What's crack-a-lackin', my friends? Sorry this took so long to release, but I had some severe writer's block halfway through and a motherload of assignments besides. Also, I'm afraid I had to move the big fight back another chapter. Sorry! But as you'll see, the next chapter will be straight into it! So here's your latest instalment of Meet the Urdnots. Enjoy! "...more and more krogan warriors, driven to nihilistic abandon by the effects of the genophage, began to desert their homeworld and miscellaneous other colonies in favour of credits, booty and other vices that tended to be earned with a gun. This was not the first instance of krogan gun-hands in the galaxy at large, but it was the beginning of a diaspora of sorts, where disillusioned krogan became a hallmark amongst the mercenary trade, as cheap but reliable muscle. Back in their own system, however, the krogan who had turned mercenary were often treated with suspicion and even hate by most of the clans, save those that welcomed and even endorsed members of the feared Blood Pack group (notables include Clans Ganar, Vaszhet and Weyrloc) amongst their camps and villages. Many of these krogan had been exiled or otherwise ejected from their own clans and became
- Genophage or Genocide? An Investigative Account Into Krogan Society and Culture Post-Rebellions, Chapter 5, page 689
When Aralakh returned, blazing fury, Wrex was ready.
His battle armour had taken some time to put back together after the last time (the "last time" having been caught in a landslide and being thrown to the bottom of a small chasm), but a night's hard work reassembling the pieces had paid off. The cuirass, shoulder plates, gauntlets, leg plates and hump-plate were all in place, gleaming in the light. As a sign of his unblooded status, it was the customary white and brown of krogan youths, though he'd added a pair of red slashes to the chest. It set him apart from the rest of the youths in the camp. And it would certainly do the same again, today.
Shaking his head to remove the stiffness of long hours on his workbench, Wrex brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping wood. "About time, "he said aloud to the small room he used for armour and weapons maintenance. It was the first time he'd spoken since Beddak had left.
Idly, he wondered who would be present at the circle today. His father, certainly, and Drachus' former hangers-on. Beddak would be there too-when his friend made a promise, Wrex believed it, which was more than he could say for anyone else in the camp. Well, except for Parula. But she definitely wouldn't be watching today. The old woman abhorred the constant clashes between the youths, and had complained to Jarrod more than once. Hell, he had been there, one time. Parula had vehemently objected to the sending of war parties across the flats to prey on neighbouring clans, saying that males were needed to provide food and protection for infirm females. Wrex thought this sounded fair, and had said so.
"Shut the fuck up, you haggard bitch, "Jarrod had replied absently. "And you too, Wrex." And that had been that.
Well, he had bigger things on his mind today. Like shoving that asshole Wreav's face into the dirt a few dozen times. If he was lucky, maybe getting a few good jabs in his quad too. Hell, maybe this fight wasn't such a bad idea after all. Taking down Wreav would prove once and for all that there was no youngblood more capable in Urdnot than he. The thought of retaking his place in the clan brought a thin smile to his lips.
Giving his armour one last pat, he left the workroom and walked back to the front door, pulling aside the flap. The sun was still just touching the tops of the heights, meaning the streets were still deserted. That would change very soon-krogan liked to get an early start on the day, particularly the males. There was always more fighting, shooting, sparring and drinking to be done.
Judging he had some time left to wait, Wrex returned to his quarters and sat down heavily at his table with a sigh. On a sudden, strange impulse, he got back up and went to the crevice where he stored food and drink. Then he reached up, pulling aside a rock that he had placed there himself. It groaned, dropped to the floor. Wrex rummaged around in the new space, face expressionless.
Maybe it was gone. Maybe it had finally wasted away. But even if it had, what did it matter anymore? The genophage had seen to that.
But then a clang, a scrape and the object fell into his hands, covered in the dust of years.
It was a metal band, covered in the distinctive notches that came from contact with krogan fingers. Had Wrex tried to put it on, it would have been far too big-the band was designed to fit an arm smaller than his own, and indeed, that of any other male. A spiky, ill-formed script tapered across its surface. He now squinted at them, just as he had every other time he'd surveyed it. The wording was imprecise, but he could still read them: strength of my heart, be mine everlasting.Funny. He wouldn't have fancied old Jarrod for the eloquent type.
