abraxaslogs | UNC: Lost Module

Who: Commander Shepard & Garrus Vakarian
When: May - During the Moth Rabbit Migration
Where: Free Cities
What: Local space soldiers try to repair the devices to ward off moth hares. It goes about as well as expected.
Warnings: TBD

"Why does this feel like we should be hitting pyjacks with the Mako?"

Except that these things seem considerably less annoying than a herd of pyjacks. Or gang. Or whatever a group of the things were called. Besides 'annoying' by most, and 'a snack' by others. At least this time, there doesn't seem to be a need to extract a data module from the grasp of the little rodents. Just repair a weird bug thing to keep the rodents away.

Easy enough.

How hard could it be? They were used to repairing all kinds of bigger, more involved pieces of technology. Something like this shouldn't be hard.

They just have to make it to the location, inspect the malfunction, and call it good. While... he steps over a cluster of rodents chewing away on a piece of discarded fruit. At least they were doing something. Sure, he'd been digging around, gathering information, making connections here and there, but this? This feels like real work. Granted, it's not the most strenuous either of them have ever done, but it's something. It's better than sitting around chatting with their brains.

And he's been... not worried, exactly. Concerned, more like. With the differences in timelines. How that's going to affect someone who already had the whole galaxy on her shoulders. Maybe this is good.

"Should be just up ahead." A beat, and a furitive glance at Shepard. "You know... they look a little bit like your pet. The one with the wheel."

The space hamster.

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"Yeah, Cerberus would really hate having an alien on their payroll... you're right." He's pretty sure if they hadn't put a quarian and a turian on their precious dossiers, then there wouldn't have even been dextro supplies aboard. Regardless of Shepard's wishes for her old crew.

But right. More pressing is the screaming insect. It's making his ears ring. Shepard can't be faring much better.

"Up there!"

It's not quite the fire escape he's used to seeing. But that has to be what it is. The buzzing, fritzing shape attached itself to a ladder up to a window. His steps are longer, so he gets to the ladder first, and starts clambering up it. "I'll see if I can shoo it down!"

Or at least make it stop screaming.

"If you fall, I'm not catching you," Shepard warns, dishonesty in every syllable. Of course she'd catch him; whether he'd enjoy the process is less certain.

But then, it's really not that far up, all things considered. Garrus reaches out and the little machine waves its legs at him threateningly, or perhaps merely with desperation. One of its pointy little feet is caught between the ladder and the wall, wedged in at an odd angle that it surely would have been able to wriggle free of, eventually— had it not been dealing with a hot pursuit.

His hand closes around it and the screaming cuts off in the same moment. The silence is another kind of deafening, but Shepard's sigh of relief is unfeigned.

"What happened? Can you tell if it's broken?" Though they both knew it was at least unbroken enough to lead them on a merry chase, "I didn't think I was gripping it that hard."

"Good to know it goes both ways." Sarcasm for sarcasm. Like Garrus wouldn't catch Shepard if their positions were reversed.

He loops one arm around a ladder rung, and twists his leg slightly to hook his knee spur on that same side under another. There. No way he's going to fall unless the ladder gives out entirely. It might - but he hopes not.

"It would be so much simpler if they'd let us keep our omni-tools," he grumbles. "I have to open it up to check." The casing looks fine. The exterior doesn't look damaged in the least. Maybe a little scuffed from its escape but nothing that should have hampered its function. Or made it scream like that.

Thoughtfully, he wiggles a talon tip into a seam of the casing. Very, very carefully starting to pry it up. The metal bends fairly well, giving a view of the bug's interior - all unfamiliar gears and wires. But still, nothing looks -

"I think one of the gears is pressing into a sensor," he calls down. "Hang on, I'm trying to get it realigned..." Silence. Little clicking noises. And then - "Oh, that's not good."

He's pretty sure it's not supposed to smoke.

