13 – Old Wounds

"Stack up," commanded Gorman. He and Zaz approached, and began leaning into the far wall of the complex. The Commander took a deep breath. Finally, something his years of training remotely prepared him for. He held up a fist with his left hand, the Lancer in the right.

"Huh?" Zaz remarked. Gorman twisted his helmet back and the fist turned into a finger over his lips. "Sorry," she whispered, likely unsure of why they're being subtle now after killing ten criminals and turning half of their base into rubble. Truthfully it was because after a scarring episode like the battle for Mavigon turned into, a SWAT team entry procedure was Gorman's idea of relaxation.

Slowly and methodically, Gorman and his rifle peered around the door. He held up one finger, then placed his hand on his right arm. He crept forward, twisting around and entering. Zaz followed behind him.

Their rifles were immediately lowered. This was the living quarters, and, as Zaz once implied, the room was overflowing with enough bunks for a battalion. Gorman wondered where those 'krogan' could possibly sleep, given how massive and cumbersome they looked. It brought a small comfort to know that even aliens need a nap from time to time. The one Gorman had spotted, the one bleeding out on the floor, familiar blade at its side, had not come here to nap but to die.

"Y…You," it spat, blood trickling from its mouth and gaping wounds across its torso. The Commander recognized his own handiwork too – a 9mm-shaped hole right where the collarbone should be on a human. "Can't you let me die in peace?"

"We need proof you're dead," Zaz bluntly stated.

"And you, Zephyr?" it spluttered.

"What's it talking about, Zaz?"

Zaz grabbed her Lancer more firmly and in one swift motion placed a bullet right in the middle of the batarian's four eyes. Its deep voice would rasp no more. She bent down, and after some struggling, plucked off its armored gauntlet to reveal more green skin and a metallic bracelet. She tugged it off too, and showed it to the Commander.

"There's our proof. Captain Chen will want to see it."

Gorman didn't say a word. A disapproving glare was all he was willing to give – not to the bracelet, but to its holder. There would be stern words later, he was counting on it, but their work was not done. He walked out of the living quarters, Zaz following behind, and pointed to the base's last unexamined doorway.

"Stack up."

They fell into position at the door-side. It was firmly closed, the green light that had accompanied every passageway was a restrictive red instead.

However, their ears were not deceiving them – muffled, undiscernible voices were coming from beyond. The base's last defenders were within.

"Do we really need to go in there?" Zaz asked. She was really pushing her luck now.

"Why not? Worried we'll run into more of your friends?" sighed the Commander.

"It's not that," Zaz attempted to explain. "It's just…they're well defended in there. This base is history, they won't survive a full day in these conditions."

"You're willing to take that chance?"

Zaz pressed a hand to her helmet's side.

"Hey, Kabiru. We need you to blast something open for us. Can you-"

Suddenly a voice broke through the murmurs beyond the door, catching Gorman's attention.

"Hey! Is someone out there! I need help!" It wailed at a much higher pitch than anything or anyone they'd yet encountered out here. It had a human-like accent, although somewhat synthesized, like it was playing from a speaker. It could easily be a trap…but the thought of leaving an innocent behind was never an option for Gorman.

"Don't shoot, Kalu!" the Commander overruled. "We've got a hostage in here!"

"There's a batarian and a turian in here with me. They've got guns!" shouted the light voice again.

"Shut it!" came a deeper, gruffer voice from within.

Zaz leant towards the door herself to try and hear what was going on.

"Damn, you're right!" she gasped. "What do we do?"

"You were on the right track," Gorman began. He meandered over to the remains of the chest-high wall that had protected him from a flurry of gunfire earlier. Lying in a pool of frozen blood was a metal disc with a button on it. "Just need something a bit…smaller." Together Gorman and Zaz planted one of the tables lying around a safe distance away from the door, and ducked behind it. The Commander pressed the disc's button, hurled it at the door, and held his head down.

A bang rocked the table briefly off the ground. Shouts of indignation came from beyond the doorway…and were much clearer.

"Let's rock," the Commander declared.

