"We didn't know it at the time, but that first duel of theirs was the start of it all. Both of 'em fierce and capable warriors, both hating the other more than death itself, hell, more than failure maybe...and it was a bloody duel, bloody even for us krogan. I still remember it, even now."
-Excerpt taken from the historical text Krogan: Legacies, published in 2180, direct quote from Urdnot Shaman (actual name unknown)

I don't fucking believe this.

Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, Urdnot Wrex's eyes burned a hole into the far wall of his cell. Well, that was a generous term for the squalid pit he was currently languishing in, until such a time as his father (his rot-brained turd of a father) deigned to have him taken out and back onto the surface. Krogan being what they were, the only cells and jails that functioned were those that employed gravity, height, depth and other factors as the most effective warders of all.

Urdnot thralls had dug a series of pits and crevasses, using shovels and digging equipment, to be used as a place for malcontents and dissenters in the camp. Ironically, to end up down here was a fairly mild punishment-Jarrod was not the type to let someone slowly starve to death, not unless you were a turian or salarian. If you were taken out of the camp and onto the desert flats...then you were really in the shit. Make your peace with the ancestors, because you would be feeding the klixen in no time.

In a hole isolated from the others, Wrex sat silently and brooded. He cast his mind over the events of the past day or so and sighed to himself. "Well, "he muttered aloud to nobody, "that could have gone better."

-Fifteen Hours Previously-

Wrex's hand dived toward his gun without even thinking of what would come next. "Son of a bitch-"

Only marginally slower than he himself, the brown-crested krogan quickly snapped an M-6 Carnifex heavy pistol at his side and drew a bead on Wrex's head. "Don't even think about it!" he snarled. "I'll waste you in seconds."

So there they stood, with each other dead to rights, guns primed. Wrex glared at his rival and squeezed the trigger, prepared for the recoil and the white-hot pain that would flare on his skull. He didn't think even this moron would miss at such close range-

"ENOUGH!" A stentorian bellow echoed throughout the room, and both krogan youths flinched upon hearing it. Urdnot Jarrod launched himself off his throne and strode angrily towards them. "If I don't see weapons down in two fuckin' seconds then I'll rip the both of you apart! Now do it!" he screamed.

Usually that was enough to make Wrex back down, or at least put the safety on his weapon. But not this time. He wouldn't stand for this bastard sauntering in here and taking away everything that he had a right to, the hell with what Jarrod had to say! In an icy tone Wrex stated: "If he puts his away then I'll put mine away."

Jarrod's eyes bulged, and he sucked in another huge breath. The other krogan, nowhere near as adept at gauging the clan chief's moods, sullenly holstered his pistol. "There. We're all nice and friendly now." He bared his teeth at Wrex in a faux smile. "Just how friendly I can show you soon."

Wrex ignored him and put away his weapon. "Who is this idiot?"

The idiot in question growled, but Jarrod's demeanour was still keeping him in check. His father spoke in a tone that spoke volumes. "This warrior is called Wreav. He is the spawn of Urdnot Drachus, and he is worthy enough to challenge you, Wrex. If nothing else, he'll give you something to focus on. A rival." He turned away, his breathing once again back to normal, and trudged back to his throne. He seemed very tired all of a sudden.

Wrex shot a glance at this...Wreav. This upstart. "Do you seriously think he'll prove a worthy opponent, father? You know that I'm the best unblooded warrior in Clan Urdnot-"

"When was the last time you duelled someone, Wrex?" The question was harsh, flat.

He hesitated at this, because he realised to his horror that Jarrod had a point. What with singular training, he'd never really had the time in the past-"Three months." But that didn't matter at all! He hadn't been sitting around on his ass all that time. He'd been honing his skills, damnit.

Jarrod nodded smugly, as if he'd just won a trifecta on a varren fight. "Three months. That's a long interval period for the "best unblooded warrior in Clan Urdnot",wouldn't you say?" For his part, Wreav just chuckled slyly, a noise that Wrex immediately hated. And would continue to hate, for the next twelve hundred years or so.

