. "As you were."

"My after action report, commander." The sergeant major explained, presenting the datapad he'd been carrying before handing it to the N7 who accepted it with a nod.

Settling back into her chair, Jane began to scan through the document. The sergeant's report was fairly extensive, if only because he didn't want to endure a barrage of questions from Arcturus. Perhaps realizing this, the commander set the tablet aside, glancing to the man. "What's your assessment of the geth?"

"Their infantry is deadly and they don't fatigue, but their tactics are fairly uncreative." Ouder answered simply. "As they sustain losses, they noticeably lose unit cohesion."

Tapping at his omni-tool, Ouder projected a small, holographic battle map with a record of the day's fighting. A swarm of red dots descended Zhu's Hope, opposed by a thin line of friendly fireteams—indicated by blue rectangles marked with their callsign and a single dot above them. A few groups of armed colonists, marked with green dots, roved the battlefield seemingly at random. As the geth attack began to stall, some of the red dots began to stop moving and wink out, while others retreated back in the direction they came.

"Once their assault on the colony lost momentum and we started inflicting casualties, about half fell back into the tunnels and the rest rushed our positions." He summarized, indicating the geths' faltering advance.

Shepard nodded, still studying the replay of the battle. "According to Tali, the geth are a sort of collective intelligence. As their hardware is destroyed, they become less capable of complex behavior—not just as a whole, but individually, as well. Once we brought down the gunship at the Exo-geni tower, the remaining geth basically shutdown."

Ouder quirked a brow as he deactivated omni-tool. Tali?

Ah, the quarian in engineering, he recalled suddenly, of course.

He was aware the machinist had come aboard and had seen her a few times, but the hadn't crossed paths as of yet. If she had knowledge about the geth that could help the marines on the ground, the sergeant major supposed he would have to make a point to introduce himself.

While Pressly had been quite outspoken in his suspicion of the non-humans that Shepard had added to the crew, Pat didn't mind in the slightest—though he did worry that Wrex's mercenary attitude may prove a liability in its own right. Otherwise, he had no objections—so long as they were prepared to work just as hard as the Alliance personnel and didn't start any trouble, they were good in his books. The sergeant liked Garrus in particular. While he'd proven a bit unconventional as far as turians went, the sharpshooter was smart, perceptive, and they were lucky to have someone of his experience on the team.

Patrick stood at loose parade rest, arms clasped behind his back as he silently watched the commander read through a few other sections of his report. The other subject he needed to bring up was of more concern to him, but, aware that tact wasn't necessarily his strongest quality, the old marine was trying to decide the most appropriate way to broach the topic.

Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Shepard glanced up. "Sergeant major?"

"Ma'am?" Ouder stiffened reflexively. Seeing the lieutenant commander looking at him expectantly, he sighed quietly—blunt honesty would have to do, it seemed.

"I'm concerned about the role of the marine detachment." The NCO began. "Based on the size of the assault on the colony and the resistance your team encountered crossing the causeway, the geth had at least a full company deployed, not to mention however many more were aboard that dropship you brought down."

"There are eight of us, ma'am." Ouder stressed, a slight grimace on his face. "If it comes down to it, we don't have the training or hardware to stand a chance against those kinds of odds."

"You're worried I'll ask too much of your marines," She summarized bluntly. "And that you'll take casualties as a result."

"In essence, ma'am."

Shepard seemed to mull this over for a long moment, her elbows propped on the desk and her chin resting atop her folded hands. Finally, the commander gave a shrug.

"I've got a lot of faith in your team, Ouder." Jane assured. "While I understand your concern, we'll never know what they're capable of just keeping them on the ship. I can't promise the situation on the ground will improve—the geth've had us outnumbered by a factor of ten both times we've encountered them—but I'm not throwing your squad up against those kinds of odds casually."

The sergeant seemed to consider her words for a minute before giving a sharp nod. He'd voiced his opinions and the commander had acknowledged them—he had never been asking for anything more. He had less than half a platoon under his command and the geth were an incredibly dangerous enemy—no amount of worrying on his part would change things. The marines would just have to adapt, as they always had.

"Understood, ma'am, thank you."

"Thank you for the report, sergeant major. That'll be all." Shepard dismissed, looking faintly pleased for some reason. Quickly exchanging salutes with the commander, Ouder spun on his heel and exited her quarters, the door closing behind him with a hiss.