Gorman and Zaz hurdled the table and advanced towards the door. A four-eyed figure leaned out – its last mistake. Two Lancers tore through its chest plate, but not before a blue ripple shattered around it.

As Gorman entered the doorway, he had realized his own mistake too late. There was a tall, lanky figure with V-shaped armor and a comet-shaped helmet inside next to a set of control panels. The figure was inside and insulated – its shields were back. Gorman held down the trigger – the strangely shaped alien did so too. For a moment, the two exchanged point-blank fire for longer than a duel at this range had any right to.

A smashing sound was heard.

The Commander's barrier broke first.

Red-hot rounds ripped through his armor and slammed him against the wall. He yelled out. It was only Zaz's arrival that stopped any more hurt, as she finished off the last defender with her own close-range fire and a cobalt fireball of a left hook.

The punch landed – its visor shattered. The figure's quick-freezing face cried out, and it plummeted head-first onto the floor like a felled tree.

Gorman's heart was pounding, his body was aching, a needle was in his back and gel was oozing in three or maybe four different spots across his chest. Above all, he still felt cold. He slid down the wall, head drooping low.

"Shit! Kevin, stay with me!" Zaz was quick to kneel beside him. She looked around frantically at the damage. "Your suit should still have Kabiru's medi-gel," she guessed, raising the Commander's left arm. An orange holographic display appeared. Gorman coughed out a chuckle. He had that omni-tool on him the whole time?

"Uh, um, let me see," she hurriedly breezed through its menus. "Come on…" Her brown eyes were darting back and forth. "Where the hell is it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gorman spotted a teal-colored figure emerging from behind the control panels. He had enough strength to point, and get Zaz's attention towards it.

"Oh Keelah," the high-pitched voice spoke with apprehension, noticing the Commander's current state. "I can take a look – I mean, if you think it will help."

Zaz herself was caught off guard, something about the hostage surprised her.

"Are you a… Yes! Yes, please do! I'll go radio for help, get our ship down here for evac."

She ran off, leaving the hostage to tap away at the display on Gorman's arm. In short order they navigated to the right place, before the orange disappeared from view. This was all the Commander could glean – his vision was starting to get particularly blurry. He tried raising his head to get a better look at his new friend but the neck muscles refused to comply. Instead he was staring at a blood-splattered metal floor and a pair of black boots in teal stockings. That's funny, he thought, his fuzzy vision was making it look like they had two big toes and one little toe for each boot.

"Your suit's smarter than she thought, you've already got as much medi-gel as you can handle," the hostage remarked. "Just keep calm, that's the important thing. The relaxants will do half of it for you, but you need to believe you're going to be fine too. Trust me, I've seen worse. Could have been a puncture."

Gorman concentrated on breathing. He had to prove that he was better than that batarian – he wanted to live, needed to live. The blood-red visions of the beacon flashed before him. The fate of everything was potentially depending on him. He'd barely gotten started.

"So…your name's Kevin?" the hostage questioned. Their accent was definitely hard to place.

The Commander thought better than to waste precious energy enunciating a reply. He gave the smallest nod imaginable.

"Cool name. Mine's Saal'Inor."

Faintly, a low rumbling could be heard. The hostage glanced out the doorway.

"Is that your ship? It looks…interesting. And I suppose that there is your tank, too?"

Another small nod.

"Sorry for shooting at it earlier. Those batarians wanted me to fire the turrets as soon as you came into view up the hill. I hope your driver isn't angry, I tried to miss it."

Footsteps, closer and closer until another pair of boots came into view.

"Did you figure out the gel?" inquired Zaz.

"He's as stable as it can make him."

"Good. Great, even. Let's get him into the ship. You take one side, I'll take the other."

The Commander's body ached profusely as he was hoisted upwards. He tried to drag himself along, but in his tired mind he remembered something important. He tried desperately to wriggle his arms and point back the way they came.

"Left…Walther…" he croaked.

"Easy, Commander," assured Zaz. She pressed on the side of her helmet again. "Pierre, can you warm the ship up for us?"

