“You can’t do that!” The medic shouted.
“What do you mean I can’t do that?” He shouted right back. Spirits damn it, these humans were so thick. Maybe Saren was right for once. “It’s a perfectly good plan!”
“Look, you dumbass, you can’t put seventeen fucking incendiary bullets into someone and expect us to be able to fix him! He’s got one in his neck, for fuck’s sake! He’s got three in his lungs–“
“Four,” the female medic examining their contact added cooly.
“Four! Do you know what thermal paste does to alveoli? Do you? Well, it destroys them and they stay destroyed! Even goddamn krogan can’t regenerate that quickly!”
Nihlus looked behind him, hoping to catch Saren’s eye and share a mutual emotion for once. Surely he should’ve stepped in by now? Sure he could see how unreasonable the medics were being? But he didn’t seem to be paying attention; he was glancing out the panoramic window absently, of all things. Nihlus turned back to the disaster at hand. “Listen. If it’s a matter of materials, we’ve got a rover. We can be there and back, no problem. Just try it. It’s gotta work.”
“–and I don’t want to talk about the nervous system–” the male medic paused. “No. He’s crippled at best. Do you understand? He’ll be a vegetable even if we manage to work a miracle. And dumping him in a case of medi–“
“Simply put,” the woman interjected, “you would achieve similar results by dumping him in a vat of hair gel.” She shook her head. “Vitals dropping still.”
Nihlus was just about to reply before Saren’s gruff voice told him to shut the fuck up and get over here, in his impeccably polite way, of course. When he did, he wanted to say a few choice words about not using that intimidating mug of his when it would’ve helped the most. One glance at his dreadful expression, though, and what came out of his mouth was:
“What in the galaxy is hair gel?”