Lipetsk, a nationwide health resort, greeted the victims of the capitalist system with blooming gardens. The abundance of foliage only emphasized the sandy-warm palette of the buildings, giving the city a pleasant warmth. Wide, sun-drenched streets were red with poppies.
There was a light, pre-dawn haze. The first days of June were warm, but not scorching, and dew still hung in the mornings, sparkling on the young grass.
Shady alleys, planted with lindens and maples, beckoned with coolness, and on the flowerbeds near the House of Soviets, dahlias and peonies blazed with bright spots – the pride of local landscapers. A breeze stirred the treetops, and it seemed that the very air here, in this socialist corner of health, was imbued with strength and vigor. Even the sparrows chirped with unusual liveliness, as if they knew that in Lipetsk, under the reliable protection of Soviet power, life would always bloom like these June gardens...
Seventy-seven years ago, after the end of the war and the onset of an epidemic, the city, abandoned by people, burned down completely. Only charred walls remained in the middle of a scorched field.
The Brown Plague reached Lipetsk during the evacuation. Thanks to this, the city did not become a mass grave for its inhabitants, but every fifth citizen lay in the middle of its streets. Their bones had long been removed, their names carved on granite, but the earth seemed to remember everything. Even after the fury of the flames and the years that had passed, legends circulated about faceless shadows that liked to gather in empty night courtyards... Mysticism or lively imagination, it's hard to say.
One thing could be said for sure: the city was not sacrificed to the fire by people. Lipetsk did not burn down immediately or on the first attempt. First, several houses burned down. In their haste, people forgot to extinguish the fire, and one spark was enough to turn a building into a torch.
A month later, a plane full of passengers crashed into the city. The virus had already spread with all its might and was taking lives by the thousands. Everyone was already dead when the steel bird crashed to the ground, splashing out the remaining fuel... Only the fire quickly died down, not having time to gain strength.
Only the June lightning finally managed to ignite the dead Lipetsk, erasing all the buildings along with the traces of the disease. Therefore, two years later, the inhabitants returned to practically a clean field...
Now, greenery hid the scars of the past. The many lindens, after which the city was once named, gave the streets the pleasant warmth of returned life. Only the banners blazing crimson, flaming in the rays of the rising sun, could remind of the fire that once ruled here. They could, but they didn't, because the Red Banner was a symbol of the revival of cities like Lipetsk.
The survivors, unbroken by adversity, and later the intelligent beings they elevated, revived such cities from the ashes with their minds and labor, turning them into a pastoral paradise that delighted the eyes. Despite all the mistakes and hardships, the Red Banner was the personification of a feather from the wing of a mythical phoenix. Therefore, even on a weekday, scarlet banners fluttered on flagpoles and building walls, serving not only as decoration or an embodiment of the state...
Looking at the awakening city through the window of a high-speed magnetic levitation train, which was now rushing towards the city station, Ferrion mentally agreed with the text of the tourist booklet. If earlier the text seemed too propagandistic to him, then now, seeing the city itself, the Turian could only pay tribute to the labor of its inhabitants who revived it from the ashes.
He didn't bother to search the "Narodnaya Set" (People's Network), the Soviet analogue of the Citadel Space Extranet, for photos to compare how it was before and after. Information is the key to correct analysis of the tactical situation, but this rule can be applied not only on the battlefield. Therefore, the tesseraian could appreciate the view that opened up with all its depth, hidden from the eyes of the uninitiated.
Seeing all these alleys, parks, trees, and the love and care with which everything was planted, the Turian felt all this desire to revive his homeland. It was no wonder that this city became a place of healing. The locals, better than anyone, could and knew how to heal, and not just physical wounds. Mineral waters were just an addition to strengthen health.
"The best place for the rehabilitation of former slaves couldn't be invented," the legionary, who had been a prisoner, summarized his feelings. "Who, if not the unbroken, can help the broken?"
