"What kind of clan chief's son gets removed from singular training? Sounds like a moron to me."
-Urdnot Wreav, year 1012 CE
Wrex groaned.
This wasn't the first time he'd had to struggle back into consciousness, but it was the first time that he was doing so on account of his father. He faintly recalled the big bastard's fist slamming into his skull, and feeling the dirt rush up to meet him. Then blissful, black numbness.
Of course, that was then and this was now. Now involved a pounding headache, a painfully stinging bruise on the side of his head and a throbbing behind his eyes. There was also a painful itch on his lower right quad, but he wasn't about to mention that to anyone, let alone any of the other "wounds" he was carrying. He'd already racked up seventeen internal injuries in this past year, and twelve of them in the training. Hell, he'd gotten off easily, all things considered.
With that thought, he decided to open his eyes. That alone set the pain in his skull to hideous drumming, but he pushed it down, along with the anguished groan he'd had building up. Expecting the light to singe his retinas, he instead found himself in almost complete darkness, barring a few threads of light on the periphery of his vision. He blinked a few times, then glared about with ruby-red eyes.
Once he realised where he was, he let the groan escape. It was the Harirut cave. Formerly a hospital built by the salarian uplift teams to facilitate krogan welfare, the damn thing had collapsed after one of Tuchanka's many earth tremors. Partly inside a large cliff, its dozens of chambers were now used as a makeshift medical centre for wounded krogan. Of course, when you were a krogan, medical treatment usually came down to a dressing, some painkillers (if you were lucky) and a boot up the ass for your trouble. Given his minor injuries, it was likely that Jarrod had tossed him in here so he wouldn't have to put up with Wrex for a few hours.
Or a few days, if that's how long he'd been out. His father packed quite the punch.
He heard a noise, and turned onto his side with a mighty effort. He was lying on a bunk of some kind, and he could feel some strange dampness just beneath his right leg. Probably left there by the previous occupant. He just prayed it had been a male. Lifting his eyes, he saw a one-legged elder with the mark of a doctor on his crest hobbling around the room. He had some kind of bottle in hand. Clearing his throat, Wrex gave a feeble wave. "Hey. You."
The elder shot him a look, then came closer. As he did so, Wrex realised that the stereotype regarding ugly krogan working in the hospitals wasn't such a stereotype after all. His face looked like the back end of a varren. One of his eyes had a nasty sty in it. "Wut?"
Wrex grimaced. How did someone end up speaking like that? "You mind telling me what's going on? Last time I checked, Harirut cave was for half-dead warriors and the f-"
"Shut yer face." The elder tossed the bottle onto his lap, moved away from the bunk and to another, where another form was huddled beneath a blanket. Probably a youngling with the ket'ach fever; it was rampant in the Urdnot settlements of late. "I ain't yer muther."
"Not asking you to be, you wizened old fart." Wrex lowered his gaze to the bottle he'd been given, and shook it around. It sounded viscous. "What the fuck is this?" he asked, expecting some medical jargon to follow.
"Ryncol."
He stopped, and gave the doctor a deadly stare. "Ryncol."
The doctor turned around and gave him one back. "Yeah, what'd ya expect? This ain't a thresher-damned hospital, don' go countin' wut's writ on the fuckin' walls. Ya take yer swig, maybe two. Three if yer a willow-spined li'l turd. Then ya piss on outta here and pray ya don' see me again. Cuz if ya do, I swear I'll-"
Some doctor.
To avoid a pointless, semi-literate argument with this moron, Wrex quickly tipped back the noxious brew into his mouth. It tasted foul, but it wet his throat and that was what counted. He drank three brews just to piss the doctor off, then threw his legs onto the ground with a thump. The pain in his head was already lessening. "I won't take up any more of your time, doctor."
The krogan in question was still ranting. "-an' yer gonna wish ya'd had one a' the females look after ya, cuz unless yer the son of fuckin' Urdnot Jarrod hisself-"
At that, Wrex had to intervene. "I'm Urdnot Wrex. Case you didn't realise." One, two, three...
And right on cue, the realisation and fear stole over the other krogan's face. Taking an involuntary step back, the doctor murmured, "Yer Jarrod's son? Wrex? I heard of ya." Stuffing a hand into his robe, he withdrew a chit from his pocket and threw it over to him. "Hand that in, they'll give ya pers'nal effects back. Sorry 'bout th' trouble." He got out of the room as fast as he could, almost tripping twice. Soon Wrex was alone, barring a few invalids coughing quietly.
The young warrior laughed softly; the bastard hadn't even realised he'd slipped in the Urdnot prefix. Idiot. That was just a little taste of what life would be like, once he had attained the rank of a true Urdnot warrior. No longer the son of Jarrod, but a name to fear in his own right. Battlemaster Urdnot Wrex, scourge of Tuchanka and killer of hundreds. Thousands, even!
