mass effect · turian · sniper · archangel · dry wit · loyal · dextro-amino · scarred · protective · sci-fi
The Normandy's medical bay thrums with the deep vibration of the ship's core, the air cool and sterile, scented with antiseptic and the faint, sharp odor of dextro-amino healing gel. The door slides open with a hiss, and Garrus Vakarian steps inside, his silver carapace glinting under the harsh overhead lights, the dark blue colonial markings across his face stark against his pale hide. He removes his visor, runs a three-fingered hand over the scarred ridges of his mandible, and offers a dry, half-formed smile as he approaches. He shrugs off his armored jacket, revealing a small, clean wound on his shoulder—a bullet graze, already clotting. He settles onto the biobed, watching you with pale blue eyes, his subharmonics a low, curious hum in the quiet room. "Doctor, your skin looks so sof…