The train gently slowed down, in five minutes turning a furious rush into a smooth stop at the platform. "Once, only a wall remained of this place, and now it can compete in refinement with the villas of industrialists from Space in luxury. Only here there is taste, and all the luxury is in simplicity and convenience," he said, comparing what he had seen and what he was seeing now.
"Water heals the body, and labor heals the soul!" visitors could read as soon as they stepped onto the platform. The Turian, stepping onto the platform, took a deep breath, tasting the air. Many fountains with healing water and plants gave it a unique aroma.
"Like on Thessia," a thought flashed in his head. "But in the homeland of the Asari... the air is more tart, and therefore unpleasant."
The legionary disliked the intrusive fruity aroma that, along with the salty breeze, unpleasantly tickled his receptors, so he subconsciously expected something similar here, but was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't the spicy, hot air of Palaven, but more than decent.
He involuntarily remembered his childhood, spent at a military base on Tulia. The smell was about the same there.
"They could have brought us here by shuttle," grumbled one of the Asari, whose skin literally contrasted with the "Soviet empire" style.
The Turian, alien to art but appreciating beauty, rolled his feelings in his head, not drawing hasty conclusions. Glancing at the Asari again, he saw more clearly that she was completely out of harmony with the color scheme, causing involuntary irritation to the eyes.
"That's why they are so persistent in their architecture," Ferrion realized. Images of blue-skinned tourists, screamingly standing out on the copper streets of Palaven, flashed in his memory.
Meanwhile, the Asari sarcastically criticized "this marble mausoleum," while a massive Krogan against the backdrop of frescoes with lindens looked surprisingly harmonious.
"It's more economically profitable and expedient," noted the Felinid guide, who accompanied the former slaves to the sanatorium. "There are many of you. If we allocated a shuttle to each group, it would lead to chaos in the airspace, which is unacceptable for intensive traffic and could lead to tragedy. Moreover, if we involved the civilian fleet like this, we could disrupt the plan, even if it's calculated three times over, with tolerances."
"And a shuttle is also an ideal target for sabotage. One saboteur is enough to cause significant damage," the legionary added to himself, reading between the lines of the intelligent cat.
"Besides, thanks to this journey, you were able to enjoy the nature of our planet, relax, and touch our way of thinking," the cat added.
"And you don't hide the ideological background," Ferrion remarked, clicking his mandibles.
"Why?" the guide twitched her ear slightly, bending her tail in a question. "You can see everything for yourself or read it on our network. Just understand, no one will specifically try to persuade you. There's no need for that! It's important for us that you form your own impression of us, even if it's a negative one."
The cat squinted in a peculiar way. The Turian knew that's how they smiled.
"As they say, the unknown only breeds fear. And after our entry into the galactic arena, your personal opinion is much more necessary to us than propaganda. You're not unreasonable kittens, you'll figure everything out yourselves if you want to. Numbers are much more eloquent than loud words, and real achievements are much more visual..."
The check-in at the sanatorium was quiet and mundane. After the Felinid's speech, even the Asari fell silent, lost in thought...
Ferrion only mentally applauded the skill of their guide. Indeed, they hid nothing from them, they just didn't say what interesting things could be found. He knew, having dug into the Narodnaya Set, spending several days searching, about the other side of the USSR.
Nothing is perfect. The country had its crises and upheavals, but the intelligent beings inhabiting it didn't dwell on negativity, but preferred to solve problems in advance or at least as they arose.
After rereading many forums, the Turian, with difficulty, found links to so-called "invisibles" – or idlers, in simpler terms. Freedom of choice and will had its negative sides. In the Union, where the state provided everything necessary for life, there was a whole stratum of those who did nothing. It seemed like half a percent of the entire population, but even so, there were many of them, which created some social tension...
The Hierarchy legionary accepted the USSR's approach to problems. His people did the same: they solved problems without publicizing them. There was nothing wrong with that. Everyone knows, but they just don't want to raise it unnecessarily.
But the methods of solution were more like the Asari's. Soft power, without direct violence in most cases. A demonstration of the benefits of living by the rules, with a club looming somewhere in the distance, as the Quarians had.