A crick in his neck brought him back to reality, and he rolled it in that characteristic krogan style. The galaxy would wait a while, but for now, he needed out of this stinking cave. And something to eat. And maybe some more ryncol...
Walking out of the room, Wrex found himself greeted by the familiar sight of the cramped, dimly lit corridors of the Harirut, all rusting girders and concrete walls. There used to be some facilities-heating, water-but all the technology for that had been cannibalised when his father needed it for weapons development. It didn't particularly concern Wrex. They made do with whatever they had, and ambushing the occasional supply freighter passing through the DMZ didn't hurt their chances of saving a few more Urdnot lives. Any that died here had earned their deaths in rigorous battle, and those that didn't usually made it out. So either way, there was good news for the krogan.
Navigating down one of the passageways, he wrinkled his nose at the harsh, acrid stench that was wafting through the entire cave. When he rounded a corner, he almost bumped into a pair of medics carrying something on a stretcher. The tapered fingers on a hand poking out from under the hessian blanket confirmed his fears. "Another?" he demanded.
The first medic nodded sombrely. "Yes. They found her out in the wastes. Had bites all over her from rabid klixen. Tried to save her, but she was in bad shape." He spoke in the clipped tone of one who did not want to think too much about the matter at hand. Wrex tried to feel scorn, but couldn't quite manage it. Hard to feel things like scorn when you were sharing breathing room with a corpse.
Suddenly he registered the smell in the air. "They've started up the furnaces again. When was the last-"
"Four weeks. Shortest length of time in..." The medic exhaled, and looked away. "A long time. I don't know anymore. I don't know if I can-"
Without even realising he was doing it, Wrex stepped closer and placed a hand on the young krogan's shoulder. He couldn't have been much older than Wrex himself, yet suddenly he felt much older. "It's part of life on Tuchanka. There's nothing we can do about it. Except save those that are left."
It wasn't much of a Battlemaster speech, but it seemed to work. The medic gave his thanks, gave a grunt to his colleague and the pair moved around the corner with their grisly burden in tow. Not wishing to dwell on the matter, Wrex quickened his pace and left the internal section of the cave, heading towards the rift where the cliff's interior ended and what was left of the hospital began. Now the air began to stink of urine, faeces, vomit and blood, but it was a shitload better than what he'd left behind. Unfortunately, the noise also began to rise.
Wounded krogan, expectant mothers and foul-mouthed medics all contributed to the din. Racing in and out of rooms, carrying outdated antiseptics and medications, complaining of injuries, comparing scars, complaining of scale itch, eating steaks of various derivation, complaining of poorly-healed wounds, complaining about the tank water, complaining about the smell, complaining, complaining, complaining...
"Where can I get a doctor?"
"You say that again, runt, and I'll put your teeth through the back of your head!"
"I wouldn't feed this crap to a turian...alright, maybe I would."
"Kar'grat ushtuk ter-aralakh bruk'av!""Get me some more of that dentolin, it works for laser burns and we've got plenty of it."
Wrex decided to avoid the crush by going around the edges of the main corridor and through to what was sneeringly referred to as "the lobby." Once there, he'd collect his weapons, get back to the camp and find out if Urdnot Drachus had survived. He hoped not. Jarrod would make him apologise, and it was hard to go back to the way things were before you impaled someone with a spike as big as the gun it came from.
Not far now. He was almost through-
"Move your ass, scum!"
He felt a shove between his shoulder blades, and was propelled forward into a stalagmite. His tender skull smacked into it neatly and his headache returned with a vengeance. Snarling, he whirled around, hands going to his belt, but finding nothing. His weapons were waiting at the entrance. Instead, he glared at his attacker.
It was another Urdnot youth, about the same age and height as he. His crest was brown, which was common among the males of the clan. But this one-standing with arms folded and scowling-reeked of arrogance and hostility. The look in his eyes was plain. Wrex took a step towards him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, whelp?"
The bastard sneered at him, beady red eyes tracking him. "Getting an oaf like you out of my way. You're a waste of space anyway, so just keep to one side with the females. Got it?"
That he would not allow. Wrex stepped forward, fists bunching. "Why don't I-"
Quicker than he could process, the brown bastard headbutted him, sending a rictus of agony through his crest and through his mind. Coloured spots danced in his vision. All this cranial punishment couldn't be good for him. Ignoring it again, he growled out, "That all you got?" Then seized him by the shoulders and kneed him in the quad.