Shuffling back to the table, Wrex sat down gingerly and with great care. He turned the band over in his hands. The dull metal created a reflective surface, and Wrex gazed upon himself. He looked tired, and somewhat worse for wear, but ready. Ready to do what he had been born to. Suddenly he found himself speaking words he would never have said aloud, either to himself or anyone else.
"I don't like this, mother, "he muttered. "All this politicking and scheming. Power plays and crap. The old krogan were never like this. You had a clan leader, who had his krantt, who had their own separate krantts, and so on..." He sighed heavily. "Now it's all about how much terror Jarrod can put into the hearts of everyone here. You two were...a good match. He might not have changed much, but you kept him in check. That's more than anyone else has done. Even me."
Wrex remembered, when he was but an infant, his mother had sat him upon her sizeable knee and told the story of how she and Jarrod had become wed. Back then, with no genophage to worry about, courtships had been manifestly different. In his prime, Jarrod had led a cadre of commandos, each a veteran warrior. He'd begun as a simple soldier, fighting the rachni deep in their poison-choked warrens, then advancing up the clan hierarchy, killing hundreds of the insect bastards. During the victory celebrations, when all of Tuchanka had been beset by the passion and fury of the all-conquering krogan, their gazes had locked across a roaring bonfire.
Things...escalated...from there. Wrex was born a few hundred years later at the height of the Krogan Rebellions, when Jarrod finally retired from doing war, settled down on the homeworld and became a prominent figure in Urdnot. He'd been a hard man, harder than most, but fair. His wife, Wrex's mother, had always been around to steady his hand, leash his temper. A good match.
Then the salarians neutered them all and here they were, standing in the ashes of what was left.
Wrex wasn't one to let his emotions, or personal feelings, get the better of him. That wasn't the krogan way. It wasn't his way either. But now, alone, unwatched by the hard eyes of his clansmen or his father and staring at a relic of a happier life, he fought to fight back the sudden despair welling up in him.
What was the point? What was the point of any of it? Even if he won today, all that he'd win would be a slightly higher position on the mound of garbage that was krogan society. Nothing would change, not really. The clan might grow stronger or weaker, or be wiped out altogether, but what did it matter? The krogan were dying. It was only a matter of time.
Part of him wanted to subside into a blank mass of acceptance, numbing acceptance. But soon, he felt something familiar take hold of him and cause his fists to curl into mauls. Anger.Anger at his father, for running this clan into the ground. Anger at his mother, for leaving him alone to deal with Jarrod. Anger at Wreav, for daring to take his inheritance from him. Anger at Drachus, for daring to doubt him. Anger at this planet, for being the most inhospitable wasteland in the galaxy. Anger at the Citadel races, for using them as convenient tools then condemning them to slow, gradual death as a species. And above all, anger at a galaxy that had stayed silent and just let all of it happen-
A knocking at the entrance. Wrex's head lifted, eyes narrowed. "What?"
One of his father's vassals edged through the doorway, eyes downcast. Typically, the vassals were half-castes who had fathers or mothers from other clans, and they were near the bottom of Urdnot society. This one spoke quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the ambience of such auspicious surroundings. "It is time, son of Jarrod. The circle awaits."
"About time, "Wrex said for the second time in a few minutes. He stood up, stretched, and motioned for the vassal to wait outside. "One moment." When the krogan had left, he picked up his mother's wedding band and returned it to its hiding place. No-one could know he had it. It was meant to have been destroyed, following her death. The rest of her possessions had followed.
Once it was secure, he cast one last look at his dwelling and strode back into the workroom. He could still feel the anger, simmering inside him like a charging gun. Mourning he may have been, but it would not stop him from delivering pain.
Good. I want to kill something. And Wreav's in my way. ******************************************************
The circle lay some distance from the camp. At the bottom of a crater, the only way to reach it safely was to take the narrow, treacherous stone paths that lined the crater's edge, spiralling downward until it met the dirt. The harsh winds had weathered these paths to almost nothing, making the journey perilous. But they were krogan. They were used to it.