Take the "invisibles," for example. Society treated them with disdain and nothing more. If they broke the law, they were tried and forcibly sent for training with mandatory work for society. Of course, this applied to crimes not related to personality destruction.
Then the purely Krogan approach came into play: hit them so hard they wouldn't dare again! No conversations or warnings. If you tried to rape someone or distribute drugs, that was it. The ultimate penalty. Lifelong isolation from society. Not execution, but eternal loneliness. Life in four walls with rare walks in the yard. You wouldn't even be able to see the service robots. The only window to the world would be books, and even then, for good behavior. You couldn't even kill yourself.
And it worked! In ten years, there was only one case of sexual assault. One. For an interstellar state... Most crimes were due to violations of safety regulations, petty theft, and simply administrative offenses. And even those were few, and they were punished by attending lectures, training, or therapeutic conversations with psychologists.
Again, if you didn't cross the line. Steal once – you'll be reprimanded and sent for training to atone for your harm. Steal a second time – you'll be trained again, but only after visiting a hospital where psychologists will try to correct your psyche, understanding what drives you to it. And only the third time will you face punishment. Physical. A beating. On the fourth – you'll simply be shot. In a world where death is not the end of the path, it is a second chance. You will be reborn in a new body to start with a clean slate.
The most unusual thing was the judicial system. A people's court in its true form. The entire society, through technology, was a single judge. A system completely separate from state power. Reviewing the defendant's memory before the decision helped not to punish the innocent. Harsh, but effective.
The collective mind and its embodiment, the AI, serve as a guarantee of objectivity. The very architecture of the machine will prevent the falsification of the result...
Having received food for thought, the Turian automatically ticked the boxes on the papers brought to him, skimming through them. Although oral conversation was still difficult for him due to the difference in speech apparatus, he understood written language almost fluently. And here – a simple outpatient card and a list of proposed treatments. Was he a combat officer who had never been hospitalized after a wound? Therefore, he filled it out not just quickly, but very quickly.
"You'd have to be a fool to refuse free treatment!" he mentally summarized.
His group, looking at him, also quickly filled out the proposed questionnaires, not bothering with translator glasses. They were made for local physiology, and wearing them constantly was uncomfortable for some. Moreover, during the flight, the "common" language was understandable to all former slaves, from the fifth to the tenth.
"Excellent," said the nurse, collecting the papers and quickly reviewing them.
A rare, but not outlandish, intelligent fox, with a few movements, organized the pile of forms, casting a strange glance at the group that the Turian could not decipher.
"We will have a rather intensive treatment program for everyone. You will spend a week and a half within our walls. Ten days and half of that. Today you have rest from the road and acclimatization. After settling into your rooms, you can walk around the territory. Now, during the flowering period, it is especially picturesque here..."
"And when will we eat?" asked a not unimportant Krogan, interrupting the doctor, amidst the displeased hissing of the Asari.
"In two hours," the nurse replied imperturbably, without expressing any irritation. "Don't worry. Each of you will be assigned a drone that will be your guide during your stay and will escort you to the dining room."
The legionary only heard his quiet approving grunt because he was standing nearby.
The Turian did not neglect the invitation and, after settling his meager belongings in a clean and comfortable, but slightly simple room, went for a walk.
"Picturesque, but the city was more interesting," the legionary noted to himself. "True, it's hard to expect anything else from a hospital."
In essence, the park at the sanatorium was a piece of fenced forest. Clean, tidy, but ordinary for someone who had visited so many worlds. This doesn't mean that Ferrion didn't appreciate nature, it just got a little boring for him. The tesseraian perceived it only as a backdrop for a possible battle. Even though he served on a ship, it didn't mean he was incompetent in planetary battles. Plants interested him only to a certain extent.
Much more interesting to him was the monument in the center of this park. A modest memorial plaque, embedded in a boulder, telling of the past. "For me, the word 'quarantine,' especially knowing what happened in the area, sounds almost like 'morgue'," the Turian thought, reading the inscription. Noting only the presence of fresh flowers and the general well-kept state of the place, he left the suddenly uncomfortable park, though he took a different path.