They continued ahead, now out of the base and into the snow.

"How?" Zaz continued. "Just keep firing, that's how."

A loud bang might have hurt the Commander's ears, but it was a nice distraction for the senses. Several more followed. The snow underfoot shook as they stepped. Somewhere on the ship, a certain pilot was giddily picking out imaginary targets on nearby hills. The Bluntnose's engine revved up again, and it trundled up into the ship.

Snow turned to ramp, and the next upward steps became easier and easier as sweet, sweet warmth returned. It felt amazing. So good, in fact, that Gorman was getting sleepy. He shut his eyes for a second. That was all it took, and to the sound of thundering gunfire he drifted away.

Time passed.

Thoughts wandered by the Commander's mind.

Was he the first SWAT team alumni ever to be shot by an alien? Probably.

He thought about the one that finally got him, tall with the oddly shaped armor. He hadn't put two and two together until now – it was a turian. White had predicted that turians were bad news. How right he was.

But the pilot's name wasn't White, was it? Pierre Blanc! Of all things, how could that have gone over his head for so long? Why didn't anyone tell him sooner? Even Gorman's rudimentary knowledge of the language should have been able to figure that out. He shouldn't blame himself, really, but his outdated translator instead.

And what about Zaz? If a criminal knows your name that's usually not a good sign. She had no qualms about taking care of the syndicate's ringleader, though. Gorman knew a thing or two about putting one's past behind them – it's all he could do in his situation now that the Walther had left him.

One by one, his senses came around like a computer rebooting. A dull hum, a dim light, motion stillness as opposed to sickness. Back aboard a ship for sure. His eyes gently opened. His vision was still blurry and he dared not move, but he could make out a gun-metal grey room and his current position, namely underneath a blanket on a bed. He chanced a look down at his body to find a turtleneck. Not the one he was last wearing, interestingly, but the Alliance regulation spec. It was rolled up to reveal a pair of thick grey bandages, wrapped around his chest and waist. Naturally – he'd been shot there. What therefore drew his curiosity was a similar wrap around his left forearm. He hadn't the strength to move it, but shifting his head on a pillow to look at it drew his attention to the rest of the room.

Where was this on the Shackleton? He never had the time to snoop around every corner but there was hardly enough space for a medical bay like the one he was in now. Countertops and shelves of various medicines and devices came into view. Some instruments looked more like welding equipment than anything Gorman would have normally found in a doctor's or dentist's office. At the bedside was a canister labeled 'Medi-Gel', which took up its own transparent locker. A whole keg of the stuff could probably sedate him for another century and a half. Illegible posters and guidelines were plastered all over the walls. Gorman squinted. Across from the other bed was a doorway, and next to it, some seating arrangements. There was something distinctly teal-colored in one of the seats…or rather, someone.

Their legs were crossed and head dozing off much like he was a moment ago, but after a brief glance they practically jumped out of their seat.

"You're awake!" they happily squeaked, almost tripping over themselves in delight as they made their way bedside.

This was Gorman's best glimpse of the former hostage yet. 'Her' outline was feminine, a tight teal and black outfit highlighted wide hips and wide thighs, but also a wide gap between them. She had long, shoulder-length hair that curled forward towards her collar…or was it a hood? There were black straps and belts along her arms and across her chest, supporting several small utility pouches. The Commander wondered why she was still wearing armor if they were on a ship, given enough time had passed for him to get changed. He tried to see her expression, but there was none. Instead all he found was a blurry, orange-tinted visor partially covered at the top by the hood and at the bottom by a breather with a little round light. When she spoke again, it glowed orange too.

"Take it slow, Kevin. You were out for a while."

"Saal'Inor?" Gorman's mind recalled.

"Yes!" she bounced up and down with exclamation. "Y-you saved my life, down on Mavigon."

"And you helped save mine."

"You took a bullet for a complete stranger!" she laughed. There was still a slightly synthesized filter to her voice, but it couldn't hide her happiness and gratitude. "Several bullets, actually. You have no idea how much that means to me."

