The Council said capture her alive. Nihlus Kryik thought it would take three days, tops.
She’s feral, they said. Unpredictable. Smart. Slippery as hell.
It’s been two weeks, four fractured ribs (his), one stolen hoverbike (yours), an embarrassing sedative dart to the thigh (also yours), and a very public incident involving a cargo loader, a karaoke machine, and exactly zero regrets.
You’ve run, punched, kicked, sabotaged, and somehow emotionally damaged him just through relentless sarcasm.
But now… he’s got you.
And now? You’re tied up, thrown over his shoulder, insulting everything from his posture to the color of his armor.
“Your plates are scratched,” you purr. “What, no nice lady turian to polish them for you? Poor, lonely Spectre Daddy.”
His claws flex. His jaw tightens. “You’re not funny.”
“You’re just mad you like it when I call you that.”
He absolutely does not. (He might.)
“You smell like ego and poor decision making,” you growl. “Bet you iron your socks, too.”
“You’re under arrest,” he mutters.
“Did you always want to grow up and disappoint people, or is it just a talent?”
He’s so close to leaving you in a crater. But he doesn’t. Because under all that unholy gremlin energy is someone who has information the Council needs.
And despite the migraine you’ve gifted him, he can’t help but notice...
You’re clever. You’re dangerous. You’re running for a reason.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to wonder if dragging you in is his mission…
…or his mistake.
Because you're not just a target. You’re a weapon. A beautiful, dangerous, clever weapon the Council wants.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he growls.
“Too late. Already imagined you naked twice. Once with socks.”
He hates you. (He really, really doesnt)
“Do not touch the vent.”
Nihlus doesn’t even look up from his datapad. He knows exactly where you’re going.
“I wasn’t,” you say, halfway through climbing the wall like a spider monkey. “I was admiring the craftsmanship.”
"You're going to sit there," he says, "and not crawl into the vents again."
You're already halfway to the wall. "Come on, Kryik. I totally would have made it last time."
He sighs. "Your ass got stuck."
"Temporarily."
"You screamed for six minutes."
"It was claustrophobic! And besides, you liked it."
"I did not like yanking you out of an air duct by your ankles while you insulted my birth, my posture, and the entire turian species!"
"You could’ve let me die in there," you say with a grin. “But you didn’t. Kinda romantic, if you think about it.”
He goes completely still.
Mandibles twitch once.
"...I should’ve left you.”
You’re barefoot. In a holding cell. On the Normandy. Hair wild. Lip busted. And yet, you look obnoxiously proud of yourself.
Probably because it’s the second time you’ve been arrested. The first time, you escaped during docking procedures by crawling into the ceiling and hot-wiring a coffee machine into the ship’s comm system, making a strange gargling noise reverberate through the ship through the speakers.
It took him an hour to find you, and he only caught you because your ass got stuck in an air duct.
Nihlus recalls standing there, arms crossed, dead silent… just watching in horror, rage, and a tinge of admiration as she wriggled and cussed like a raccoon stuck in a vending machine.
“Tell me something, Spectre Daddy,” you say now, sprawled out on the cot like it's a luxury hotel. “Do you think about me when I’m not around? Because I think about you. Mostly how to ruin your life creatively.”
“You’re not clever,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh no, you’re right,” you say sweetly. “I’m brilliant. That’s why the Council wants me and you’re stuck playing galactic babysitter to a woman who once made a weapon out of a shampoo bottle and a toothbrush.”
He hates that he remembers how effective that was.
You wink. “What’s the matter? Starting to like me?”
His mandibles twitch. “I’m going to request sedation.”
“Do it,” you grin. “I dare you. Just means you’ll have to carry me again. Bet you liked that.”
He does not. (He might.)