Coming to the top of a small hill, flanked by the vassal, Wrex shaded his eyes against the fierce sunlight and saw the depression. At the lip, he saw the familiar, hulking form of his father, along with a dozen or so other Urdnot clansmen. His spectators for the day. Beddak did not appear to be present, but that was no surprise. Jarrod would have little stomach for his presence. The two did not have a good relationship, anymore than Wrex and his father did. The vassal dipped his crest to Wrex, and set off back to camp.
Trudging downhill, he walked through an unforgiving landscape. Razor-sharp gusts of sand and powdered glass slapped his ankles and feet, and filled his ears with an unimaginable roaring. The ground was hard as steel, and sent coarse vibrations through the legs of his armour. The sun's rays beat down on him like a blast from a dreadnaught's main gun. Every now and then he had to change his course due to an alkaline pool, or quicksand, or the diamond-sharp bones of an unfortunate krogan claimed by the wastes. When it came to new and unusual obstacles, Tuchanka had no equal.
He eventually plodded to a stop in front of his father, who folded his arms and raised his brow-plate with something approximating respect. "Wrex. You look ready to fight. I almost expected you to bring some weak excuse instead of your armour!" A few of his lackeys guffawed, in that sycophantic way of theirs. Wrex simply bared his teeth in response, said nothing.
Seeing his son's mind was firmly in the fight, Jarrod grumbled and spat. "We're waiting on Wreav, but he won't be long. I impressed upon him the importance of being punctual."
Wrex snorted. "Maybe he pyjaked out at the last minute? Wouldn't expect much from the son of Drachus, father."
"Don't be so sure, halfwit, "someone hissed, and a krogan walked forward, throwing back the sable hood they'd been wearing. To Wrex's surprise and shock, the almond eyes of a female glared back at him. That was unexpected. Since when did the females give a damn about the male brawling? Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Parula.
He gazed coolly back. "And you are..?"
"Urdnot Kibera, daughter of Urdnot Drachus and brother of Wreav, "she snapped. She held up a clenched fist in front of Wrex, the veins bunching under the skin. "You killed my father, you son of a bitch. My brother will be dealing payback for the both of us today. Our revenge is as one."
Wrex rolled his eyes. A vengeful female on top of everything else. This day was getting better and better. "Stay out of my way, sweetheart. I'm really not in the mood for female theatrics right now. Although, "he said, placing a hand to his chin in mock thoughtfulness, "does that mean if I kick him in the quad you'll feel it as well?"
Kibera snarled and aimed a kick of her own at Wrex's jewels, but he raised one armoured leg to block it, causing the female to yowl in pain as her foot connected with the metal. She soon recovered and made to attack again, but Jarrod stepped between them. "Stow this pyjak shit now, "he growled. "I came to watch a duel in the circle, not a fucking bitch-fight." He raised a warning hand to Kibera. "Attack my son again, wench, and you'll find yourself in the pits. Understood?"
The bitch bit back a snarl, then bared her teeth. She's more like a beast than a female, Wrex thought with disgust. "Understood, chieftain, "she hissed again. Looking past Jarrod, she mouthed the words: you'll pay for that, you bastard. Wrex stuck his tongue out in response.
"Here he comes now." One of Jarrod's toadies spoke, pointed. A Tomkah truck had appeared as a blot on the horizon and was heading their way.
After a few minutes it trundled to a stop in front of them, and the engine shut off with a hiss. The hatch clanked open, and the familiar fuck-face of Wreav poked through the top. His gaze swept along all of them, coming to a stop at Wrex. "I'll be one moment, chieftain. I brought something." He disappeared back into the truck.
Brought something? That sounded...troubling. He jabbed his father in the arm, eliciting an annoyed grunt. "If he brought weapons, I'm holing his skull right now. Just a heads-up." He gave a nod at the pistol on Jarrod's hip.
"You would try, "came the voice of Kibera behind him.
"Fuck off."