"It comes with the job."

"I hope they pay you well, then!" she chuckled. "Thank you, Kevin, I mean it. I wish everyone was as selfless as you humans."

Gorman's heart skipped a beat. Just what exactly did she mean by that? She couldn't be…

"Why are you wearing your helmet inside?" he spluttered.

"Huh?"

Gorman shook his head. His vision was finally sharpening up. He looked up, expecting the blur to have lifted and to be finally able to put a face to the voice. A visor, a breather and a cowl were clear as crystal – but the face was still concealed behind a thick orange tint. If anything, he could barely make out two white almonds for eyes and the bridge of a nose somewhere within. That was it. In fact, he couldn't see anything resembling skin anywhere else. She was completely insulated in a suit that was decorated with intricate teal and black patterns from head to toe. Speaking of, he cautiously leaned forward. Sure enough he spotted three toes, but that wasn't all. The 'stockings' were bent like a dog's legs, unnaturally backwards. Unnatural for a human, but not for…

Gorman recoiled back from the creature, deep into his pillow, hands finally raised in instinctive self-defense.

"You've never met a quarian before either?" She folded her arms and tilted her head. There were three fingers on each hand.

"Q-Quarian?" Gorman stuttered.

"Oh," she gave a heavy sigh loaded with thinly veiled disappointment. Her bubbly introduction had faded away.

"I'm…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend," Gorman attempted to correct. He was finding it quite difficult to get any words out, much less the right ones. To be in the same room as an alien, let alone speak to one, still went against every human instinct he had. Everything he knew and everything he could have known back in 2013 did little to adequately prepare for this. "Until recently, I'd never even heard of quarians."

She perked up ever so slightly.

"Never even heard of us?"

"Every alien I've met has tried to kill me. But you're…different. You're a friendly alien."

"This 'alien' has a name."

Gorman shook his head again, as if would shake away his mistake as well.

"Saal'Inor, sorry. What I'm trying to say…I mean, what I mean is…it's really good to properly meet you."

She paused to consider for a moment – and laughed again. Her orange 'mouth' light blinked on and off a few times.

"You have a funny accent. It's not like the other humans."

Gorman was shocked and appalled that anti-Bostonian sentiments still ran deep, even in the farthest reaches of space and among other sapient species.

"I take it you…don't want to kill me, then?"

"Most species get along these days, believe it or not," she explained. "Some individuals are narrow-minded…" Her buoyant tone sank – this was experience talking. "…And some are dangerously so, but sometimes it depends where you go. We both know where you don't want to end up." She was referring, of course, to a certain frozen planet.

The door at the other end of the room opened up, and in stepped a human – what a strange feeling it was for Gorman to not be sure at first. It was no member of the Shackleton's crew, instead a sturdy-built redheaded woman clad in white and gray medical garb. At her lapel was the Alliance insignia, and sewn into her upper arms were orange patches. She looked up from a translucent tablet to see the room's occupants, and gave a stern look.

"How long has the patient been up?" she addressed the quarian in a thick, gravelly accent of her own.

"Well…a few minutes?"

"And didn't I tell you to alert me immediately once the patient came around?"

"I'll go tell your crew," Saal'Inor turned back to the Commander. "They'll be so relieved to hear you're awake!" She gave a curt nod to the medic and skipped out of the infirmary. Gorman couldn't help but gaze at those strange legs as she left.

"She seems happy," observed the doctor. "Always admired how quarians can be that way after all that happened to them." She stopped to reflect.

"Where am I, doc?" Gorman finally asked. He made to shift the blanket off so he could get moving, but the doctor was quicker and pushed it back down.

"My name is Doctor Ella Vermeulen. You're aboard the SSV Antwerp," she finally smiled. "About twelve hours ago, we received a distress call in the Han system from a former Flight Lieutenant. Quite a miracle, actually – one of your crew had to lock on to a comm buoy's frequency when it was light-years away and prioritized for top military chatter."

Now it was Gorman's turn to smile. The Doctor put their pad on the bedside locker and their hands behind their back.