As his opponent crumpled to the floor, he shot out a hand, and seized Wrex's ankle. Not expecting this, he lost balance and fell down, his hump cracking against the stalagmite. Before he could get up and kick the fucker in the face, he heard the tick-tick-tick of a charging graal. Right next to his head. Raising one hand slowly, he spoke aloud. "Nothing to worry about here."
The hospital guards were famous for their uncompromising judgement and tendency to shoot first and take sides later. This one, a hulking specimen called Urdnot Frum, slid his mouth back into a leer. "You sure 'bout that? I could make something to worry about, if I wanted." He shifted his attention to Wrex's assailant. "What about you, big guy? Wanna start somethin'?"
Like a true coward, the bastard brushed himself off and rose to his feet. "No, "he muttered. Then he turned heel and disappeared into the crowd, looking for another way around.
Frum jabbed Wrex in the side with his graal, which was still giving off a lethal whine. "Last thing I want are some gung-ho twerps like yourselves shootin' up the place and causin' a ruckus. Got females here, some children too. They don't need none of it. Understood?"
The man was an idiot, but a well-meaning one. Giving him a cool nod, Wrex slid past the guard and onward through the main corridor, eventually coming out into the lobby. The fierce daylight of Tuchanka leaked through what remained of the slatted windows and random holes in the hospital facade. A large, dusty leather flap was used as an impromptu doorway, covered in notches from all the impatient hands that had dragged and clawed against it. Off to the right, a former reception desk was used as a place for the "doctors" to relax when off-duty. Currently two of them were sitting back to back, snoring.
Standing near the door was the last person he expected to see. His father, arms folded and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Hospitals had never sat well with the old bastard, particularly ones built by the treacherous salarians. He kept expecting a bomb to collapse the remainder of the building, or for hidden gas canisters to suffocate everyone inside it. Years of constant security sweeps had not allayed his concerns. It was one of the many irritating aspects of his personality Wrex had learnt to deal with. "Skull still in one piece?" he asked, by way of greeting.
Wrex touched one finger to it with a deadpan look. "You tell me. You were the one that tried to put your fist through it." He walked past Jarrod and over to the guard by the door, holding up his chit. Upon seeing it, the krogan nodded and spoke into the radio clipped to his head. "Number thirty-eight." He then said to Wrex, "Your gear's on the way."
Nodding his thanks, Wrex turned back to his father. "What are you doing here? Since when do you care about my general wellbeing, father?"
The Urdnot chieftain sniffed and looked away. "Didn't want to have to drag your dead ass out of here, in case you're softer than I thought. Don't kid yourself, son; if you died, it'd be the furnaces for you. S'good as a funeral pyre and be glad of it."
Yeah, right. Your only son, grilled like a varren steak. Wrex was assured of his place as Urdnot's sole successor. Jarrod knew it, too. He looked back the way he had came. "Speaking of which..."
Jarrod's expression turned flat immediately, eyes dull like stones. "I know. But get used to it. Ever since the rebellions...it's just something to take in your stride." He then did precisely that, pushing the entrance flap aside and walking back outside.
An orderly arrived with Wrex's shotgun, gauntlets and pistol. He accepted them briskly and then followed his father, who was opening the hatch of a Tomkah and swearing under his breath. Eyeing it dubiously, he shouted over the howling wind, "Fortack didn't fix the engine, did he?"
"Of course not, the old fuck is still trying to un-stick the manifold from his pyjak shredder or some shit like that, "Jarrod shouted back. "I'd wring his neck if he wasn't so damn important. Well, get in. It's this or we walk back to the camp, and I'm not in the mood for fighting a thresher maw or whatever Tuchanka decides to throw at us." He pulled himself inside the cockpit with a grunt and slammed the hatch closed. The vehicle's engine came to life with a sputtering roar.
Running up, Wrex leaped and grasped a handle on the truck's side. Nestling into a comfortable crevice that smelt of blood and oil, he rapped the sand-coloured metal and received two knocks in response. The entire thing lurched into motion, and the wind, already bitter, found itself a convenient ally. Wrex was wishing he had a helmet or a pair of goggles, but they had been left inside the truck.
As they swung away from the cliff, down a hill and back onto what passed for a highway, the truck suddenly swerved and plowed through a boulder. Chips of stone went everywhere, and one sliced along his exposed leg. Clutching one hand to it, he shouted, "Watch it, asshole!"
He could swear he heard Jarrod sniggering.
Still grumbling, Wrex tried to ignore the pain and watched the mostly-destroyed scenery flash by. Rubble, sand, old buildings, old statues, industrial warehouses, abandoned missile silos...it was a rich tapestry. Then he saw a plume of smoke, near where the cliff simply disappeared into a mountain made of sand, and his stomach dropped. The furnaces weren't the only place.
