The Shroud tower was wreathed in lightning, detonating in random isolated bursts of flame. The debris rained down onto the foyer as she ran inside. She blinked away the sweat and grime of the battle – heaving breath into aching lungs. Tuchanka was an unforgiving world – brutal and harsh – a reflection of the Krogan themselves.
Green eyes, hardened by what she knew was to come, locked onto the Salarian at the terminal below. His slender digits typed away with such speed, it was difficult for her to follow.
Please, she thought as she strode toward him, please see reason. She had no choice. She couldn't allow Wreav the opportunity to unleash a horde of vengeful Krogan on a weak and broken galaxy. She wouldn't allow it.
"Mordin," she called, moving to stand beside him. She watched him closely – noticed the subtle strain in his eyes and movements. Sadness lingered there, under a mountain of fatigue so heavy that it radiated off him like a plague. He was beyond exhausted – they both were.
"Is the cure ready?"
His face was drawn in concentration, his eyes never left the screen as he worked. "Yes," a weary nod. "Loaded for dispersal in two minutes," he paused then, turning to face her with solemn eyes. "but Eve – dead."
No, she cursed. "What happened?"
He returned to work as he spoke, fingers blurred across the terminal. "Stress sampling – too intense – too much trauma. Wanted to stop – she refused – her decision."
How casually we talk of sacrifice for the greater good – when we cannot even see the road leading us to damnation. Eve was the last hope for the Krogan – without her, Wreav will run amok, the bitter thought raced through her mind. Mordin sagged, the loss of Eve heavy on his heart. She cursed herself again, damning fate. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
"A lot of people died today Mordin – there's nothing we can do," she tried to console him, but her own words rang hollow to her ears. He must have felt the same – for the weak attempt at platitude went utterly ignored.
"Female was stabilizing force for Krogan – implication of Wreav as Krogan leader…problematic."
No shit, she thought. A burning chunk of the tower cascaded down then, slamming into the terminals just a dozen feet from where they stood. "Damn," she swore, lifting an arm on instinct as the blast rocked them both.
"Control room at top of Shroud tower – must take elevator up," he gestured as he worked.
"You're going up there," she asked incredulously.
Mordin nodded as he activated his omni-tool. Rechecking his work, no doubt, she thought as she stared at him in disbelief. "Yes – readings at lab suggest temperature malfunction. Could affect cure viability – need to adjust settings manually."
He didn't wait for her, he simply turned and marched toward the waiting lift – as the Shroud continued to explode and burn around them.
No, dammit – he'll die up there, she screamed inside. "Its too dangerous," she followed him. "Mordin, we need to get out of here," to her ears, the strain in her voice sounded very close to a plea. Don't do this, Mordin. Please.
He stopped, only to look up at the burning tower, refusing to face her. "No – temperature variance could destroy cure. Time running out – have to go up." He spoke the words with calm determination – without a shred of doubt or hesitancy. He knew what was to come.
In that moment, so did she.
Dammit, Mordin, she felt her heart crack as she hung her head. The impossible weight of her decisions crushed her soul. She felt like laying down and dying – right there – buried under the rubble of the instrument of the Krogan's curse, and failed redemption.
Duty. Victory, by any means. Complete the mission – whatever it takes – these were the words that kept her standing. There was no choice. The Krogan had drowned the galaxy in blood and fire before – and that fool, Wreav – would do so again.
How did it come to this, she wondered.
"Mordin," her voice was utterly devoid of emotion, cold as the grave. "You're not going up."
The Salarian tensed, but remained where he was. "Not concerned for my safety – concerned I might discover something. Sabotage? But whose?" He inhaled sharply as his amazingly sharp mind pieced all the clues together in the span of a few heartbeats. "Ah."
"Why Shepard," he turned to her then, eyes narrowed in a glare of rare emotion. Anger was there in force – but it was the undercurrent layer of hurt, of betrayal, that sent her heart reeling. "That desperate for Salarian aid – or that afraid of Krogan?"
He didn't wait for her answer. She followed, the movement and his harsh words sparking her own emotions. "Every time we've talked about this you've defended the genophage! How can you change your mind now?"
He stopped abruptly – spinning to face her – eyes wide and wild. "I made a mistake," he shouted, poised as if ready to strike, yet deflated almost instantly. Wrath cooled to sorrow – to regret. He hung his head with a sad shake. "I made a mistake. Focused on big picture – big picture made of little pictures – too many variables," he lifted his head then, meeting her eyes. His face hardened, shame replaced with resolve. "Can't stop now – gone too far! Eve dead – Krogan deserve cure!"
No – dammit, Mordin! The Carnifex was in her hand as she raised it to his chest. Despite the conflict raging inside her, the pistol never waivered.
"Mordin – walk away," she hated the way her voice broke as she spoke his name. She hated the Reapers for causing this war. She hated the Salarians for creating this asinine plague, the Turians for using it, the Krogan for demanding she cure it. Most of all, she hated herself for knowing how this horrible situation was going to end. Please, Mordin – don't make me do this.
"Can't do that, Shepard," he shook his head sadly.
"I don't have a choice here – walk away or I will fire," her lips were trembling now. Don't make me do this Mordin. I don't want to do this!
"Not your decision," he jabbed a dagger-thin digit at her – utterly defiant. "Not your work – not your cure! Had to be me," he relaxed, nodding to her. "Someone else might have gotten it wrong."
He wont back down. It's like Virmire all over again, she couldn't stop the poisonous thought, or the well of black emotions pouring from her heart. It burned like acid in her veins, setting her body trembling. She felt the first bitter tears spill from her eyes.
"No time to argue," Mordin continued, "cure dispersal imminent – must counteract sabotage." He turned then, speaking to her over his shoulder as he marched to the lift. "Stop me if you must."
Seven steps to the elevator controls. That's all the time she had to decide, and it seemed to stretch and slow as she watched him walk away down the sights of the Carnifex.
One. She thought of Wrex, on Virmire, and their talks of his people – the Krogan. He seemed to share no special love for them, even killed his own father! And when he learned of Saren's 'cure' – he refused to see reason.
Two. She thought of Wreav – an arrogant, bloodthirsty tyrant-in-waiting. He admitted that seeking vengeance against the galaxy that 'betrayed' his people would happen. The Salarians and Turians would never survive a Krogan onslaught after the Reapers.
Three. She thought of Eve. The Krogan maiden was hopeful for the future of her race – and despite all she suffered, wanted nothing more than to spread that hope. Hope to learn from the sins of the past – on all sides. Hope to rebuild the glories of the ancients. Hope to tame the violent, illogical urges of the males who kept them in submission.
But Eve is gone – and hope for the Krogan with her, the thought pierces through the fog of her mind; lancing through heavy emotions that clouded her judgement and sapped her will to do what had to be done. In its wake, cold unbreakable certainty reigned.
She pulled the trigger.
The Carnifex bucked in her fist.
The bullet tore into Mordin's back. Propelled forward, his outstretched hand slammed into the elevator controls as his body spun, back hitting the wall. She watched as the doors closed. He slid to the floor, paralyzed legs sprawled out before him, white lab-coat splattered with dark green blood.
He coughed, vomiting black viscera as the doors seal and the lift rises. His eyes never leave hers.
"I'm sorry," the words left her trembling lips as barely more than a whisper, as hot bitter tears stained her face. Her eyes fall to the weapon in her hand. It was the very same pistol Mordin gave her – what seemed like a lifetime ago.
She turned from the tower without another glance.
She threw the pistol – and buried her guilt, her shame. If the galaxy survived – if she survived, that was a battle for another day.