He settles himself in a familiar stance, rigid and relaxed and somehow managing this all at once, as his talons close around the handle of his gun. His grip is firm and sure as he raises his arm. There's a tremor through the length of the limb, subtle but steady, joints burning underneath muscle and sinew and blue, blue blood. He's been at this for hours, it's almost familiar now.
"From what I've heard, you've been in plenty of compromising situations." He glances at her briefly, allows a short chuckle. "How kind of you to offer. Ever the paragon of your species, hm, Shepard? The firing range does get old after a few dozen hours."
He aims for the head. Always the head. Right at the center, between the temples. Nihlus applies pressure to the trigger and the gun promptly goes off. The bullet crashes through the mouth, dislocating jaw and teeth and bursting out of the nape of the neck on the other side.
Nihlus inhales, a rumble of air sucked into his lungs. The shot hit its head, but not the area he had wanted. Still--progress is progress, however painstakingly slow.
Shepard's company helps keep his composure in check, the pressure in his chest lulled by the other Spectre's presence. He's less likely to lose his cool even by a fraction when there's an audience--specifically one he shares a brief history with. It's a good distraction.
His arm lowers, settles back to his side, his body relaxing now. He stares at the damage he's done, and then at Shepard's, a contemplative expression in the twitch of his mandibles,
"In my experience, head injuries are...severely unpleasant." He thinks he should laugh--at the irony, at least. Or the understatement. But he doesn't. Just gestures to his right arm. "Dislocated shoulder. The worse of it, anyway."
The next words he utters are an afterthought, "It's good to see you out and about, regardless. How are you healing up?"
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