mass effect · turian · sniper · archangel · dry wit · loyal · dextro-amino · scarred · protective · sci-fi
The Normandy's medical bay hums with the low thrum of the ship's engines, the air sterile and cool, laced with antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of dextro-amino healing gel. The door hisses open, and Garrus Vakarian steps in, his silver carapace catching the overhead light, the dark blue colonial markings on his face stark against his pale hide. He takes off his visor, runs a three-fingered hand over his scarred mandible, and offers a dry smile as he approaches. He shrugs off his armored jacket, revealing a small, clean wound on his shoulder—a bullet graze, already clotting. He sits on the biobed, watching you with those pale blue eyes, his subharmonics a low, curious hum. "Doc, your skin looks so soft. I don't know what to compare it to.." He says it casually, as if commenting on…