"You were in rough shape when you came aboard. Seven bullet wounds, hot and cold burn marks, shrapnel – and that's with the extra protection your armor afforded you. Usually nothing we can't handle, but the Captain and I are…frankly a little curious about some of your injuries."

"Ask away, Doc."

"Five of the seven bullet wounds are as standard as they get, you serve on a warship with marines long enough and you'll recognize what counts for 'normal'. Right here, here, here, here and here," she pointed out the precise spots underneath Gorman's chest and waist bandages where the turian had lit him up, as well as that lucky hit he'd taken falling back from a charging krogan. "However, and this is what puzzles me, we have the wounds here and here."

She then pointed to a spot to the right of the Commander's stomach and another at the top of his left shoulder. Gorman stifled a laugh. He knew exactly what was coming.

"I understand that these are old wounds? I scanned these two, no, three times each, and the damage is inconsistent with every modern weapon in our database. And then there was this." She scanned the shelf above the locker, picking out a transparent container that held a shiny, stunted metal pellet. She presented it to the Commander, swirling the bullet around with a dumbfounded expression on her face. "Nine millimeter? They stopped making these a century ago. In all my years as a medical professional…"

"Been meaning to get that removed one of these days. Thanks."

All he received in response was a gaping mouth and eyebrow raised.

"Let's move on," she sighed, glad to continue, placing the bullet back on the shelf. "You've been slacking on your essentials, Commander. No subdermal translator? No omni-tool? No anti-radiation boosters? I've seen Corporals with more cutting-edge hardware."

"Can you give me any of those?" Gorman gambled.

"Can I? I already have. I've been speaking Flemish Dutch this whole time."

The Commander almost jumped. He raised a hand to his ear to find no earpiece. He braved another glance to his left forearm, and the suspicious bandage on it. His first thought was that he was now going to set off airport metal detectors. The Doctor noticed his reaction, the other eyebrow raised.

"It works. Go ahead."

With supreme caution he raised the arm. He bent it in, and out, but nothing happened. Then Vermeulen tapped a sweet spot just below the wrist. A bright orange holographic display lit up their surroundings. No matter where Gorman moved his arm, the screens and their various menus always seemed to face him. He didn't know where to look first. The still unbelievable date and time in the corner? The 'extranet' browser? Whatever an omni-gel converter was? Before he could make up his mind, the doctor switched it off with another gentle tap.

"Now that we've got you back to baseline, it's time to ask the question: How are you feeling, Commander?"

He wanted to say 'Overwhelmed', he really did, but a psychological evaluation was another obstacle he didn't desire to have to go through right now. He needed to get back to his crew.

"Feeling better."

"Is that so?" Dr. Vermeulen posed. "While you were unconscious, our brain scans detected some…abnormalities. Your beta waves were acting erratically. In layman's terms…don't take this the wrong way, but have you been having any nightmares recently?"

"Nightmares?" Gorman repeated. The first answer to come to his mind was an obvious yes. The visions a device now known to be a prothean beacon gave to him were still very much present. Looming over him, just as its perceived threat loomed over everyone. He really needed to get back to the crew. "Nothing you need to add to your report," he concluded.

The doctor hummed.

"Alright. It's been long enough. Baby steps, now – time to get on your feet again."

The wonders of medi-gel seemingly knew no bounds. A foot at a time, Gorman dismounted the bed with only half the aches and pains he expected. If anything, the most hurt was coming from the more recent 'additions' to his body. Dr. Vermeulen gave another proud smile at her handiwork, and reached for the shelf again to grab a small glass bottle. Inside were tiny pill-shapes of various colors. She held it in front of the Commander.

"Take one every six days for the next six months, preferably before you go to sleep. Problem should go away by your next check-up."

Gorman grasped the bottle, examining its contents. It looked like it was full of sprinkles. It was compact enough to fit in his trouser pocket.

"For the…nightmares?"

"No. For your early-onset Alzheimer's."

She stepped aside and opened the doorway. Gorman stood there, stunned into silence for a moment, and sauntered through to the other side.