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The sim room door slams against the wall. Two people spill out into the hallway, arguing furiously.
"Fuck you, Vakarian, you stole my simulator slot on purpose – "
Vakarian laughs. Mistake. "You were late."
"I was fifteen fucking seconds late and you used that as an excuse!"
"What's the big deal, anyway? You got bumped, it happens to everyone."
Shepard's damn near drilling her finger through Vakarian's chest with the way she's poking him. Like a cattle prod. "Yeah, I got fucking bumped, no thanks to you Vakarian, and now I have to deal with fucking Macready! Who's already got his fucking panties in a twist from the shit you pulled in the sim!"
The rest of the class keeps to the far side of the hallway as they file through.
This happens a lot.
Vakarian is the top ranked turian student. He's careful, calculating, bright, and willing to accept the kind of losses that would make anyone else give up. It makes him surprisingly effective. Shepard's got the top spot on the human side. She has a natural gift for tactics and she's aggressive and she's willing to do anything and fight anyone to keep her place. They've been duking it out for valedictorian ever since they laid eyes on each other. In other words, they argue. Loudly. At length. Really, it's a wonder that anyone gets any studying done.
It's been three years of outright warfare. This year they included Shepard and Vakarian in the trainee tour advisories, like pointing out the water hazard at a golf range. Don't engage, the tour guide said, avoiding rolling her eyes only by the slightest of professional margins. They get worse if you interrupt them.
The teachers are counting the days to graduation. They've laid in enough alcohol, both human and turian, to celebrate their new-found peace and quiet in style.
They have plans.
They're not the only ones.
The last few members of the class move past them, careful to keep their eyes to themselves – Vakarian has this nasty, sadistic habit of appealing to bystanders to see if they'll weigh in, which makes everything much louder. Shepard doesn't appreciate it, either, from the way she's stepping into his space, pushing up on to her toes so she can hiss directly into his face instead of talking to his chestplate.
"If you think for one second that I'm going to let your little stunt affect my grade – "
Vakarian laughs. He might even be leaning down, just a bit, so that he can look Shepard in the eyes. It's only fair, after all. "You're only three points ahead of me," he says. "Better watch out."
"I swear to god, one day I'm gonna rip off your mandibles and shove them down your throat," Shepard says, her every word measured, perfectly enunciated. She's speaking at a normal volume for the first time since the shouting started.
Vakarian leans down even further. "You'd have to get a box."
They stare at each other for longer than is socially polite.
"They're gone," Vakarian says, much quieter.
Shepard climbs him like a tree, pushing him backward against the wall. "I'll put you in a fucking box," she mutters, but –
Okay.
Have you ever met someone who drives you up the wall so much that you want to shut them up with your face?
Shepard is pretty sure that the only way she can stand Vakarian is when she's keeping his mouth busy. And as for Vakarian, well. He's much more interested in the kinds of noises Shepard can make with her clothes off.
They're performing a public service. Really. (In public, no less. They're so dedicated.)
So she's kissing him, human-style, and – as usual, to be quite honest – Vakarian's struggling to keep up. Turians aren't kissers, as a rule, but Shepard's made her case and Vakarian finds himself convinced.
Thoroughly convinced.
She just –
If one were an objective outsider, one might notice the tender, possessive way his hand curves over her ass. Vakarian has another class in fifteen minutes. Shepard is due to meet with her advisor. Neither of them can afford this kind of wasted time.
But even though they must know that, neither of them move.
Shepard's doing her best to give Vakarian a hickey, but human teeth just aren't built for getting through tough turian plates. Vakarian seems to be enjoying it anyway. Perhaps that's why he pulls her tighter.
They're so wrapped up in each other that they don't notice the terrified freshman at the far end of the hall, who when she sees them, squeaks and promptly turns and flees in the other direction. Clever girl.
———
Our freshman bursts through the canteen doors and looks around with wild eyes until she finds the older student assigned to her section. She waits impatiently, her foot tapping, until he looks up from eating his lunch with steady determination.
She whispers something in his ear.
He spins on the bench and grabs her arm. "Are you absolutely sure?" he asks urgently.
She nods.
He stands up, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles so loudly that it rings off the walls. The noise level drops immediately. "I have confirmed sighting of Shepard and Vakarian in the sim hallway!" he shouts to the rest of the room. "Who had today?"
Immediately the hubbub rises again, far louder than before. There are so many bets with so much money riding on this that one of the students had to smuggle a gambling VI into the school to keep track of the odds.
(The teachers have their own private pool. There's no need to be completely unprofessional.)
The pool's split between two students, actually, but they both seem completely satisfied with the amount of credits they won. There were a lot of credits at stake. Half is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, considering the number of people involved in this particular bet, and how hotly debated this topic has been, half is a nice little nest egg.
And the subjects of the bet?
They're still wrapped up in each other in the simulation room hallway. The warning klaxon's going to go off in three minutes, and then they'll realize how late they are and break apart with scowls (Shepard) and glares (Vakarian) before going their separate ways.
For now, though, let them be. They're happier that way.