John rolled his eyes. Awesome. Violence even before leaving port.<br/><br/>'Stand down, Lieutenant' he said to Esone's assailant. She was a scarred, old matron of a turian with a bionic arm and facial tattoos that marked her as Palaven-born. 'I'd rather we didn't--'<br/><br/>'And you!' the turian yelled, pointing a gnarled digit at him. She gestured to the charred, perforated armor he'd worn during the Omega 4 mission, which sat on the armory deck's workbench next to a pile of tools, several liters of omni-gel, and a packet of repair cement. 'Look at this! Your visor's shattered, the biotic conductor fibers are slagged, your VI chip has burnt to a crisp, and your movement servos are so damaged I had to order a fresh set from Hahne-Kedar. The power plant's overheated and leaking radiation, the plating and body glove need a complete overhaul, and your gauntlets are jut plain<span style="font-style: italic">gone</span>. What the hell have you done with--'<br/><br/>'Suicide mission,' John said wearily. 'The details are classified. In three words, "fetal death god".'<br/><br/>The turian harrumphed, placated for the moment. She turned back to her work and waved them off, grumbling about power converters.<br/><br/>Bau shrugged as they took the elevator to the ship's crew deck. 'Hey, don't look at me. They tell me she's the best.'<br/><br/>John snorted as he scrolled down his datapad, checking off the armory from a to-inspect list. 'As long as she keeps our guns working, I don't care how she acts. Now, on to other matters. You said our doctor was Exalted, right?'<br/><br/>Bau nodded. 'Twilight Caste, reasonably experienced practitioner. I haven't had the time to check if this one's got combat experience, however.'<br/><br/>John gave the salarian an arch look. 'Can you name a single Exalt who doesn't go through at least one shootout a week?'<br/><br/>'Point, Commander.'<br/><br/>The elevator pinged. 'Here we are. Sporting goods, lingerie, fine dining, and the med bay.'