"Ker-chht! Earth-clan, please calm down. I already told you that your order isn't ready yet." The volus across the counter proclaimed (boldly). She slammed one hand down on the cheap barrier while the other was used to wave a finger threateningly in the volus's face. The tacky and worn krogan hula dancer salt-and-pepper shakers quivered loudly from the force of her wrath.

"And I already told you over the phone that if my order wasn't ready by the time I walked through those doors that I would raze this whole goddamn place to the ground!" She snapped, waving the aforementioned finger wildly in the poor cashier's face.

'I can hardly- ker-chtt!—be blamed for what goes on in the kitchen." He answered, his voice calm despite her hysterics.

"Listen here, I have been pulling patients for the past…" she haphazardly tossed her arm out to pull back the sleeve of her lab coat and expose her watch, "sixteen and a half hours and if I don't get my food, I will lose my damn mind!"

"Please, this is getting ridiculous." He pleaded with her, gesturing for her to seat herself on one of the dilapidated seats near the shop's window.

"Tell me to calm down one more time, Boran Cal and I swear to Blasto that I'll beat you so hard that they'll make you the next Jackson 5 member." She snapped again, raising her fist to emphasize her point. The volus shook his head, unafraid.

"I am not Earth-clan –ker-chht!— I don't get the reference." He reminded her politely. Shepard felt a gust of air abandon her lungs with a momentous (and frankly, overly dramatic) sigh and she flopped her head histrionically against the stained countertop to shield her face from view. While one hand fished in her pocket for a bundle of loose credit chits to deposit into the ancient TIPS jar, Boron Cal patted her head sympathetically.

"What the hell is going on out here?" A female voice called from the kitchen. Shepard didn't lift her head, so the volus spoke for her.

"Ker-chht! I have a customer that's harassing me." He announced, lifting a strand of Shepard's trademark auburn hair to reveal the identity of the ruckus to his boss, "She threatened bodily harm so great that I'll become a Fifth of Jack."

"Jackson 5, Boran. Though, I could go for a fifth of Jack right about now." She corrected, lifting her head to wave hello to the owner as she stepped into the dining room. The woman clucked her tongue with disappointment.

"That's in poor taste." She chastised. Shepard allowed her face to flop back down onto her crossed arms.

"I know, Bev." Shepard groaned, her voice muffled.

"And the joke wasn't even that funny." She continued, leaning a hip against the counter casually.

"I know, Bev."

"If you're going to make an offensive joke, you should at least make it a good one."

"Thank you, Bev. I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"Joking aside, is my order almost ready? My show starts in forty-five minutes and I still gotta take the 7 home." Shepard pleaded.

Though she had been giving Boran Cal a hard time, she knew he would never take her empty threats seriously, as she would never actually speak to a member of the service industry like that. The Wacky Tentacle was the best hole-in-the-wall, Asian-Asari fusion restaurant that the Gozu district had to offer (though Shepard would argue that it was the best that the entire Terminus system had to offer, but that was a fight for another day). After a stressful day working as a physician in the lower wards, the deal was that Shepard could verbally abuse Boran Cal as much as she wished, so long as she kept her mouth shut about that weird mole he had her check out on his back that looked like a drunk hanar (which was a given regardless, of course—even in outer space there were laws similar to HIPAA).

"You know you can't rush the princess when she's in her element, doc. What did you even order today…?" Beverly's voice drifted off momentarily as she lifted up the order card from the cash register, only to click her tongue disapprovingly. "Two orders of gamja jeon and an asari-bulgogi? No wonder it isn't ready."

"Don't judge me. It was one of the worst shifts I've ever had." Shepard moaned, taking a few steps back so she could nab one of the shoddy chairs and bring it closer to the counter.

"Even worse than that time that homeless guy threw his own –ker-chht!- feces during a checkup?" Boran Cal asked helpfully. Shepard shivered.

"Yes, but—can we not mention that ever again? Please? Anyway. Today, I had the absolute worst patient. Male krogan with a perirectal abscess that—"

"What's that?" Bev interrupted, her interest pique. Though the young woman would never admit it, she loved listening to Shepard's war stories.

"A pocket of pus somewhere within the immediate vicinity of the butth—"

"I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. But go on, go on." Bev interrupted, holding her hands up to gesture that she did not need to hear the remainder of the sentence.

"Alright. So, this patient was a krogan male, which already starts things off on a bad foot, and a Red Sand junkie who taken to injecting his fix into his…" Bev began to make a face, so Shepard changed tactic, "he began injecting in that neighborhood. When we put scalpel to scale, it turned out that this "pocket" of pus had tunneled about a foot into this guy's abdomen. What came out… I can only describe the texture as…" she swabbed a hand down her face, as though attempting to wipe away the memory itself, "space-cow afterbirth and hanar jelly. As for the smell? I had to take an alcohol shower just to be able to breathe! And that was just my first patient." Shepard hid her face behind her hands and groaned loudly. She had reached a point of exhaustion where it hurt just to have her eyes open. Bev cooed gently and patted Shepard's shoulder.

