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♥ hey how u doin lil mama

lemme whisper in ur ear ♥

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[ Mordin's been peripherally aware of the turian they call Archangel for some time now—mostly because he's usually one who ends up with various mercs bleeding and beating down his door. Unfortunately for them, Mordin's long left the business of playing nice, and at this point he's made it perfectly, dangerously clear that he will not be intimidated into compliance. Suffice it to say that Mordin's become a fan of Archangel's work. Enough of a fan, in fact, that small portions of the last months' stock of medi-gel have been known to find their way into his team's hands.

So it was probably only a matter of time before Archangel himself found his way here. Friendly territory.

As soon as one of his aides shows the bleeding turian into his exam room, he knows. Tells Daniel to attend to the next few patients—it's late in Omega's manufactured night cycle, which usually means a merciful lull—and seals the door behind him. ]

Remove armor, take seat quickly. Heard gunfire nearby; Tempest-type, five-round burst. Guessing Eclipse. Marked increase in activity lately, suspect change in leadership structure. Direct hit? [ A pause for breath. ] Did the bullet pass through?

To their leadership structure?

[He's trying to grasp a train of thought as the salarian talks, and talks, and talks. That's a lot of words, all in a rush. And then he realizes that the direct hit question is about him and not what he's done to Eclipse, and that makes everything make more sense.

Garrus unfastens the seals of his armor, getting it off to the side with a quickly cut-off hiss of pain and taking a seat as instructed.]

Yeah. Lucky shot, direct, pretty certain it's clean through.

[After all, something wet was on his back and turians didn't sweat much at all.]

Shouldn't be too serious. It's just beyond what I can treat. And it hurts like hell.

[His gaze lingers on the sealed door for a moment before switching back to the salarian. The doctor's supposed to be good people. This should be worth the risk. There's nothing to suggest he's in danger here.]

[ And he won't be, provided he behaves himself. That's always been the doctor's position. He flits around and behind the turian, keenly analyzing the blue-splotched holes in his carapace, front to back—first with eyes, then with the hum of what is clearly a highly tricked-out omni-tool. Like, this thing is modded to hell even by Omega standards, and not all of those mods are exactly... legal, in the strictest sense of the word. ]

Almost asked if you get shot often; remembered where we are. Everyone gets shot often. Still, surprised to see you here. Reputation precedes you.

[ It's said lightly. Almost casual. A second passes before the familiar cool spread of medi-gel melts over the exit wound. It's a higher grade for deeper wounds and it burns like nothing else while it does its work, but the pain should subside before long. Mordin assumes Archangel is used to a little pain. ]

Good news! No significant organ trauma. Missed kidney by less than a centimeter. Lucky shot indeed, but still discourage future firefights wherever possible. For a while.

[ He moves away after a moment, rifling through a cabinet of meds against the far wall before returning to Garrus with a couple innocuous lavender pills and a coffee mug filled halfway with water. He foists them on him without explanation, since it should be self-explanatory. Bullet wounds are usually uncomfortable, to say the least. ]

At least killed the merc, I hope.

[His reputation precedes him. Garrus is quiet aside from a quickly silenced grunt of pain as the burn kicks in, contemplating the salarian's words and actions. Doctor Solus clearly knows who he is. Or, at least, what Garrus is going by on the station. But the salarian's never been an ally of the mercs. He's fended them off, kept them from taking over the clinic or taking out any of his patients, and ushered Garrus back here before anyone else could figure out that it's Archangel who has just stumbled in.

There's a tiny bit of relaxation in Garrus' posture as he processes this info and accepts the pills. It's alright. The salarian knows, and it's still alright. And while the pain's not unbearable, and is even at the edge of something he could certainly go for under other circumstances, Garrus swallows the pills.

The almost-question gets a snort.]

As if we'd let any of them get away. It was slavers again, this time after the runaway population. And the ones that didn't show up to the ambush are gonna be seeking revenge, so I'm not sure how I'm gonna be avoiding fire fights.

[He can't send his people in and not be there with them. They're a team.]

I'll do my best, and I'm glad nothing's seriously messed up, but we're gonna have trouble headed our way in a day or two here. Soon as they get organized.

[And if the mercs were smart, they'd go and get the Blue Suns involved. Some of those slaves had been intended for the Suns. That'd mean more firepower for these remnants, and it could be a more complicated fight. But Garrus' squad would take care of them.]

Keep an eye out for the Suns. They're gonna be on edge here.

[The loss of a few slaves isn't going to really trip up the Suns, but they'd probably be a bit more touchy for a few days.]

What do I--ugh.

[He'd been stupid and hopped back up to his feet as if he'd be fine. Not even Chakwas was ever that fast. Garrus puts a hand out to stabilize himself as the blood loss decides to make itself known again and he blinks back the spots in his vision.]

Uh. Owe. What do I owe you?

[He's totally fine.]

[ When Archangel swoons, Mordin is on it with a snap of reflexes impressive even from a salarian, shoulder gliding forward to support his not-inconsiderable weight. Even through a glove, he can feel the heat rolling off the turian's body where he's supporting him, palm solid and fingers splayed over the narrowest part of his torso. Turians are like salarians; they run hot, particularly in the wake of deadly firefights.

It's a good thing that Archangel's doing. ]

Bedrest.

[ And he says that with a twist of his lips, like he knows full well that there's nothing he could demand that would be worse. ]

Can expect fever response to injury as it heals. Minor infection due to waiting, hasty application of omni-gel. Have done what I can for now, Should have come immediately after skirmish.

[ Being scolded by a doctor might be humiliating in every culture, who knows. ]

No need to worry about clinic. Safest place to be at present; choke points fortified by armed mechs. If Suns not already aware... [ Sniff. His cheer about it is maybe vaguely macabre. ] Will be.

At any rate, welcome to stay. No, inaccurate. Not welcome. Must insist, actually. As your physician.

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