There is a batarian lying at the edge of his vision. His face is full of surprise–and will be for the foreseeable future, since there is a steel I-beam protruding from his stomach and into the ceiling–or is it the other way around? Even ablative armour can’t handle that much momentum. Nihlus presses on.

There are two bodies lying face-down a little further along. They are either human or batarian; impossible to tell with their helmets on and a layer of white stone powder covering any and all distinguishing features. A large slab of concrete had knocked those two down. Perhaps they are still alive. But they don’t seem to be conscious, and the spinal damage must’ve been severe. Let sleeping mercs lie. Nihlus presses on.

A whole clawball-field-sized section of ceiling had caved in, revealing the underground hall to the gaze of the sun. Someone is sitting on top of the rubble–but he does not look that way for now (the sun gets in his eyes, he swears this to be true), choosing instead to devote his attention to the single five-fingered hand emerging between chunks of high-density concrete and twisted metal bars. Despite the numerous scratches, the armour still appears new, a brilliant white and blue, a fresh coat applied mere weeks ago. A high voice, belting out a fighting tune above the din of the club. The barrel of an assault rifle is sticking out just beneath it. Nihlus stops. Stands quietly for a while.

“I said distraction. Not destruction.” He says, stressing each syllable.

Saren turns, looks up from whatever mod he was examining, and cocks an eye ridge. He jumps down from the pile–just two easy hops (damn, he always makes it look so easy, so elegant, so fucking graceful)– and he has a hand on Nihlus’ shoulder now. “What you asked for and more, Nihlus.”

He can feel it in those undertones. That didn’t quite reach the levels of jackshit insane I was hoping for. Yeah, I hear you, sir. Loud and clear. Damn it. “Fine. Just–” He pauses. “Just–“

“Just what?” I know your games, Kryik. You can’t hide. Don’t try.

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