"Here, I think you earned yourself a doughnut while you wait. On the house." Beverly told her, handing her the homemade pastry she had pulled fresh from the rack. Shepard thanked her with gusto as though it was her first morsel in months.

"You guys are saints. Anyway, I just want to get home, eat the station's best bulgogi with some cheap Moscato, and watch my favorite elcor soap-opera while wearing a pair of fuzzy penguin slippers."

Bev tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and rolled her eyes as she began to ready the already clean, yet faded, bar. "I can't believe you watch that crap, doc." Shepard raised a hand defensively.

"Excuse me, but Heartwarmingly: I Love You is a masterpiece and I won't have you slander it." She defended hotly before looking at the pastry in her hand, "even if you bribe me with cookie-covered doughnuts."

"Bev's right—that show is the cheesiest thing that O-TV has to offer. Had you not made a habit of coming here almost every day, I would say you had the worst taste imaginable." Bev's asari wife purred, gliding out of the kitchen with a plastic bag full of Styrofoam cartons.

Talia placed the bag next to Baron Cal and slid an arm around the human's waist. The two of them together were beautiful, the type of couple that one only saw in the fashion magazines with expensive clothes and haughty expressions. The Wacky Tentacle was their lovechild, the culmination of their efforts after Bev ran away from home to marry the asari lover her Jamaican-Korean parents had disapproved of. While eons away from living in luxury, the little hole in the wall had grown to be a very successful operation and it only strengthened their bond. Shepard was fairly sure that the frequency of her visits here after graveyard shifts was more than enough to keep the small business afloat, but she didn't say anything.

"Talia, you make the food, so you're the only person here I won't fight with. But, say that to me on my turf and we'll have to duke it out." Shepard admonished, pulling the lab coat off to insulate the food better. The graceful alien leaned her head against her lover's shoulder and chuckled.

"Go home, Shepard. I want to open my shop up already." Bev scolded in a motherly voice.

"You got it. I still need to get on the 7 anyway so make it in time to see what crazy shenanigan's Potzi and Hansar got up to this week." Shepard responded, shoving the chair she had occupied back into place. She unlocked the front door and flipped the switch on for them before leaving, making sure to call her goodbyes over shoulder.

Shepard rounded the corner and made her way down the flight of stairs that led to Omega's awful subway system. The knowledge that she would soon be curled up in bed, drinking a glass of cheap wine was strong enough to ensure that not even the questionably potent aroma of vagabond urine and rotting garbage could tarnish her happiness. When her ride finally arrived, she ran across the platform and seated herself beside two gossiping, matron-staged asari.

Shepard never spoke to these women, but they tended to ride the public transport system around this time nearly every shift and she had grown comfortable with their "familiar-but-not-really"-ness. She closed her eyes and curled the warm bundle of food close to her chest so that she could listen to their mindless prattle in peace. Once they got off, she knew it would only be one more stop until she was home.

"Someone should really talk to Aria, this is getting out of hand! I swear! In the past three months I have been robbed twice—twice! And the last two robbers must be idiots because I don't even have anything valuable to rob because of the jackass that got me a year ago. I can't wait to save enough credits to get off this shithole."

"Ain't that the truth? But, you know what I heard? There's some guy in Kima District that's been showing the gangs what-for!"

"Pfft! Yeah, right. There's always some shithead kid that thinks he can make a difference on this rock. Until he gets himself dismembered by Garm or whoever the biggest bully is that week."

"No, this one is serious. You know what I heard? My cousin has a friend who has a neighbor who has a daughter whose boyfriend was getting mugged the other night by some vorcha and this guy just swooped in like-like that human superhero and saved the day. What's that human's name? All those humans sound alike."

"Catman."

"Catman! That's right. Oh, that Jokester and Harlequin are my favorite couple. So cute!"

"I know, right? But have you heard of that new movie that's coming out…."

With their conversation veering off into the extraordinarily mundane, Shepard allowed her mind to drift until she felt the telltale jostling movement beside her that meant that the two women were getting off the train. She felt herself perk up: only one more stop, four blocks and a metal door separated her from her dingy studio apartment. The way she mowed down the other passengers to get off at her stop would have made any linebacker proud (even if she did receive death threats in the process).

When she was about two blocks away from home, she kissed the warm plastic top of her take out bag, "Soon, my pretty. Soon!"

