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There’s an electrical buzzing in the back of Saren’s mind. Radio static. The crackling a shield makes, seconds before it breaks. It’s been there for— hours. Days? Weeks? Hard to say. Lost tracks some times ago. Can’t think properly, with that damn buzzing. It seems to drown everything else out. Thoughts, sight, words.
Everything but Nihlus.
Nothing can drown out Nihlus. He knows him too well. Could recognize his voice in a crowd, from the other side of the planet, through the worst of static and interference. His subvocals hum underneath the static, relaxed, his voice comforting in its familiarity. Most Spectres would be uncomfortable at another getting in the way: they like their independence. Not Nihlus. He’s just happy to see Saren. The feeling’s mutual. Being a Spectre isn’t a job that lets you go home often. Two Spectres? They basically never see each other except on team-up missions. He missed Nihlus, those past few hours-days-weeks-months-however how long the buzzing has been going on.
(What was there, before it? He remembers… something. Hard to pinpoint. His head hurts, thinking about it. Or maybe it’s just the buzzing. Hell of a headache either way.)
Saren’s finger spasms on the trigger of his pistol. Why is he holding his gun? Right. The geths. He’s been shooting— no, that’s not right. There aren’t any dead geths around. Just him, and Nihlus.
There’s like an itch under his plates, a restlessness he hasn’t felt since he was a rookie sent on his first mission. Nihlus talks but it sounds distant, as if underwater or faraway. Difficult to hear over the buzzing—
He raises his pistol. Pointed right at the back of Nihlus’ head.
Idiot. Didn’t they teach you never to turn your back on hostiles?
Wait, that’s not right either. Saren isn’t a hostile. He’s—
(The static gets louder, less a buzzing than a siren, blaring—)
He has to fire. Before it’s too late. Why does he have to fire?
Hostiles. Right. He has to get rid of hostiles. Just like that Turian right there. He’s in the way of his plans. His plans. Their plans. Saren’s and—
Who?
His hand shakes. Nihlus is still talking, but he doesn’t hear a thing beyond the noise, just sees his mouth moving, his mandibles fluttering in a smile.
Something isn’t right.
His arm won’t move, his finger tight around his pistol. He fights against the impulse to relax — feels like it’ll just make him pull the trigger. It’s a stalemate.
Saren drags in a shuddering breath. Open his mouth. Chokes out, as if rusted from the inside out, “Nihlus.”
Nihlus turns around, mandibles tight in confusion, and jumps back when he sees the gun pointed at him. “Saren, what’s going on?”
He shakes his head as much as his body will let him. He can’t look away from the barrel of the gun, kept in place by what strength he can muster through the noise. His entire body screams at him to move it, point it at Nihlus, pull the trigger, leave, get the beacon and leave. His mind bucks against the imperative, a gun that refuses to shoot.
Movement, just out the corner of his eye. Nihlus, moving towards him. He wants to tell him to back off, leave, take the beacon and leave, far away from Saren, but he can do nothing as his fingers tighten around the pistol, his arm shaking with the effort of keeping it still.
Nihlus raises his own gun. Saren exhales slowly, through his teeth, hopes he can keep himself still long enough that his Spectre training doesn’t have time to kick in—
The butt of the rifle hits the back of his head. The impact clears his mind for one blissful, silent second, and his last thought before he blacks out is surprise that there’s anything left in him beside the noise.
(The last thing he hears is Nihlus’ voice, talking into his com. He doesn’t understand what he’s saying, already too close to unconsciousness for words, but he carries the sound of it with him in the darkness, to ward off the static.)