He made one last bid for clemency, striding forward. "But-"

There was a joke around the camp that Urdnot Jarrod's good humour was like a salarian STG spy-no sooner it appeared than it disappeared again. Here was a classic example of that, as the smirk receded from his face and his fists tightened around the arms of his throne. "Are you, "he hissed through clenched teeth, "defying my direct order, son?"

More than anything, Wrex wanted to say yes, and lay down the law. Show his father that he wasn't going to be pushed around and paired with a shithead (quite apt, considering the colour of his crest), and make things the way they were. But in his heart, and even in a little alcove of his mind he knew it would be foolhardy, if not downright suicidal. He wasn't that indispensable. And Jarrod's word was law, as far as this camp was concerned anyway. So he ducked his head in a traditional gesture of submission and stepped backwards, to stand alongside with Wreav. But he met his father's eye calmly and without flinching. "What's to be done?"

Once again firmly in control, his father yawned magnanimously. "Your training will commence in a day or so. But I think, as a prelude, a good old-fashioned duel would be a good way to commence this healthy relationship." He grinned maliciously at both Urdnot youths. "Settle some grudges the hard way, yes? In the circle. No guns. No tricks. Just skill versus skill." He stopped to have himself a laugh. "If that's anything to go by then you should come out as a clear winner, hmm Wrex?"

He refused to rise to his father's jest. Particularly when his rival was standing right next to him. "When do we fight?"

"Yeah." Wreav had finally spoken up. He was pounding a fist into his palm. "I want to get this over with, so this one can cut his attitude problem, heh."

Jarrod spoke quickly, to avoid another blow-up between the two. "In six hours time, when Aralakh rises once again. You will have time to prepare. Now, leave for your quarters. A footman will be sent to bring each of you to the circle. Are there any questions?"

None. Both knew what they had to do.

"Good." Jarrod crossed his arms into an X. "Long live Clan Urdnot!"

*******************************************************
Up until walking in through that door and into the clan leader's throne room, Wreav hadn't been quite sure what was expected of him. But when the clan leader summoned you, you did as you were told and damn quickly too. He envied the power that Jarrod exerted over the other Urdnot clansmen in the camp. Like ants they were, beneath his feet. It only confirmed what Wreav had always been told by his father Drachus-why work to be respected, when you could be feared with half the effort and twice the killing? It only made sense. Besides, krogan didn't really appreciate fine words and fine gestures. And that was fine by him.

But as soon as he'd laid eyes on that red-crested shitsack, that...Wrex, he'd instantly known what he had to do. Jarrod was tired of his upstart son and his arrogant, self-righteous thinking. It was patently obvious to anyone with a brain. So he'd looked for someone that could upset the current balance and unseat Wrex from his unfair position of power. Someone like Wreav, the logical choice, the only choice!

Chief's son...Wreav had to stifle a laugh as he marched from the room and back out into the windy canyon. Maybe he was a half-decent warrior, but too soft and pampered by far! Used to all the ease and privileges that being a chief's son brought. Well, not for much longer. Not if he had anything to say about it!

Well, he didn't exactly intend to use words in the fight to come. That was for the females.

He heard the titanium door squeal open, and turned to see the prize idiot himself emerge from within. Still looking royally pissed, which gave him no small amount of satisfaction. Aww, is the big bad chief's son bitching because he can't play with the best toys anymore? Wreav gave a snigger, one just loud enough to be heard over the moaning of the wind and the clanking of the blast shield high above their heads.

The bastard shot him a glare, brows bunching. His eyes were almost like the deeper red of the females-just another reason why Wrex was a complete buffoon. Lifting a warning finger, he growled, "Save it for the circle, cunt. You won't be laughing then, once I'm through with you."

Wreav sneered in response to this. "You know the difference between you and me? I don't need my father around to protect me. If Jarrod died today then there'd be more than enough people in this camp wanting to tear you apart." He leaned forward close to Wrex's scarred face, letting his words sink in. "So watch your step now that I'm around, Wrex. You're not a protected species anymore."

To all this, the bastard just smiled. The sort of hard-edged smile that made Wreav tense just the slightest bit, because not for nothing had Wrex been undergoing the singular training. "You know, your father went to that canyon looking for some cheap laughs and came back on a stretcher with a spike in his throat." He leaned in even closer, till the two were eye to eye. Ruby red bored into rust-red. "And my father went looking for a patsy, someone who could maybe match up against me, and found...you." Silent for a few seconds, he shook his head slowly. "I wonder what's going to become of this? Nothing good, I'm sure."