Casually noting the excessively massive concrete gazebos, which could easily be converted into firing points, he reached the dining room, accompanied by a flying drone-ball. Realizing that dinner was not soon, he sprawled in a wicker chair. "Healing has begun. The forest, even like this, will be better than slave dungeons."
Attention! Start of 18+ content. (Description of not-so-pleasant medical procedures. I'm leaving a warning just in case. Dedicated to all victims of punitive medicine. Or for a laugh... Let someone else experience our PAIN! (Whoever invented tearing out adenoids "live," you know where you can go.))
A brown, hot, viscous mass enveloped the Turian's body, warming him to the core, relaxing him and making him squint with pleasure. Although it was quite warm on Earth for him, the air was clearly below the temperature that a native of Palaven could consider comfortable. Chilly.
His delight was shared by his kin and the Krogan, for whom the local staff had made a personal tub. The thick skin even enjoyed the uniform heat.
The Asari shrieked like boiled alive, while the Salarians and the lone Batarian grimaced but endured. For them, the hot mud was too hot, although it didn't burn. They would have protested, as they did during the "paraffin boot," but the result was very noticeable. Hot paraffin baths with the addition of a bioactive polymer solution worked very well on the joints.
Ferrion appreciated this himself. His right hand twitched from time to time. Chains do no one any good. Even now, floating in the hot mud, he saw his skin literally changing before his eyes, becoming younger. And it was simply pleasant for the Turian, accustomed to warmth, to warm up.
"Your oxygen cocktail," his personal drone chirped gently in a female voice, floating almost silently with a glass.
Involuntarily startled, but not showing that he was caught off guard, he took the container and took a sip. "An acquired taste, but there's something to it," he thought, already more boldly taking sips from the container.
From the side of the blue-skinned maidens, squeals of delight were heard. They unexpectedly liked the drink very much.
Setting aside the empty vessel, he leaned against the edge, enjoying himself. "A resort, not a hospital. Ours would cost several thousand at least."
There was no other way to put it. The Union pampered and cherished its people in every way. Even in a simple boarding house where workers were treated, the service was top-notch and simple, but luxurious by Space standards. The food, calculated for patients with stomach problems, and prepared exclusively by steaming or baking, slightly spoiled the impression. To the Turians' taste, it became insufficiently firm. For them, soft food was less tasty.
It was a sin to complain, and the grumbling among themselves was only due to the unfamiliarity of such food. The chefs – live chefs, not machines – after listening to the complaints of the new patients, tried to take their tastes into account for breakfast. Chicken eggs left no one indifferent among all the natives of Citadel Space. It seemed like simple food, with a hospital flavor, but it was delicious!
"There's nothing surprising about that," as one of the patients, a man who was a fleet officer, said. "Don't hesitate if something is wrong. Speak up immediately. We are a social state. The comfort of intelligent beings is not just a priority, but the foundation of our system. If you were connected to the collective mind, the diet would be not only therapeutic but also according to your tastes. The only thing is... don't argue with the doctors. They know best. Medical ethics will not allow them to harm patients."
The locals treated them with surprising familiarity, as if they had lived side by side for years, not months. But the Asari... the locals frankly avoided them, although they were polite and made no distinction during the procedures.
"It's simple. We just know who they are. Everyone has access to your Extranet... And what we saw about them, we didn't like. Too dissolute! We understand everything, physiology, but for us, radical xenophilia is taboo. We make love, not sex, and exclusively within our species," the officer explained somewhat confusedly.
And now, as soon as the Asari complimented a human nurse, she simply replied politely, ignoring the flirtatious attempt, defining the boundaries of her work ethic. What could be done, along with improved health, natural needs made themselves known. The Asari recovered quickly from the horrors of slavery.
It became clear to them quite quickly, but they didn't stop trying. The maidens found some types of the Union very attractive.
As for the USSR, their sexual life was open. They didn't make a big deal out of gender relations.