…

…

Nickeli's face contorted uncomfortably, the infantryman fighting back a sneeze as the air shower blasted an enormous cloud of concrete dust off of his armor, followed by a weak mass effect field that appeared at the front of the airlock and slowly moved toward the rear door, forcing the contaminated air into the filtration system. The dusty, earthy smell was replaced by the still unfamiliar reek of disinfectant and new plastic as the air lock finished cycling, and the inner door finally opened.

The corpsman was one of the last members of the ground team to return to the ship, having remained behind to tend the colonists as they slowly began to recover from the effects of the Thorian's mind control. It had made for an even longer ending to an already long day.

Shepard had initially insisted on staying to help, but the Nick had been rather insistent that she return to the ship. When the commander had emerged from the underground chamber grumbling about a headache and appearing more than a little punch drunk, his immediate concern had been a brain injury. The medic, understandably worried that perhaps the redhead had demolished a significant portion of her useful braincells when she'd set off her little homemade bomb, had been prepared to bodily his commanding officer back to the Normandy's medbay regardless of her protests. Fortunately, Garrus had intervened.

Admittedly, with his ears still ringing from the earlier explosion, Vandas had only made out about three-fourths of the turian's explanation and a good quarter of that had sounded like absolute nonsense. Suffice to say, the enlisted man hadn't exactly had a complete picture of the situation.

Apparently, Shepard's team had found or, perhaps, had been given... well, something in the chamber. That was the part that had been nonsense, and unfortunately it hadn't become any clearer when the C-Sec officer had tried to explain—in the end, the medic had just nodded like he understood. What had been rather clear is that whatever it was they'd found was important. It was what Saren had come to Feros in search of, and finding it meant their mission was a success.

Garrus had then more or less grabbed their woozy commander by the scruff of the neck, carting her back to the ship and directly to Doctor Chakwas for evaluation. Nickeli had also been curtly introduced to Shiala, an asari who had, up until very recently, been in the employ of Saren Arterius. The commando had, apparently, had a change of heart, and had volunteered to stay at Zhu's Hope to help with recovery efforts. To say that Vandas was wary of being sent back to the colony in her company was an understatement, to say the least, but he had his orders. Still, despite his suspicion of her, the medic had found she was easy to work with, if rather somber.

The work had mostly consisted of simply keeping an eye on everyone as they recovered and distributing the cases of bottled water that the ship's supply detail had hauled ashore, but there had also been the grim task of placing Fai Dan into a body bag and transporting him to the morgue nearby.

Somehow, it had been easier to do alongside a stranger—Nick hadn't tried to explain, and Shiala hadn't tried to ask. Though he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, the young corpsman was grateful.

Still, it had all gone smoothly enough—the wounded colonists aboard the ship had been transferred back to the clinic under the watchful eye of a security team, and most of the settlers, while dazed, didn't seem to be suffering any serious side effects from the Thorian's destruction.

Packing up the last of his gear, Nickeli had been happy to pass along word that the SSV Mombasa would arrive in a few days' time with additional aid. While Zhu's Hope may've been forced to weather the geth attack without help, they wouldn't be left alone in the aftermath.

Vandas started, quickly sidestepping to avoid colliding with Navigator Pressly as he made his rounds, catching a glare from the man. He offered a quick, almost apologetic salute to the deck officer, realizing he'd been completely oblivious as he trudged across the command deck. He knew he should probably be mortified at the prospect of nearly bowling over a superior officer, but he was largely too tired to care.

Combat was always exhausting.

An afternoon of sporadic firefights out with the geth was far more bearable than a three-day running gunbattle with insurgents in the Afghan countryside, but the rush of battle had faded hours ago and been replaced by the general ache and weariness from fighting all day weighed down by his body armor and equipment.

Speaking of, his gear would need a thorough cleaning—the air shower had blown most of the dust and soot off of him, but a decent amount still hid in the furrows of his under suit and clung to his armor where the sticky, black blood of the Thorian's thralls stained it. Scrubbing off the grit and dried gore wasn't a task he particularly looked forward to, but it wasn't something he could put off.

Still, the medic was quickly recognizing some of the advantages being posted aboard a warship had over being station at a firebase—there was definitely something appealing about returning from a mission to good chow, hot showers, and a bed he didn't have to worry about scrambling out of in the dead of night to dodge mortar fire.

