Wrex frowns, scars fresh from the last hundred years of war crinkling his features in a less than approachable manner. Earth and Tuchanka were lost to the Reapers, but the krogans never turned down a good fight. They stood their ground, in space when it came down to it, and drove the Reapers back under Shepard's standard. The survivors are sung about at campfires and fortified nurseries alike.
The leader of Clan Urdnot is a warlord and fierce opponent. His steely patience and brute strength has toppled empires. Nothing phases him.
Which is why he deadbolts the hatch and hides in the impenetrable darkness of his cabin to watch the video. The sound is down, but it's fine; he knows it by heart.
"Hey babe." Shepard sighs, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ear and staring at her data terminal. She's about to charge head first into the eye of the storm, commanding her ship and her crew into the unknown of the Omega 4 relay. "If you're watching this, I'm probably dead. Again. I wasn't blessed with secondary and tertiary organs like certain paragons of kroganity."
She winks and he laughs. He always laughs. Nervous energy crackles within her tiny human form, pulling her in at least eight different directions. Always the soldier, the rush of emotions is so new to her that she doesn't know how to handle it yet. She never did.
"I've probably disintegrated or something equally unremarkable, so if you would do me one last favor, would you make it sound awesome? I just … Tell them I stood toe to toe with the Reapers like we did with that Thresher. That I ran out of bullets and started hitting it with my bare fists. That the final blow was an enraged head-butt worthy of legend..."
Her eyes sparkle, with pride or tears, Wrex has never resolved. The mission had been a complete disaster. Even Grunt, who was gifted with regeneration and redundant organs, had not survived. The truth of Shepard's demise had been lost in a frenzy of human media politics. News stretched to the ends of the universe and promptly evaporated into a haze of summer blockbuster trailers and celebrity gossip.
It'd taken him a while, but he'd finally tracked down the sole survivor of the mission. The pilot wasn't even trying to hide anymore, shuffled off to some backwater system to fly crop dusters. Broken and disheveled, Moreau was crying into his whiskey like a varren whelp. Wrex slapped him: Shepard would have wanted it. The fall resulted in a half dozen cracked ribs, however, and Shepard most definitely wouldn't have approved of that. She always had a soft spot for the crunchy one. What she saw in him, he'd never understand.
They'd worked together for a while, after that. Wrex was a warlord after all, and had use of a pilot that knew more about ships than which buttons to punch. In thanks, Moreau eventually gave Wrex the recording destined for Grunt. The disc's edges were worn from repeated play, but the pilot assured him it'd never left his person.
"I know it's silly," Shepard admits sheepishly, color creeping into her cheeks, "But I wanted to tell you I love you. You're honest and strong and wonderful and I'm honored to have you as part of my crew. Part of my family. There are no words for how proud I am when you charge head-first into battle. Or how I felt when you accepted Urdnot as your adoptive clan. Wrex is a good guy, you'll do him proud."
Wrex reaches out and strokes the hologram's cheek. He doesn't remember how to cry, but he understands and shares the emotions burning within her. She loved and hated and brimmed so full of pride that he always expected her human frame to burst into flames at any moment.
She smiles wide, baring teeth and resolve worthy of any Krogan brood-mother, and Wrex remembers why he misses her so much.
"Give 'em hell, babe."