Awakening, + 6 months

Side by side, Tsarik and Jorsh worked at assembling the components together. It would lack the polished finish of the machines they had been used to, but the jury-rigged synthetic helper would be a more suitable helper. The cleaning robots were just not efficient enough to move several tons of dirt and rock quickly.

Finishing, he straightened with a popping sound from his muscles. He glanced over, meeting her eyes before dropping them properly, as his caste should. "Why do you still do that?" she asked baldly.

"Do what?" he evaded, moving to the front of the robot and checking the pneumatic cylinders.

"Act like your burrked caste still matters," she said, checking the rear motors. "All is golden."

"Same here. Vigil, activate the robot." The small earth-mover, half the size of a normal aircar, rumbled to life, the quiet motors seeming near deafening after the near-total silence of the tunnels and work rooms.

As it trundled out, Arkik and Toknil came rushing out of their own workrooms to investigate the noise. "It works!" the dark energy scientist cried joyfully, nearly dancing as they watched it lift the first scoop of crusted mud from the flow. "Good thing, too."

"Why's that?" Jorsh asked.

"The surface is still radioactive," Arkik muttered disdainfully. "The mud is from the surface, ergo it is also radioactive." Once the beacons had failed to contact anyone, they had almost completely ceased traversing the narrow passage through the mud, but they all still winced at the thought. "It's not too bad, though. With the medical facilities still somewhat functioning, none of us should develop cancer for a century, at least."

"Nice to know," Jorsh shot back. "Come on, Tsarik. We have enough to build a second one of those, right?"

Pulling up his omni-tool, he swept his eyes quickly over the lists of working components they had managed to salvage so far. "Almost, we're short a motor." His quick glance at her was sorrowful. "Unless one of the non-functioning vehicles has a motor that is intact enough to salvage and repair, we would have to remove it from the one functioning." Their second running vehicle had already been cannibalized to make this robot run.

Toknil was still watching the little machine steadily shift the mud from the hallway into the empty storeroom prepared for that purpose. "How much time does this save us to reach the Conduit?" he queried their AI.

"Barring any major equipment breakdowns, the Conduit can now be reached in seven years, four months," Vigil responded. "Current estimates state that only three percent of my original sensors aboard the Citadel will still be functioning at that time."

"Better than zero, which was the estimate yesterday," Jorsh replied brightly. "Vigil, inform Ksad of our progress. What is the next task to complete?"

The AI took a moment to sort through a dizzying list of priorities, all weighted by their impact on Ksad's chosen mission. "Ventilation to the biological specimen labs is still impeded. Specialist Baknar has requested Tsarik's aid." Jorsh muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath, and they gathered their tools to set out.

Due to a dwindling supply of fuel, the vehicle had quickly been made off limits for personal transport, which meant they were left hiking up to ten kilometers to make repairs. Outside of their area, unless they had to go hunt for parts, the decision had been made to allow the facility to continue to decay. The home and work place of three hundred thousand Protheans, the size of a small city, left to rot like the rest of their race had.

The ventilation shaft was not quite so far as that, luckily, and a mere three kilometers later, they had reached it. Baknar was kneeling awkwardly under a panel, fingers tight around her tools as she swore at it. "Jorsh!" she exclaimed, trying to hide her displeasure at the other female's appearance. "Tsarik, thank you. I let one of the cleaning robots into the ventilation shaft, and it's stuck, and I can't get this panel loose."

Ducking her flirtatious gaze, he calmly maneuvered her out of the way to examine it. "These fasteners are corroded in place," he said simply. "Drill them out, you might have to cut the whole panel out."

"Cut it out?" she exclaimed. Despite four months of learning from him, the astronavigation specialist was still horrified at any jury-rigged repair that didn't look properly Prothean – polished, elegant, on top of functional.

"All the filters for the lab are two floors below us," Jorsh explained, rubbing it in. "It's just going to draw air from inside the facility in addition to outside."

"Most of the filters," Tsarik said, trying to defuse the situation. "The anti-rad stuff is higher, close to the surface. But it doesn't matter. If it doesn't look right to you, get some spare adhesive and put it back in place." He was already moving for the door, aware of but not wanting to watch the two females shoot daggers at each other.

Outside in the hallway, Jorsh caught up to him quickly. "What's the next task?"

He flicked his omni-tool, sending her a list of components. "We need more of these. The cleaning robots are burning through them faster than I like, and our supply of spares is tiny. The storerooms in section 116 should have several."

"What are you going to be doing?" she asked, perusing the list.

"Our food supplies are running low," he said simply. "I'm going to get one of the hand carts and move some more crates."

"Why? Because you're the lowest caste here?" she asked, clearly angry. He simply nodded, and she stepped close, grasping his shoulder with one hand, causing him to go completely still. "Why can't you let your caste ranking die with the rest of our species?"

"Because I am not yet dead," he whispered, and when he pulled gently away, she let him go, her fingers still trailing over his arm as he moved to walk away. His peripheral eyes caught a flash of Baknar vanishing back into the room. As he walked away, he fought to put thoughts of both of them out of his mind. He had work to do, and too many ghosts looming over his shoulders to enjoy their attentions. The eight kilometer walk, pushing the cart, should help. Over the years, he had become quite adept at turning off his conscious mind, letting his muscle memory do the work, and right now, that was just what he needed.