Unfortunately, he had a few things to get out of the way, first; like reporting to Chakwas, cleaning and stowing his gear, and explaining to the armory that the brand new M7A4 the Navy had issued him less than a week ago was currently resting in a bottomless pit alongside the corpse of an ancient hivemind the size of tank. He expected the latter conversation would be especially interesting.

His boots drummed heavily against the stairs down to the second deck. Williams was the sole occupant of the lounge, sitting at one of the tables with a portable computer set up in front of her. The gunnery chief glanced up from the conversation she'd been having with someone on the other end of an extranet call, regarding the corpsman with a nod before turning back to her laptop. From what little Nick could overhear, it sounded like she was talking to a family member, likely a sibling.

Vandas quickly ran a hand through his hair, trying vainly to make himself look less sweaty and exhausted than he felt. Entering the infirmary, he was surprised to discover he wasn't the only one worse for wear after the Normandy's time on Feros.

"Doctor!"

Chakwas was working quietly at her desk and had looked up at the sound of the door opening, giving the corpsman a good look at the vivid red blotch over one eye that had begun to darken into an ugly black eye. The physician looked momentarily startled at the Nickeli's outburst, but quickly regained her composure.

"Oh, I'm fine. One of the colonists got out of hand, is all." The woman assured, waving him away dismissively. Indicating to a small ceramic cup of what appeared to be tea sitting on her desk beside an icepack, she smiled softly, seeming touched by the young marine's concern. "Another cup or two of this and I'll be quite alright, no need to worry."

It took a few moments for Vandas to process all of this, but he finally began to relax, surveying the rest of the infirmary.

The place was a mess—between the cots, a cart of medical supplies had overturned, scattering instruments and packaging across the deck. Half-empty bags of saline still hung from their hooks, a few slowly dripping onto the floor. Nothing seemed to be seriously damaged, but it was obvious that the doctor's version of events was more than a little understated.

Regardless, it would take a few hours to clean up the mess and get the medical bay back into working order. As the junior half of the ship's medical team, the task naturally for to Nick.

With a sigh, the medic set his helmet down on a nearby exam table and got to work.

…

…

The Normandy's galley was bustling with activity, the long line of hungry crewman that snaked through the seating area making it difficult for Nickeli to navigate the narrow aisles with his tray of food. The sounds of conversation and shuffling feet drown out the hiss of griddles and the metallic clamor of pots and pans as the mess personnel worked feverishly, preparing breakfast on an almost industrial scale.

After passing along what little he'd found out regarding the bizarre Thorian spores he'd come across planetside, Chakwas had quickly dismissed him. Much of the medbay was still thoroughly trashed after a security team had stormed in to subdue the colonists, but apparently the doctor hadn't felt the presence of a sweaty, exhausted corpsman in dust-covered combat gear was helping the situation.

Not that Vandas minded all that much—it had given him the opportunity to deal with his gear and take a badly needed shower. Most of the mess would doubtlessly still be waiting on him when he returned to duty, but at least he had a full two watches before he'd have to report back to the infirmary.

After spending nearly ten-hours ashore, the ground team had returned just before the start of morning watch, as one shift hurried to eat before reporting to their posts. As a result, it had been a race for Nick to hastily clean his equipment and beat the rush.

The disparity between time aboard the ship and the day-night cycle of Feros was something the corpsman was still trying to reconcile in his head. Though accustomed to dawn patrols and raids launched in the dead of night, spending an afternoon fighting in broad daylight only to return to find it was "morning" aboard the Normandy was actually a bit surreal.

"Doc! Over here."

Turning his head, Nickeli found Amelia sitting with a couple of his fellow marines in one of the nearby booths, and the sergeant quickly waved him over.

The medic returned her greeting with a nod, quietly amused. When he'd initially been assigned to Two-Two after completing training, his unit had been in Afghanistan for almost a full month and a half before he'd acquired his ubiquitous moniker—it was interesting that Scarpasky had wasted no time assigning it to him.

The sapper scooted over when the corpsman neared, elbowing Tolo in the side to get him to make more room. The rifleman rolled his eyes but obliged, sliding closer to the wall and making enough space on the end for Nick to sit.