And with that, Wrex turned and walked away. Down the slope, towards his own quarters.

For his own part, Wreav grunted in surprise. Not as dumb as he looks. Still, that wouldn't win him any favours in the circle. He left for the barracks near the canyon entrance, already daydreaming of the glorious battle to come. Wrex would learn to fear the name Wreav.

So would the entire galaxy, in time.

*****************************************************
That had been well handled, all in all. Reminding Wreav that he'd made a kebab of his asshole father would serve as sufficient warning. Not to mention he enjoyed seeing the spark of fear in his eyes when he'd spoken about it. Mind you, he was sure that Wreav wasn't losing sleep over it. As a rule, relationships between father and son in the Urdnot camp were shaky at best. And from what Jarrod had told him of Drachus, he had never borne much affection for his offspring.

You'd think the genophage would have instilled a little compassion. Yeah, good one, Wrex.

At this juncture, Wrex felt that a good rest, some roasted varren and maybe a few hours out on the firing range would go some distance towards tempering his current black mood. But he didn't have time for that. Night had fallen, and the stars were out (those that could be seen through the smoke and ash haze), but sooner than expected, Aralakh would emerge from the horizon and begin to burn Tuchanka anew. And at that time, he and Wreav would be joined in combat. He could dwell on these new developments later; right now, he needed to prepare.

Wrex had no intention of letting Wreav get the upper hand.

Coming to the bottom of the slope, he saw a trio of krogan elders striding back the way he had came. They did not look happy. Drachus' ass-kissing brigade, no doubt.

Wrex wandered between the two pillars that marked the boundary of the living section and made for his own hut. At this time of night, few were out on the street, save some guards and the occasional female performing menial tasks. One such woman lifted her head from the pile of rags she was washing in almost-black water and nodded curtly. "Wrex. Come to visit an old woman, have you?" She was indeed old-maybe the oldest Urdnot female still living. No doubt the salarians could tell by virtue of their census data, but no-one was going to ask them for a toothpick, let alone information.

He forced a smile past his latent fury and shook his head. "Sorry, Parula, but there's a battle to come, in the circle tomorrow. I have to prepare. Perhaps another time."

Parula snorted. "Another fight? You males are always fighting. If you spent half as much time doing jobs that needed doing, we would rival the Citadel itself. Or Thessia, even." The old woman had travelled to many places, thus earning her a place in the clan as honorary storyteller and occasional shaman. But usually that role was given over to a male, when inter-clan matters were at stake.

Wrex couldn't argue with her logic, however. He sighed, and bent down to help her tease out mud from one of the rags. Women's work, some would have called it. Helping an old friend, was better suited to his ears. "It's not that simple, ukresha, "he said, using the old Raik word for "gentle giver." "Jarrod's got this-"

She waved him away, pulling away the rags. "Jarrod's an even bigger fool than you. What he does is no concern of mine. Just be sure that it doesn't entrap you. The old wardog is cunning." Parula turned away from him now, gathering up her bundles to take back inside her hut. "Consider that my advice for your fight. The rest you can handle."

He grunted with amusement. As usual, Parula had hit the mark. "Thank you, Parula. Take care."

She flashed him a half-smile. "My honour." She stepped across the threshold and was gone.

Sighing, Wrex continued onward. The old female had been something of a surrogate mother to him. When the genophage had set in, his real mother had begun a spiral of despair, ending with putting a gun to her head while standing at a precipice, upon the heights that gazed out onto the Farru'vat Plains. She'd been alone, leaving only a note behind to detail her death. Jarrod had been devastated, so much so that he refused to mention her anymore. Or let anyone else do so, for that matter.

They'd never found the body. Only the gun with a single bullet missing.

Shaking himself from unpleasant memories, he journeyed on.

Eventually he sighted his own modest dwelling and slipped on in. The lock on the door was busted, but it hardly mattered. No-one in their right mind was going to steal from him, or try to break in.