That's when she heard it. A low moan. At first, she confused it for the regular groans and whines of the station, but then she heard it again. It was definitely a person and they were definitely in pain. She frowned at her take-out.

"Not so soon, it seems." She lamented in a whisper, before closing her eyes as to better locate the source of the whining. It only took a moment before she found it. The sound originated from a dark alley, obscured by a dumpster and a mountain range of black trash bags. Shit. Was this a setup or was someone actually in need of help? She sighed. She did not waste all that time in school to become a doctor, just to turn a blind eye when the going got tough.

"Hello?" She stood at the lip of the alley, attempting to find the outline of a person somewhere in the darkness. The moans silenced immediately. She squinted, but only blackness waited for her. She took a step into the alley, "Hello?"

No one answered. She dared not risk going any further into the void. Her heart was racing. This is how good people die: by sticking their noses where they don't belong. This was how defenseless women got raped. She was stupid for doing this. Whoever was in here did not wish to be found, even if they were in pain. She had seen such things before on her travels. It was likely a gang member who had wound up on the wrong turf, or a drug addict that was too embarrassed to be seen. She went to take a step back.

There was a loud clatter of metal crashing into metal and the unmistakable thump of a heavy body hitting the ground. A pained expletive echoed against the walls of the alley and startled her. The noise was so sudden that she was forced to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. The groan devolved into a series of labored wheezes and coughs. She leapt into action without hesitating, hurtling over decaying food and empty beer cans to get to her target with her omni-tool illuminating the way.

The source of the racket was a turian, likely male (she could not be certain as he wore a helmet) in cobalt blue armor, nursing what looked like a gunshot wound to the right lower quadrant. She maneuvered to near the curled, panting mass… that is, until he drew his gun and pointed it at her.

"Don't… get… any… closer." He warned in breathless pants, finger on the trigger. As she had been trained when she first landed on Omega, she flung her hands above her head to reveal that she was armed with only a takeout bag and dirty lab coat.

"I'm a doctor." She announced, "You're hurt."

"I… don't need… your help." He panted, each word taking a momentous effort to get out. Fundamentals of emergency first aid: Airway, breathing, and circulation. Despite the labored breathing, he was speaking and conscious, which meant his airway was clear and he was capable of breathing on his own. She knew for certain he had sustained at least one wound, but without closer inspection, she could not tell if there were anymore. At a deliberately slow pace, she fell into a crouch. She was still at gun point and could not make any sudden moves. She placed the food and her lab coat on the ground before immediately raising her empty, outstretched hands by her head.

"Yes, you do." She asserted in a stern voice, her eyes focused on the weapon pointed at her chest.

"Why should… I… trust.. you?" He panted, the gun was beginning to waver. He needed help, immediately.

"Listen to me carefully. You don't have enough time for me to go over everything that can go wrong, but that is a gunshot wound in your abdomen. That means there is a very high chance that the slug hit an organ. Now, even if it didn't, you can still die of blood loss, shock, or infection. You'll probably faint from anemia before any of that happens, and that'll give whoever shot you a better chance of finding your unconscious body. Now that you have been informed, let me say this. As a medical professional, I have taken an oath to uphold my patient's autonomy, so I will not give care without your consent. If you refuse me again, I'll call an emergency service, go home and eat my Asari take-out without losing a wink of sleep." She jerked her chin down at the bundle of food at her knees.

The gun continued to waver for just a few moments longer…. And then dropped. She rushed to the turian, grabbing her lab coat and immediately applying pressure to the wound in his gut. Before she could assess more of the damage, he gripped her wrist and forced her to look up.

"No hospitals… too… dangerous…they will be looking… please." He gasped. Her face tightened, but she nodded. This was probably going against every medical manual ever written.

"I live about a block away. Do you think you can make it that far?" She asked hastily, before glancing around the alley for any "they"s that might swoop down from above. He nodded weakly.

"Can you tell me if you have any other wounds? I don't want to move you if you have a spinal injury."

"No spine… definitely arm." He panted. She looked down and sure enough, blood was seeping out of a hole in the left anterior bicep, slightly above the elbow. Had that bullet strayed just a few inches to the right, he would have been dead in the water.

"Okay, I'm going to take the armor plate off. Then, I'm going to make a tourniquet out of my coat sleeve and a Swiss army knife I have in my pocket." She told him carefully, not wanting to risk him pulling the gun on her the moment she retrieved the knife. He, again, nodded weakly and she went to work. When the makeshift tourniquet was set, she pulled his arm up and over her shoulders and assisted him into a standing position.

Turians were tall naturally, but this one towered well over her 5 foot 1 inch frame. She supported a good amount of his bulk and stepped forlornly over her bag of takeout. His head lolled atop hers, and though the whole debacle was stressful, she gritted her teeth and pushed through it. When she neared the entrance of the alley, she could hear voices coming from down the street, heading their way. As the voices came into clarity, her patient began to tense and scramble for the piece at his hip.