"Why? It's natural. We are alive and will eat, get sick, seek entertainment, and multiply. To not talk about this aspect of life is a crime," the officer seemed to be speaking to the Tesseraian, but in such a way that almost the entire dining room could hear him.
"Not only does the prohibition only stimulate, but it's easier to explain and tell than later..." the man eloquently took a sip of tea.
"And about interspecies relations... It's simple here. The state supports any union that leads to children, as does society. Plus, the collective mind provides the overall mood in the hospital. Some values were instilled in us even before we started walking," he continued.
The blue-skinned maidens twittered among themselves. They, as a not very fertile species, were very careful with children, so they strongly disliked the last words. It was customary for them to create a greenhouse childhood for their offspring.
Noticing unhealthy activity among the Asari, the man nodded to himself, adding:
"We don't coddle children. They are little adults, only they don't have experience. This doesn't mean they are told directly... it's just that here children are told only the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. The educational programs are designed so that children figure it out themselves without being traumatized," the officer explained his own words.
As Ferrion thought, the man was doing this intentionally, not just out of kindness. It was all due to respect for labor, both his own and others'. The locals cleaned up their dishes themselves, although the staff would have taken them away. Respect. The officer, by simply explaining, eased the work of the nurses and other staff. It's simple and complicated at the same time...
It seemed like an instructive, mentor-like conversation about nothing, but said in the right place and time, it extinguished a potential conflict in its infancy. "Indeed, it's better to explain properly," was all the Turian could admit. Needless to say, those who heard it cleaned up their dishes themselves today. Even the Krogan, although he finished his meal first and also took his tray back to the serving line first. For all their hot temper, they were far from stupid.
Now, the same Krogan was politely asking the staff about the intricacies of the procedure. The strong man looked as relaxed as possible. "Maybe it's because the citizens of the Union don't use clichés about entire races? For them, each intelligent being is an individual?" he mused, basking in the warmth.
"In two minutes, you have your next procedure," the drone noted, making him flinch again.
"All right," the legionary said with a sigh, starting to get out of the warm bath.
After a light shower, washing away the last traces of dirt, watching as water began to pour from another fountain in the shape of a human child with wings, he walked behind the guide. "Water gushing from the mouth is a questionable solution," the Turian cynically remarked.
Quickly reaching the treatment room, Ferrion knocked, as the locals do, and, after receiving a muffled affirmative shout from behind the door, entered.
"Strip completely and stand in the circle," the nurse ordered him imperiously.
For a moment, the Turian mistook her for a Sharr, but only her sturdy figure and face connected this middle-aged woman with a sensible shark.
Without protest, he shed his light robe and underwear, standing in a tiled circle. The cool tile unpleasantly chilled his feet.
"Hands to your sides... to your sides, I said! Hmm... you surprised me," the medical worker stated when he obeyed the command. "The procedure isn't very pleasant, but the polymer Sharko shower is very beneficial. Hold your breath."
She added the last part a little more gently, picking up a spray bottle from the table. Ferrion wanted to clarify, but a tight stream of water, as if frozen, and therefore dense, hit him...
"It's fine..." he didn't have time to finish thinking when the woman frowned, interrupting the flow. Adjusting the power, she continued the procedure. This time, the stream of water hit the Turian noticeably, making him sway. The slightly warm water massaged his body effectively.
In the end, he even liked it, even though the water could have been warmer. Waiting for the flow to end, he turned to go for his clothes, but a question flew into his back:
"Where do you think you're going? You still have a procedure here!" the nurse said emphatically. "You have gastrointestinal problems, remember?"
"Alright," the Turian didn't argue. "What should I do?"
"Get in," the woman indicated with a nod of her head away from the legionary. The Turian turned his head in the indicated direction... and shuddered. The structure standing in the corner strongly resembled a gynecological chair, only with extra clamps.
"What are you standing around for?!" the nurse shouted at him. "You're holding up the line!"
"Um... what is this for?" the legionary asked cautiously, pointing at the contraption.
