[10] Contact

A figure of a pink-armoured krogan walked over to him and sat down on his cot. Its outline was as fuzzy as a, what was it, a cat? A tabby cat that had been recently washed and blow-dried.

“How are you doing?” It said. It now resembled a quarian wearing a cargo crate head-dress.

“Not good.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “Am I on the Fleet? Where are the girls?”

The figure that had recently morphed into a human in a Rachni suit extended one of its proboscises to his neck. He wanted to slap it away, but ended up digging his talons into the cot, piercing the polymer cover and prodding into the foam instead. The figure stabbed him. Then sat still and seemed to wait for his insides to turn into pulp before sucking him dry.

“Ow.” He said, one minute later.

The figure muttered something under its breath.

“Am I edible yet?”

The figure seemed to be resisting a strong urge to deck him. Its arm was trembling. That’s odd. It had turned into a turian in the meantime. Same as him. He thought so, anyway. “No. You’re a biohazard.”

“Oh, fuck.” He wiped the cold sweat from his cheeks, his chin. “Better show me my data sheets. Ha. So what reacted?”

“…Five, four, three, two…”

“What?” Followed closely by “FUCK!” as the figure stabbed him again. In the thigh this time. Well, at least it was creative.

“Next one in five minutes,” it said dispassionately. “And the answer is: ryncol, with two hallucinogens banned in Citadel space, one on its way to being banned, and mineral water of dubious origin.”

“Halloginnawhat?” He’d had the pink, star-stamped pills before. They were supposed to be uppers. And he hadn’t been drinking water. He was busy dancing–or was licking Thane, the young drell with the deadpan face who could probably hold a deadpan-est face contest with Saren and have a chance of winning. Oh fuckitty fuck.

“Drell excluded.”

“He was our contact, wasn’t he.”

“Yes.”

Nah. Saren would win that contest for sure. They’d give bonus points for barely-restrained rage.

“I’m gonna be spaced, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Just my lu–what?”

“I must follow proper disposal protocol,” Saren said as he sorted through a selection of increasingly horrifying needles. As if he needed to remind Nihlus that no, he was not joking. “Five more.”

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