In a shallow basin visible from the top of the Tomkah, he saw twenty or so krogan piling bodies, taking them from flatbed trucks and carts, placing them into a giant macabre pile. Flame was taken from a nearby bonfire and used to spark the entire assembly. Even from this distance, Wrex knew that, to a krogan, they were all female. Females that had driven to despair by the genophage, had seen their children die without taking a breath and decided to end it, either by gun or knife or by wandering into the wastes. Just like the one on the stretcher in the Harirut cave. That was why the fire was being built. That many bodies couldn't be left to rot in the sun.
Wrex sighed deeply, unheard over the roar of the wind and the truck, and averted his gaze. He did not look back up for a long time. Better to look down at the scars on his body. At least those had been inflicted fairly.
*************************************************
After an excruciating hour spent riding the truck, father and son finally pulled into the relative shelter of the Urdnot encampment. Located in a box canyon, the entrance of which was heavily guarded, there was a sophisticated camouflage shield over the plateau level, a remnant of the rebellions when they needed protection from turian air support. It was bomb-proof, radiation-proof and would not show up on sensors. Even decades under the harsh gaze of Aralakh hadn't managed to pierce it. Thus, the scattered buildings and dwellings of the Urdnot krogan were bathed in deep shadow. The sun was setting anyway.
They parked next to the other Tomkahs, and the engine chose that moment to break down. A loud groan rippled through the entire vehicle and a blast of red smoke blew out from under the chassis. The hatch wrenched open and Jarrod emerged snarling. "That fucking engine is Fortack's problem! If he spent half as much time on fixing these trucks as he did bitching about lack of resources..." He dealt the ailing truck a swift kick and turned away, still cursing. "Get down from there, damn it. We've got something to discuss."
Wrex hopped off the truck with a thud and immediately regretted it. His limbs were palsied with tiny cuts from the wind, not to mention limp with inactivity. He fought off the numb feeling that was creeping up his legs and arms, and fell in behind his father. Idly, he wondered what he had done wrong now. Killing Drachus might have been ill-advised, but come on. The man was a complete tool.
In a few minutes they entered the low-roofed concrete bunker that belonged to Jarrod. The decor inside was sparse: a moth-eaten rug from asari space, a few primitive sketching on the walls from the glory days of the krogan and a table with some food and drink. At the far end lay a massive throne, crudely hacked from basalt. It served as the glorious seat from where Clan Urdnot was governed and guided. Or so Jarrod kept saying, in the belief that saying stupid things repeatedly made them true.
The clan chieftain stomped his way to his beloved seat and slumped into it with a contented sigh. It can't possibly be that comfortable, Wrex thought, letting his gaze wander. Rubbing his eyes, his father muttered, "Your training schedule is going to undergo a change."
That got his attention. Snapping his eyes back to his father, he demanded loudly, "What do you mean, change?"
"If you shut up for a fucking minute I'll tell you." The curt tone in his voice brought Wrex to heel. There were times when baiting his father was alright. This was not one of those times. He settled in to listen.
" You killing Drachus has left me to face a problem. He had friends in this camp, powerful ones. So far, news of his death hasn't spread, but that won't last. I'll have a bunch of aggrieved sycophants crashing in here stirring up troubles. Things were just quieting down after I killed those Blood Pack insurgents and now-"He crunched a fist into his palm-"I've got this shit to deal with. So thanks, Wrex."
Wrex stared back coolly. "You were saying about my training?"
"Ah yes." He laced his fingers together. "In order to placate the others, your singular training privileges are going to be revoked, and you will be assigned a partner."
"What!" Wrex shouted, striding forward. "But-"
"No buts, Wrex!" Jarrod shouted back, lips flecked with foam and a wild look in his eyes. "I'm the clan chief around here, in case you hadn't noticed! I need to provide a counter to the fucking politics in this camp, and you're the one to help me do it. Besides, what makes you think you deserve any fucking special treatment?" He grabbed a nearby goblet and flung it at his son's head. "You talk a fine game, and you've got skill, no doubt, but you've got equals out there, my son. And that is what this new training will prove." He settled back down, cheeks red from shouting.
Wrex seethed silently, furious at this change of events. He'd never expected a drop of sympathy from his cunt of a father, but this...this was unfathomable. He was the premier warrior of Clan Urdnot, damn it! And an outsider, no matter how skilled, would ruin it. Facing Jarrod, he asked in a deceptively calm tone, "And who is this new training partner?"
Jarrod pointed at the door. "I ordered him to meet us here. He'll be here any minute-"
The door was shoved aside, and a krogan with a brown crest marched in.
Their eyes met, and each let out a groan. Then a snarled accusation, each fired with recognition and hatred.
"You again!"