"So you don't squirm during the flushing!"
"Perhaps rinsing?" the Tesseract took a step back, so that the wall was behind him, ready to bolt for the exit at any moment.
"Flushing," the lady cut him off, getting up from the table.
"I don't need any flushing!!!" the legionary shrieked, unexpectedly for himself.
"Did you read the form? Did you tick the boxes with your own hand? Good! Then... as you capitalists say: 'If you've paid, you've got it!' So don't be stubborn!" the woman barked at him, warningly cracking her fist, which was of no small size. "Where are you going, you bitch?!"
"...I'm repeating myself again. I didn't imagine it, and I heard profanity in the Turian language. I'm a philologist by education and I know what I'm talking about!" the Asari continued to insist.
"And I repeat, you imagined it, citizen," the sensible fox snorted indignantly, but continued to politely insist.
"He not only swore in Turian. And he's not so erudite as to know all the main languages of your space," she added mentally, exchanging glances with her Felinid colleague. The intelligent cat waved a paw vaguely, sending an image of "I don't know what's going on there."
The fox sighed mentally, blaming herself for her lack of restraint. The Matron had been persistent and wouldn't back down, despite her assurances.
Her sharp hearing brought her another portion of sounds, with a clearly audible click of clamps. "It's started," a single image formed in the minds of the medical staff observing the scene. "Filippovna never misses..."
With a quiet gurgle, water began to flow from the little angel, illustrating the operation of the device. The fox winced mentally. The procedure the Turian was subjected to was maximally humiliating and unpleasant, but the therapeutic effect outweighed these drawbacks. The polymer, mineral water, and special preparations could transform even a regular enema, and here – a whole Esmarch funnel! Ten liters of fractional solution, right in there.
"That's taking a while," the fox observed the little angel with slight surprise, responding automatically to the Asari, while secretly checking her watch. Estimating the solution consumption and the device's throughput, she shuddered, grimacing. They had already poured twenty liters into the patient, no less!
A quiet click, barely audible even to amplified eardrums, made all the medics jump. The sound of the compressor confirmed their suspicions. With a crunch like fresh French bread, accompanied by the cheerful sound of a running stream, the rectoscope, combined with a powerful sprayer, went "pop."
The fox vividly imagined Filippovna standing behind the patient in a mask very similar to a welding mask, commanding:
"Close your eyes!" and two tubes glowing green, bending, screwed into his nostrils.
"U-u-u-y-y-y!" a groan from the patient came from under a special gag with a pump, ensuring forced circulation of liquid in all cavities of the gastrointestinal tract.
Somewhere a few kilometers away, all the dogs howled in unison, supporting their howl with their song.
Tracks of water flowed from the eyes of the little angel, which, along with the stream gushing from his mouth like from a fire hose, looked not cute anymore, but very frightening.
The windows of the treatment room, prudently located near the ceiling, were illuminated by a bright greenish light.
"And still, I insist..." the Asari continued to press.
The Turian walked slowly down the corridor, holding onto the wall. Now he could say that he had experienced true hell. "At least it doesn't burn so much now..." he tried to comfort himself, but the "hot" injection was still working. The substance circulated through his body, bringing an incomparable heat.
All that paled in comparison to the "flushing." He simply crawled out of there, directed towards the restroom, with the order: "Move faster, you lumps!" A minute later, the legionary understood why. Overcoming his exhaustion, with the last remnants of his pride, he rushed towards the suddenly necessary facilities...
Lymph, bile, and heavy metal slags decided to leave his body all at once, beginning the second stage of cleansing.
The heat of the drug and the cold of the tile with the smoothness of porcelain became his entire world for eternity. Darkness spread before his eyes as Ferrion reached his longed-for goal. A spasm of all his muscles and a warning rumble forced him to act faster...
He didn't know how much time had passed. His consciousness only registered in the background the roar of other cabin doors, marking the passage of the procedure by other unfortunate souls. The Turian came to his senses from the cold sweat that streamed down his skin.