"Both of you fuck off, "said Jarrod, half-turning. "Don't make me say it again."
A loud crash snapped them out of their argument, and they looked up to see Wreav heaving a large crate to the ground. It looked a lot like an ordnance locker, and Wrex's pulse spiked. He called out, "Are you deaf as well as dumb, Wreav? This is the circle. No weapons allowed."
Some of the crowd laughed at this, and Wreav's face flushed. "It's not a weapon, retard, "he snarled. "You'll see all too soon." He leapt off the Tomkah and hit the ground with a thump, sending acrid dust everywhere. Lugging the crate forward, he set fingers to the access panel and wrenched it open. Curiosity enticed several krogan to come forward, to see what the youth had in store. Upon looking into it, their expressions of amusement turned to shock and exclamations burst forth.
"Is that-"
"How did you come by it?"
"This is a breach of the rules! Chieftain, you can't permit this to-"
"Hold your tongue, you old fart, there's nothing wrong with it!"
Jarrod crunched one fist into his palm, and let the sound speak for itself. Silence.
Striding forward, he fixed Wreav with a cold stare. "I don't need you causing a ruckus just 'cause you want to set yourself apart from the gishrak, Wreav. Empty the crate."
Obediently, the youth hit a button on the side of the locker and all four sides of it fell flat, revealing the contents. More growls and gasps of consternation went up, and Wrex had to push in order to see what everyone was getting into a twist about. The sight held no recognition or epiphany for him.
It looked like any other piece of krogan armour for the upper torso, complete with breast-plate, pauldrons and vambraces. But where the different layers of armour typically overlapped, instead there were small, semi-circular pieces of metal, sharpened to razor, jagged points. Basically, it looked as though Wreav had coins poking through his armour. Extremely sharp ones.
He looked up at his father. "So what is this? Some dusty old relic Wreav found in the Hollows?"
"Do not blaspheme the Hollows, "Jarrod snapped warningly, and many of the krogan present made warding signs, even Wreav. Wrex felt a tinge of shame, but only for a moment, and it was quickly replaced with growing anger. "Fine, but you didn't answer my question. What is this, and why does it matter? A few extra pieces of metal aren't going to save this one from the beating of a lifetime."
Wreav bristled, but kept himself in check. Impressive. For a moron."This, "Jarrod said harshly, "is no ordinary armour. This is one of the last remaining suits from the Rachni Wars." More oaths, more disbelieving growls. "We designed them so that if any of those insect motherfuckers got close enough to maul us, they'd just end up shredding themselves. But they were discontinued at the end of the wars because of the time it took to craft new suits. Used up too much raw material with those barbs, too..." He trailed off, staring at the armour as if it were speaking to him. Wrex shot a glance at his father's face; many emotions were there under the surface, fighting to be released. The Rachni Wars had been no stroll through the flats.
Jarrod snapped out of his reverie and looked around at the assembly. "It would seem there's some contention here, then? Not a happy bunch? Well?" This was usually how he approached a group argument: pose as a concerned authority figure, then quickly revert to cantankerous tyrant. They never learned. Especially the older breed.
One krogan, the thin green streaks on his crest indicating a distant kinship with Clan Gatatog, spoke. "Chieftain, this whole business is a farce. Your son has proven himself to be the strongest warrior of his generation-"
Wreav whirled to face him, his face a mask of fury. "You would say that, you fucking ass-licker! This has nothing to do with him." He cast Wrex a hateful look, which he returned.
The krogan who had spoke growled, but took note when Jarrod held up a hand. "I'm afraid Wreav has a point. Wrex's new position, "he said warningly, "is not up for debate." He let that sink in, and a few krogan who were obviously queuing to speak next coughed audibly and shuffled uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Wrex himself seethed. Was his father really that blind?
"Now, is there anyone else who has words on this?" Playing at democracy, what a fucking joke.
Yet another krogan stepped forward. This one Wrex recognised from the group that he had passed on his way to his quarters yesterday. A friend of the late Urdnot Drachus. Oh, this should be fun."I strongly denounce the words spoken by Urdnot Safuk, "he boomed. "This is a contest in the circle like any other. The clan hierarchy should not matter here. More to the point, this armour carries no real advantage in combat: it's an antique." He caught Wrex's eye, and snorted. "You're the fucking chieftain's son. Show some backbone."