Except, possibly, the armoured krogan sitting on his favourite chair with his feet up, gnawing on a handful of kephrana nuts. Those would take some time to get through; they had shells like thresher-damned battle tanks. Cocking his head to one side, the intruder mumbled through a mouthful of food, "Forgive my effrontery, Wrex, but I haven't eaten for a few days."

Wrex's surly mouth split into a warm grin. "I'll let it slide this one time, Beddak." He strode in and seized his old friend's hand in a firm grip. "Good to see you. Still alive?"

Beddak swallowed with an effort, and rose from the chair, now able to smile. "As far as I can tell. Of course, sunny Tuchanka isn't making things any easier. A goddamn klixen ate my gun, can you believe that?" The coarse words were offset by the carefully modulated voice, a product of the time he'd spent training with infiltration operatives from Khar'shan. A krogan accent would only take you so far in certain circumstances, and Beddak had been eager to learn.

Wrex laughed, and went over to a darkened recession in the far wall. "After the day I've had, I'd believe anything." He pulled out a clay jug of something alcoholic (he couldn't remember what it was called anymore) and set it on the granite bench between them. Slumping down into his chair, which was layered with the skins of prize varren, he sighed wearily. "Strange times in Clan Urdnot, my friend."

"Oh?" Beddak's curiosity was immediately piqued.

Wrex uncapped the jug and sloshed some of its contents into his mouth. "My father's gone crazier than usual. He pulled me out of singular training and saddled me with this fucking moron." He gave the table a contemptuous slap. "Wreav's his name. The son of Urdnot Drachus. And true to the blood, he's an asshole. Can't put a bullet in his throat like I did his father, though. Gotta consider "clan politics", he said, mimicking Jarrod's words from earlier. "Fucking hell."

Beddak gave a grumble of sympathy and reached for the jug. "The life of a clan chief's son is never easy, Wrex. You know that more than anyone. Hell, sometimes I think you're determined to take the whole weight of the krogan on your shoulders, the way you talk." He flashed a grin tinged with condescension. "Unhealthy, some might say."

Wrex bristled at this, but could hardly deny it. That act of comfort at the hospital wasn't an isolated incident-the genophage had set the krogan down the slippery slope, and he found himself fighting against it, despite the ultimate futility of it. Something even his father hadn't been able to beat out of him. So he stayed silent.

Beddak drummed his fingers on the table, filling the low-ceilinged room with rhythmic tapping. "Fortunately for you, I can give you a hand with your current problem. This Wreav bastard, I've heard of him. Full of shit, but not street trash either. Can handle himself in a fight, by all accounts. More or less rules the youth section of the barracks. Probably fancies himself as a contender for your job, Wrex."

Wrex was out of his chair and slamming both fists down onto the table surface. "I'll never lose to that fucker!" he roared. "I'll crush him like a fucking insect!"

"I have no doubt, "Beddak said mildly. He got up again and set the jug aside. "But you need to be careful, Wrex. This is bigger than you and Wreav having a slap fight. You're representing Jarrod's interests in this, and Wreav's putting on a show for the whole camp. There are plenty in Clan Urdnot don't care for your father, and by extension you. Wreav's been dealt a great opportunity to push for a future claim of his own. This might get ugly."

Wrex was struggling to understand it all-he was a warrior, not a politician, damn it-but he got the gist. Growling, he asked, "So what other information do you have on Wreav? The kind that's useful in a fight."

Beddak bared his teeth. "Well..."

**************************************************

Once Beddak had finished with his discourse on Wreav's fighting technique, he took his leave. "Nothing personal Wrex, just need a place of my own to stay for a few nights. Still recovering from that hunt, it was fucking brutal." He rubbed his leg, which had a nasty-looking burn decorating it.

His friend barked a laugh, and clapped one hand on his shoulder. "I understand, Beddak. Thanks for the assist. Tomorrow, I'll be sure to put it to good use." He slammed his fists together in a traditional gesture of pride.

Beddak chuckled. "I'll be there, count on it." Giving a final nod, he stepped across the threshold and was gone.

Standing out in the brisk night air, he cast a wary glance around the street. Then, satisfied that it was sufficiently deserted, he pulled a ragged hood over his crest and began to walk.

He walked to the end of the street.
He walked past the last of the living quarters, where the sounds of infants and their broken mothers could be heard.