Brice sat on the opposite side of the table, pausing halfway through a bite of his omelet to greet the medic with a nod. Slouching slightly and with one arm draped back into the empty booth behind him, the machine gunner filled almost the entire narrow bench by himself. Though, given the man's size, Vandas suspected there wouldn't be enough space for anyone to sit beside him regardless of how he sat.

The rest of the team had returned to the Normandy a few hours before Nickeli, giving them ample opportunity to shower and change into fresh fatigues before returning to their duties around the ship. By contrast, the corpsman had thrown on the uniform he'd been wearing before first changing into his armor in order to beat the watch change.

The corpsman dug his fork into the pile of scrambled eggs before him, content to eat and half-listen as the others talked, nodding occasionally to assure them he was listening when someone glanced his way. The conversation wandered between topics largely at random, as any discussion between marines was wont to do; reflections on the mission on Feros, thoughts about the equipment they had and that they wanted. Tolo tried to start a debate on who the most attractive female member of the crew was and Vandas was quietly intrigued that Amy immediately countered with her own opinion, but the subject was quickly quashed by Brice, who asserted that it wasn't proper dinner table conversation.

Tolo objected and retorted with an equally inappropriate remark that earned him an elbow in ribs courtesy of Amy, but reluctantly dropped the topic.

Nick simply listened, picking away at his breakfast.

Even without much to say, the familiar company of his fellow marines was enjoyable in of itself.

It reminded him of his old platoon, the one he'd been with before he'd been wounded. They had been slated to rotate back to the States only a few weeks after he'd been evacuated, but he hadn't gotten any word about how things had gone in his absence. Aside from Aaron, the last time he'd seen any of them was while being hustled into the back of a medivac helicopter with a shattered left arm. He'd lost touch with a lot of good friends after his stint in the hospital.

After countless months of surgeries and physical therapy, the medic remembered being livid after finding out he'd been relegated to a maintenance company in an entirely different regiment. Two-Two had been like family to him—after nearly a year of fighting alongside them, every man in that battalion was his brother.

But the Corps didn't care—he was one corpsman among thousands. He'd been shipped to a unit on the other side of the country, and had never seen most of them again. Eight months after that, he'd been shipped back to Afghanistan to push papers in a supply outpost located in the middle of bumfuck nowhere surrounded by marines he hardly knew.

It didn't matter anymore, Nick had decided. His regiment, Afghanistan, even the Corps—it was all ancient history now.

Back when he'd been in custody on the Citadel, he'd spent his time reading up on human history, trying to fill in the blanks, but he'd stayed away from anything too close to his own time. He hadn't looked for anything on Afghanistan, or on the outcome of the war. As far as he was concerned, it didn't serve any purpose to go looking and dig up something better left buried—he was just better off not knowing.

When he'd been re-deployed to Paladin, the official line was that the insurgency was in its death throes and entire conflict would be turned over to government forces in two years' time. For better or worse, the details didn't matter—the war was over and had been for a long time. Honestly, he didn't care how it had turned out—or he didn't want to care, at least.

"Doc?"

The corpsman glanced up midway through a sip of coffee and found Amy looking intently at him. He'd zoned out and had absolutely no idea what she'd said, but given her expression, the sapper seemed to be waiting on some kind of answer from him. "Uh, sorry, what?"

The sergeant chuckled. "I asked you if you were alright. You looked like you were a million miles away just down."

Yeah, a million miles and a hundred-and-seventy years. The words escaped his lips as a sigh. "Just tired."

"Well, get some rest. We get started whipping your ass into a shape tomorrow." Amy stated with a lopsided smirk. She placed a hand on his mostly empty tray, jerking her head in the direction of the sleeping quarters. "Go ahead, I've got this."

Rising stiffly from the booth, Nickeli nodded his thanks, starting in the direction of the barracks. Sleep sounded great right about now, and even better, a few hours of shut-eye would clear his head; dwelling on the past had never done him any good, and there was already enough to worry about in the present.

By the time he made it into the crew quarters and found his berth, he was already half-dead on his feet at the very idea of sleep. Hauling himself into his bunk, he rolled onto his side and was asleep before he could even pull off his boots.

…

…

Thirty-six.

Thirty-seven.

Thirty... six?