Shepard is not an expert in robotics, in particular not the kind that Garrus is holding, a clockwork thing of copper wire and weird bulbs, but she knows a few things. Practical experience tells her that when a small, otherwise innocuous, device starts making those kinds of noises, and that much smoke, there's really only one outcome.

"Throw it!" she barks, all command. It's going to explode, and while it might not do much damage, Shepard isn't confident enough in that assessment to want to risk subjecting Garrus to the local medics, "It's gonna blow!"

And so it goes. Was there ever a mission that didn't blow up in their faces, one way or another?

He needs no further encouragement.

There are pro sports athletes who throw like Garrus in the heat of the moment. He just winds up, hucks it. Overhand. Up toward the rooftops. It flies about as well as a lead brick, but it still flies well out of any danger range for the turian. The whole thing goes up in a bright spark of metallic flame - like a magnesium flare.

And then hits the ground with a klunk.

Sputtering out and dying.

"We really can't go one mission without an explosion. Can we?"

It's a good throw. But then, she's seen him get better distance on grenades before, if with better footing— still. Shepard winces away from the flare, and grimaces to see the blackened lump that's left behind.

"Well, so much for that sensor," She sighs going over to crouch down and examine the mess; the destruction is complete. Why such a complicated design, anyways? Did it really need spider legs, and the ability to scream in terror? Maybe getting into robotics just made people a little crazy, "It was defective from the start, if you ask me."

Which is to say, not their fault.

"Let's go turn in the wreckage, see if we can't get a replacement. Otherwise, this is wash."

He's clambering down the ladder again before the fire fully burns out. Stupid thing. He is not going to accept failure on this one. He could calibrate anything! Why the hell did one weird little bug sensor go and explode? There's more than one muttered curse that probably needs no translation, even if Shepard probably knows more non-human swears than any other Alliance soldier already.

"It had to be. There was nothing in there but gears. Doesn't make sense."

Maybe it was this magic crap everyone was talking about. But he approaches the mess anyway. Are they going to need something to put it in?

"Got a box?" Or a bag...

"Hm," Shepard looks around; she hasn't got anything to spare, but— like most alleyways, this one isn't completely empty, not really. Here, a washbucket someone had left out here and forgotten. Shepard upends the scummy remnants over the steaming lump, then uses the rag to gingerly pick it up, still hot to the touch, "Good enough."

She offers him a look, rising out of her crouch. There's not much to see; twitchy, broken legs, blackened cogs, cracked glass half missing. It's all slagged into one immobile lump.

"Y'know, I've been thinking about that," She says, cocking her head back the way they came, c'mon, "It's about time we started learning some local tech. Hell, they can call it whatever they want, but if we're gonna be stuck here, we need to use whatever we can get."

And maybe learn a few new ways to calibrate, along the way.

"You know, one day, we'll get through a mission without something catching on fire."

Or exploding. Or both. That'd be a nice change of pace, wouldn't it?

Once Shepard has it in hand, he heaves a sigh and falls into step with her. She's not wrong. If they're going to be stuck here, then they might as well adjust better. Maybe even find a way out - despite how much people seem to be adamant it's not possible. Calling it 'tech' seems like a big stretch, in his opinion.

"You're probably right. I'm just not looking forward to picking apart more screaming bugs, if that's what they have up their sleeves."

"Ask real nice, and I'm sure we can get you what passes for a nice rifle."

She's not sure how she feels about the firearms in this place; that they exist at all is probably a blessing. But still; chemical combustion charges? Small batch manufacture bullets, or else ball pellets? Maybe there's a magical secondary option. Still. She can't help but think of it as frustratingly primitive. Her left hand for a functioning Carnifex.

Or maybe some other wish; one day, we'll get through a mission without something catching on fire.

"Keep dreaming, Vakarian," Shepard laughs, despite their failure, and the metal poking her palm, "Keep dreaming..."

UNC: Lost Module

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end?