Wrex folded his arms, trying his best to look unimpressed. Being scorned in front of everyone he could take, but not appearing the fool to boot. "You seem to know it all, Griduk, why don't you put on the armour? We'll go a few rounds. I promise to make it quick."
From this, a commotion broke out, with every krogan present voicing (or grunting and snarling, rather) their opinions on whether Wrex should have to fight, whether Wreav should be allowed to don the armour, or both. Fists were being bunched, and hands went towards weapons. This was on the verge of turning into a bloodbath. That, Wrex realised with some amusement as he watched the Urdnot clansmen squabble, would actually be better. He'd have the opportunity to riddle Wreav with thermal clips, and all would be well. Son would go the way of the father.
But before the universe could throw Wrex a bone, Jarrod swore under his breath. "Enough of this!" He lumbered forward, then darted with extraordinary speed. In a few moments, Wrex was being given a reminder why his father was running Urdnot. Back during the Rachni Wars, after wading through acres of the insect warriors' corpses in their underground warrens, he'd earned himself a name among the Urdnot and Raik clans, as he'd led commandos from both. E'ptra ligrist. The breaker of stillness. Whenever the assault had stalled, or stalemate and deadlock arose, Jarrod had broken it and renewed the attack. Decisively.
The Urdnot chieftain grabbed the skulls of two quarrelling clansmen and clashed them together, leaving them reeling. One tried to lash out, but Jarrod intercepted the clumsy punch, seized his fist in a lock and snapped the bones with a mighty crunch. The krogan roared with pain, but Jarrod was already moving on.
He slipped underneath the gripped arms of another two krogan and came up between them, sending them both staggering backwards as he broke them apart. Before they could recover, he slammed an elbow into one's gut, making him double over. Then he quickly hopped to one side, dodging the second krogan's blow, grabbed the winded clansmen in a vice grip and whirled him around, so that he took the hit. The first krogan grunted as his fist hit armour plating, and pulled it back for another attempt, but Jarrod delivered a crushing headbutt that dropped him like a salarian drinking ryncol. Wrex, still managing to stay out of the fight, winced.
Meanwhile, Wreav was dragging his armour out of the fracas, casting furious glares at anyone that came near. Wrex was almost tempted to attack him, but he knew Jarrod well by now. Soon this would be over.
Holding the struggling Urdnot Safuk in a headlock, Jarrod pulled out his pistol and placed it to his captive's head. He often did this, as a loaded gun usually settled disputes. Not that he would actually fire it, but it served as a useful example-
Jarrod pulled the trigger and blew Safuk's head off. Brain matter and skull fragments stained the ground.
And immediately after that, another gunshot rang out.
************************************************
As per Jorgal Thurak's orders, Beddak had been close by. Watching, waiting to do his part. He was no stranger to this, as the unusual circumstances of his life often required that he earn his pay where someone couldn't just come along and trip over him. That suited him fine. Beddak was a competent warrior but close-up he often lost out to more experienced krogan. That left stealth and guile, two traits he'd learned to cultivate extremely well.
It was safe to say, however, that firing on a friend had never been in the job description.
A friend. As he rolled onto his front, ensuring that he stayed in the shadow of the outcrop so the sun wouldn't reflect off his armour and give away his position, Beddak mulled over the concept. Could a krei'dur be said to have anyone to rely on, let alone a friend? It would be so typically krogan of him to blame his predicament on someone else, and not face up to his own dumbass mistakes. Perhaps no-one had forced his father to mate with a female from the extinct Utchik clan, but neither had anyone made him proudly flaunt his father's name like a fucking battle trophy. If he'd stayed shut up, then maybe things would have been well and he would be serving in Clan Urdnot, or Jorgal, or Weyrloc even (fucking rabid bunch they are). As it was, from an early age they'd muttered and scorned. Oh yes, they'd said, from the corners and shadows of the settlement he'd adopted, and eventually broad daylight. Beddak. Father died in the rebellions, mother perished in the Utchik purge. Don't deserve to be here, not as clan or as guest. Enemy, that's all he can amount to.So the only logical thing to do, Beddak reflected, was to become everyone's enemy. And work for the ones who were willing to stomach their hate for him, because it was concentrated on someone else. Such was life.