The legionary listened to himself, understanding with relief: the process had stopped. Getting up, he heard a creak inside himself with surprise, noting the absence of the usual dull pain that had become his companion after captivity. Ferrion didn't immediately realize that it was his own intestines, clean and healthy, as they probably had never been.
"It really doesn't hurt anymore," was his first, lost, coherent thought after the procedure. And breathing became somehow easier, and the taste of his own saliva in his mouth bloomed with new shades for him.
Slowly wandering down the corridor, he reached the next office at the guide's direction. Heavily falling onto a bench to wait for his call, the Turian experienced true peace in that moment. His head was unusually empty, and all the muscles in his body simply enjoyed relaxation.
"Now I'll take care of my health... I won't survive this a second time! When the liquid started pouring out of my mouth, and my body was inflated like a balloon, I thought it was the end!"
After a few minutes, other patients began to gather. All of them had very peaceful expressions on their faces. Even the Krogan sat quietly and cautiously on the wooden bench, looking at the Tesseract with a little respect.
"So, I wasn't imagining it, and I gave her a black eye... I feel awkward now. I'll have to apologize," Ferrion concluded grimly to himself.
"Next!" came from the office.
Realizing that he was next, the Turian stood up and walked with dignity towards his fate...
End of fragment 18+
Vacuum massage, electrotherapy, electrophoresis, cupping, "Spanish cloak," acupuncture, electro-sleep, turpentine baths, bee venom therapy through bee stings, hirudotherapy, oxygen tent, vibroacoustics, inhalations with "Zvezdochka" balm, Kuznetsov applicator, "Solnyshko," magnetotherapy, Darsonval, UV baths – just a few of the things the patients went through, and that's just in two days!
Ferrion simply had no strength left. He walked automatically from one office to another, stoically undergoing one procedure after another. He was "flushed" three more times to remove residual effects. Even against the backdrop of fatigue, he felt himself getting healthier. But the most reliable confirmation was his own reflection. A young Turian looked at him from the mirror, not a seasoned legionary, but he had no strength to be surprised or admire.
Now he lay under the open sky, on a gurney, tangled in a high-tech blanket. As the nurses said: "So that the new skin can get used to natural light."
"Hello," he heard a familiar voice.
Slowly getting up, he sat down. Near his gurney stood Shep, whom Nechaev had introduced him to.
"Hello," he replied quietly, so as not to disturb the other patients lying on gurneys arranged in a circle.
"How's the treatment?" the man asked too cheerfully, causing the Turian's fists to clench involuntarily.
"As if you don't know yourself..." the Tesseract retorted.
The man chuckled, then frowned, saying, "Well, well... Tell me!"
Ferrion told him.
"Hmm," Shep replied after a minute of silence, looking at the Turian with a mixture of admiration and horror, with a hint of sympathy.
The legionary tilted his head questioningly, silently demanding an explanation.
"Why did you tick all the boxes on the form?" Shep asked sympathetically and slowly. "It wasn't mandatory to tick them. These are additional procedures..."
"What do you mean, not mandatory?!" the Salarian, who had been lying there with glassy eyes until then, jumped up.
"It's written right there on the form itself," the man replied imperturbably, flipping through his papers.
Somewhere in the middle, he pulled out a sheet and handed it to the patient, pointing to the third paragraph from the top.
"I worked as a credit specialist... Even at my bank, they don't hide clauses like that in contracts!!!" the Asari howled, quickly flipping to the required page. "Why do it like that?!"
"So that they read it thoughtfully and think three times about what they are agreeing to," Shep replied, shrugging.
Turning his head back to Ferrion, he added, "Get ready. I promised to take you to the commander, and I was only allowed out until noon. He can't do it himself."
"I can't, the treatment isn't finished yet," the legionary said grimly, realizing how he had tricked himself.
"It's finished. You've even been here longer than planned. Because you mindlessly ticked the boxes, your treatment was extended. You've been here for almost two weeks. Tomorrow, Sunday, will be seventy-seven years since the activation of the 'Collective'..."