Nickeli paused at the bottom of his rep, resting the bar across his chest as he strained for a moment to remember what number he was on. All he knew for sure was that this thing was getting heavy.

"Come on, you lift like my babushka." Amy spat with faux ire as she stood over him with her arms folded, the word rolling smoothly off her tongue. Given the woman's fondness for her mother tongue, at this rate Nick would be learning quite a lot of Ukranian—or, a lot of the interesting bits, anyway.

With a labored puff, he lifted the bar once again. He'd stripped down to the black athletic shirt he wore beneath his blouse, the tight garment hugging the muscled form of his torso as he exercised.

It had been three days since the Normandy had departed Feros, though Vandas wasn't kept in the loop well enough to know where they were or where they were heading. He could've gone up to the command deck to find out, but not knowing suited him just fine. Things had been quiet, and he was taking the opportunity to develop routine.

His duties in the medbay weren't particularly exciting, but at least they were familiar enough. Mainly, he'd been trying to keep busy during his off-duty hours. At the moment, that mostly consisted of familiarizing himself with his equipment and working out until he was too exhausted to think, then collapsing into bed.

Though Williams had formally been placed in charge of his retraining, the gunnery chief had delegated his physical conditioning to Scarpasky, a task the sapper had taken to with almost troubling enthusiasm. Despite the sergeant's apparent fondness for the corpsman, she was by no means taking it easy on him—he hadn't been worked this hard since the run-up to his first deployment.

Completing another rep, Nickeli felt a twinge in his left arm as he eased the barbell downward, but pressed on. While far from out of shape, he'd spent the better part of a year laid up in a military hospital in Germany getting his arm pinned back together, and he'd lost a fair bit of muscle mass in the interim. Weeks of physical therapy meant he had good range of motion in his arm, but he'd still been working on getting his strength back when his unit had been deployed.

His fireteam leader observed silently, carefully watching for any sign that she needed to step in. Flashing her a wide, somewhat strained grin, Vandas raised the weight upward once more, though the growing tremble in his arms and the sweat soaking into his black, form-fitting undershirt was growing hard to ignore.

While the Normandy's crew were all in good shape, as was expected of them as Alliance personnel, Nick made no exaggeration when he said that all of the other marines aboard were in superb physical condition; they ran farther, hit harder, and moved faster than anyone he'd met during his time as an infantry marine. They were practically Olympic athletes in combat armor. Obviously, it wasn't just a matter of a protein-heavy diet and rigorous exercise—the gene therapy they'd undergone when they'd enlisted gave them—amongst other things—dense, more powerful muscle tissue and red blood cells that transported oxygen more efficiently than the average civilian. They weren't exactly superhuman, but as far as Vandas was concerned, they were pretty close.

With the injections he'd received while at the Irin Center, the corpsman would enjoy the same enhancements... in about two- or three-years' time. Until then, he'd have to keep up the hard way.

The barbell settled back into its rack with a heavy clank, and Nickeli's arms fell limply onto his stomach as he took a moment to catch his breath. One of the benefits of being a corpsman working in the medbay was ready access to supplies—with Doctor Chakwas' blessing, the marines had access to all the oxygen, saline, and ice they could ever need. At the moment, it was one of the few reasons he was surviving his new workout regime.

Something prodded Nick's shoulder.

"Come on, you can't sleep here." Amy laughed, and the medic was suddenly aware that he'd nearly dozed off on the weight bench.

Rocking back a bit to gain some momentum, the marine stiffly hauled himself to his feet, failing to stifle a yawn as he used his shirt to wipe-away the sweat beading on his forehead. Christ, the sapper would work him to death in month at this rate.

Consulting his omni-tool, the medic gave a thoughtful grunt. He still had a half a watch before he had to report to for duty. Caroline was off-duty and would likely be asleep in "his" rack, but he could probably find somewhere to snooze for a bit...

As if on cue, the sharp, electronic whistle of the boatswain's call crackled over the hangar's intercom, calling the ship to attention for an impending announcement. A moment later, the CIC chief spoke. "Marine and ground team personnel report to the hangar for briefing, security team Red muster to forward airlock for assignment. All hands, alert two. Alert two."

Nick frowned, starting for his locker on the far side of the hangar.

So much for his nap.

A/N: Well, not a lot of excitement this chapter, but I think it's good story and character progress-I hope you agree. Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think of things so far.