But Wrex...he'd been different. Granted, he had no damn clue that Beddak was a clanless shitsack, but he'd also managed to intuit he wasn't of Urdnot either. Even before Jarrod had worked it out, promising to geld him if he was caught in their camp again. Whatever the case, Wrex had treated him like a friend, and almost a brother. It was one of the many things that showed just how good a leader he'd be one day. With a man like Wrex at the helm of Urdnot, the entire krogan race, even, perhaps there would be hope for their tormented race. Beddak hoped he'd live long enough to see it. Genuinely, he did.
Which made this entire job utterly, completely, hilariously stupid. What would helping Jorgal Thurak accomplish? So he'd acquire another slice of rubble-strewn, radioactive desert, and whatever Urdnot had managed to scrape together in the ugly business they called living. He'd have more warriors to call on, more females to breed with. More power. And power on Tuchanka was like having the biggest stick in an army that was fighting a foe armed with guns. You could swing it as much as you liked, cut a sharp edge, but ultimately it got you nowhere. The CDEM saw to that.
The pay was good, no doubt about it. Twelve thousand standard galactic credits. Aralakh knew where the bastard had gotten that much. And Thurak had hinted at a possible offer of clan status, once the assimilation of Urdnot was done. All in fucking all, a tempting offer. The kind a krei'dur with nothing to rely on but a rifle and his wits would be stupid to pass up. Despite the thrills of the job and the occasional perk, Beddak was tired of having to run. He wanted his own house, for fuck's sake. He wanted a fucking chair to sit in. He wanted-some thicker armour, this rock is cooking like a thermal detonator. It made sense to do this.
Yet somehow, Beddak couldn't see Wrex surviving what was coming. He was too dangerous. For a moment, he had a sudden urge to leave this spot, walk into the desert and shoot himself in the head. Better for everyone concerned. Better that Wrex grieved him than the loss of his whole clan.
Suicidal thoughts weren't as rare as most krogan let on-
Shouting from below. He jerked awake from his inner turmoil and squinted through the swirling grit. What the hell was going on down there? Had the duel started already?
No. As a matter of fact, Beddak realised with some amusement, the only person duelling right now was Jarrod himself. He didn't like the old turd, not by any stretch, but he had a grudging respect for his skills at cracking heads. Skills he was putting to good use right now. Don't think that Wrex got his badassery from his mother's side, somehow.He watched the krogan dissolve into an earnest brawl, all swinging fists and butting heads. Ridiculous. How many of them, he wondered, realised how stupid it all was? Strange that a fight would spring up now. Probably some stupid technicality or point of fact that had been brought up by an over-officious clansman. That was usually it. Well, he'd just have to wait till it blew over-
Wait. What was that, amidst the roaring warriors and cracking bones? A certain movement, a hand reaching...Jarrod had some clansman in a vice grip and was going for the pistol at his belt. A chorus of quickfire deliberations rose up in a clamour, inside his mind.
Clansman not a threat. Not a potential rival; Drachus dead, allies a rabble. Not conducting hostage situation, no-one dumb enough to start one. Needs to set example. Needs to bring them back into line. Will pull trigger. Highly likely. Not the norm, but strange times... An opportunity.
Wreav must win. Thurak had said so. There was no way around it. And this shot would assure it, if anything would. He could take off and leave this shameful contest behind. Go to nurse the newly-carved wound in his soul.