Shit, fuck, fucking shit. She thought to herself, realizing that they must have been his attackers. She went to sit him back down, but he protested. She pressed a finger to her lips.

"Wait here. I got this." She assured gently. By holding him, she had already amassed a blotch of navy blue blood on her seafoam green scrubs that looked like a dollar-store Rorschach test. She bent over and ran her hand across the portion of his armor that had been coated in his blood and rubbed the warm liquid over her arms for added oomf.

She edged towards the entrance of the alley and found three vorcha and two krogan in bright red armor pestering an elderly drell situated on the stoop of his apartment. The vorcha were assessing the neighborhood while the krogan strong-armed the withered alien. She was not surprised to see Blood Pack here. Though she had specifically chosen to live in an apartment in a supposed "DMZ", the Blood Pack and the Blue Suns flanked the district and enjoyed making their presence known.

"You sure you haven't seen a turian running around, old man? Blue armor? Looking to be killed?" One of the krogan roared at the drell, who was shaking his head feverishly and shaking in fear. She readied herself with a deep breath before running out of the alley, making a beeline towards the criminals.

"Oh thank God!" She gushed, as she neared them. The vorcha and krogan looked up, the mindless henchmen dropping their guns as the petite, attractive human neared them covered in blood that was clearly not her own. "That jerk practically killed me running into me so fast! Look at me! I could have died!"

The krogan leader released his hold on the drell's shirt and sauntered smugly towards her.

"Why don't you tell me which way this jerk went, sweetheart? We'll take care of him for you." He told her, pinching her chin between his fingers. She fought the urge to yank her face back, but she was nothing, if not a great actress.

"He went that way. It looked like he was heading towards 23rd and Welkin." She told them hastily, insisting that her attacker was heading in the complete opposite direction of her house. The krogan smiled at her before jerking his head at the remainder of his cronies. His fat, sausage fingers slid away from her blood stained face and he lingered for just a second longer than his men.

"Thanks, sweetheart. Maybe when I'm done with him, I'll come back and take real good care of you to show my gratitude." He purred with a wink, before running off. Suppressing a shudder, she waited at the stoop until the goons were out of sight before daring to return to her ward. It was only by grace of some kind of powerful being that this poor man was still conscious. She got him back into position as he mumbled incoherent an incoherent thanks in her ear and the two of them hoofed the remaining distance to her apartment.

Once inside, she put every lock on the door into place and gathered a clean sheet and pillow for her guest. She laid him out of the floor and began stripping him of his armor. When she made an effort to remove his helmet, his hand caught her again and he shook his head.

"I need to." She announced.

"No. My identity. No." He gasped. She yearned to scream that he was practically naked, but instead she took in a deep, calming breath.

"You know what? Fine. I don't have the energy to argue." She snapped, before leaping across the room to get her go-bag.

She came to this shithole of a rock in order to help the dying and destitute— of which, there was an endless supply. Which meant that she had a whole arsenal of medical supplies stashed in a hidden compartment under her floorboards, waiting to be used at a moment's notice. Most of it was taken from her time on the Citadel, but the majority of it had been amassed during her time here on Omega. It wasn't until she got here that she grew to appreciate the wonders of the Black Market. With the duffle bags of equipment in hand, she returned to the dying man on her apartment floor.

Then, Shepard started doing what she did best.

It seemed like hours passed before she was finished. She swatted at an errant strand of hair with the back of her forearm and let out a sigh of relief. Though both she and her floor were coated in his blood, the turian was now stitched up, medicated and stable (though, his blood pressure was definitely low). His chest rose and fell in deep, soothing breaths.

She leaned back, proud of her work. She meant to get to her feet, when the patient's hand fumbled groggily for hers. She started, for just a moment, before realizing what he was doing. She pressed her other hand atop his gently. The turian's grip on her hand loosened almost immediately as the anesthetics began to overwhelm him once more.

After covering him with another sheet (turians don't like the cold), she took a shower and changed her clothes. She was so tired, she couldn't even lament the fact that her stomach was howling at her for not feeding it greasy potato pancakes and asari beef. In fact, she was asleep before her head even hit the pillow.

When she next came to, she was astonished to find that she was completely alone. The only evidence of what had transpired only a few hours before was a pile of soiled linens and medical equipment… but, no… that wasn't right. The mysterious turian had left her one more thing… a token of his gratitude.

It was a note, scribbled hastily on the back of a crumbled receipt. She read it and couldn't help but laugh.

I'm sorry about your takeout. Next round's on me.

-Archangel.