He walked past the guard towers, the sentries themselves lulled into unconsciousness via the use of tranquilisers. They would wake in a few minutes, and have no memory of the event.

He walked past the ragged banners that marked the boundary of the Urdnot camp, and out onto the flats.

He walked until he came across a basin, filled with the corpses of krogan females who had foregone all hope. Then he waited. He had no concern of being found by Urdnot patrols. They were all male, and none would dare come here, for fear of disturbing the ghosts of wrathful females. Such terrors ran in the blood.

After an hour of stamping his feet and shivering in the cold, he heard the low growl of a Tomkah.

Turning around, he was greeted by several laser dots painting his body. He raised his hands and spoke calmly. "I am here, as ordered, clan leader."

It was hard to see in the dark-the truck's headlights were shut off, to ensure secrecy-but Beddak could make out the outline of a massive krogan climbing down off the truck, flanked by other large forms. He twitched slightly.

The three shadow-wrapped krogan came towards him and halted five paces away. Then the one in the middle spoke. "Search him." The voice was deep, commanding-were they not conducting business of the most dire kind, it would have boomed.

Beddak found himself being shoved roughly to the ground and being patted down for concealed weapons, explosives, knives, flares, chemical weapon canisters, suicide bombs or anything else that might pose a threat. Inwardly, he sighed. They did this every time. When were they going to trust him?

A moment later the answer occurred to him: never.

After about a minute of this undignified treatment, he was permitted to get to his feet. The two lackeys withdrew back to their leader, who folded his arms in the dark. If he squinted, Beddak could make out burnished red armour. "Well?"

The last few meetings had taught Beddak to be concise. "Urdnot Drachus is dead. Wrex killed him in a training exercise. Caused a shake-up in clan politics."

"Really." The voice was hovering on the border of impatience. "Elaborate."

"Jarrod needs to placate Drachus' allies in the camp; otherwise they'll probably try to overthrow him. Since Wrex is the one who brought this situation around, he's pulled him out of singular training and paired him with Drachus' first son, Wreav."

A slight shifting in the darkness. "Wreav? I've heard that name..." He trailed off.

Beddak frowned. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. "There's more." At a nod, he continued. "The circle will happen tomorrow. Wrex and Wreav will fight. It's already going to smooth things over, but depending on who wins..."

"You will take care of that." There was no room for argument in that statement. "I need confusion and disorder in the Urdnot camp. Wreav must win the battle. This is crucial."

"But how will I-"

"Find a way!" The krogan's voice raised itself, and then sank back into quiet. "Wrex still trusts you, yes?"

That stab of guilt, which he managed to smother so well, rose up in him again. Jarrod's son had been nothing but a friend to him, which was rare considering his...position. Not that Wrex was aware of it, but still. "Yes."

"Good." A brief pause. "For now, proceed as normal. Let things develop at their own pace. When the time is right, I will contact you. Understood?"

"Understood, Thurak."

He felt like he'd fucked up just saying the name, and true enough, he had. A heavily muscled crimson arm blurred out of the darkness and struck his face, the metal studs carving deep gashes into his face. Blood splattered. "You are too familiar, krei'dur. Use my full name, or more of your blood will spill out onto the sand."

Hands to his torn face, he gasped out: "Jorgal Thurak."

"Better." He turned, signalled to his men, and remounted the Tomkah. The engine growled awake and the truck slowly trundled away, heading deeper into the flats. Soon it was swallowed up by the desert and gone.

Breathing heavily, already hearing the buzzing of gore-fleas that congregated wherever blood was spilt on Tuchanka, Beddak turned away from the pit of carcasses. Turned, and began the slow walk back to the Urdnot camp. He touched the stinging wounds on his face and cringed. He would need medi-gel.

And a few other things as well. Things critical to tomorrow's contest. It was going to be a very busy day.

What Thurak wanted, Thurak would get...and if it meant the destruction of Clan Urdnot, so be it.

Oooh, the plot thickens! Seems Beddak isn't entirely on the level. Well, sorry to delay the prize fight, but rest assured next chapter will be full of Wrex-on-Wreav goodness! OK, that sounded wrong...but hope you enjoyed the chapter! As always, rate 'n' review for my happiness!