Already, against the urgings of what remained of his better nature he felt himself reverting into that familiar mode. Not the cold, calculating mind of a killer-he was too invested with the current business to feel like that. Not a blank, dull numbness-the krogan blood still ran hot beneath his leathery skin. No, this was even worse than both of them. It was the feeling of reduction. It was the feeling of minimising everything, making a gun into a tool, a victim into an unfortunate necessity. When he returned to his dwelling, out in the wastes, he'd drink ryncol, fire his old guns at solid, unyielding targets, get stinking drunk. Maybe inject himself with some old sedatives. Look for some solace, and maybe even find some. Before the guilt started up again. It would never last, but even though he knew that, he didn't care. That was the saddest part of all.
Getting the job. Planning the job. Over-thinking the job. Having recriminations about the job. Tearing himself apart about the job. But, ultimately, doing the job.
So when he reached down to his side, dragged his customised Reaper sniper rifle up, peered through the scope at Wrex, and fired a round into his lightly armoured leg, he felt nothing.
Nothing at all.
******************************************************
Wrex felt something white-hot tear into his leg and yelled with pain. He collapsed to the ground, hands groping at the wound. What the fuck was that? The blood and pieces of charred metal that stained his hands confirmed it. "Which one of you fuckbrains shot me!?" he roared aloud.
It took him a few seconds to realise that no-one was responding, much less saying anything at all. Composing a litany of death-threats under his breath, he pushed himself up and stood shakily on both legs, though the injured one still screamed with pain. But he was an Okeer-damned krogan, and he shoved it aside. Right now, his priority was to find out who had-
Then he saw what everyone was looking at and his eyes widened.
Safuk's headless body was sprawled on the ground, and above it stood Jarrod, breathing heavily. Gun smoke curled briefly before being snatched up by the razor winds. The clan chieftain raised the hand that held his pistol and swept it along the length of the group, including Wrex. "If any of you, create trouble like that for me again." He fired a round into the air and watched everyone flinch. "I will feed you to Kalros herself. Do you all get me? I mean, AM I FUCKING WELL UNDERSTOOD?!" The last part was practically a scream, one that bounced off the surrounding crags like an elcor death cry and did not dissipate for some time.
Swift as lightning, they all nodded as one. Krogan were taught to value a good death, but Kalros, the Mother of All Thresher Maws...no-one would wish that on their most hated hrak'wa.Sucking in a huge breath, Jarrod kicked Safuk's corpse out of the way and stepped closer. "Now, item two on the agenda. Who the fuck shot Wrex?" He snapped his gaze about, looking like a trapped animal. "Well? I'm waiting."
No-one dared draw a breath, let alone speak. Whoever had fired that shot had committed one of the most heinous crimes known to krogan. In their society, it was permissible to challenge the chieftain for leadership, even to the point of underhanded tactics like assassination or poison. But attacking the kin of a leader showed no guts, no quad, nothing. It was reserved for those who harboured ambition but weren't brave enough to go for the throat, so to speak. They deserved nothing less than a painful death, something even Parula agreed with.
There was a scuffling, and someone was forced forward. Griduk. "He's got a gun!" someone shouted. "Look!"
Griduk blanched in fear. "Fuck, so do half of you!" he snarled, but the panic was rising in his voice. "Jarrod, it doesn't mean a damn-"
Again, that speed! Jarrod bounded forward, seized Griduk by the sides of his head and brought it arcing down towards his knee. There was a sharp crack of bone hitting bone, and the accused began groaning in pain, slumped on the ground. The chieftain gave his knee a rub, then crouched down. "You're addressing the chieftain of Clan Urdnot, Griduk, "he muttered. "So when you do, be courteous, and show some fucking respect!" He rounded off his tirade with a vicious kick, which made Griduk's cries of pain double. Then he whirled around and pointed at Wrex. "Come here, son, and show me that wound. I'm getting a fucking answer if it takes all day!" He fired another round, this time near Griduk's head.
Wrex limped over and let Jarrod paw at the wound. He stifled both the urge to grunt with pain and to hit the clumsy fool. He paused for a few seconds, then grunted. "There."
Without warning he dug in and began looking for any remains of the heat sink. Wrex let out a bark of pain and tried to shove Jarrod away. "Fucking hell, stop!"
"Quiet." After a few more seconds, he yanked something sharp out and stepped away, leaving his son to nurse his wound and mutter invective under his breath. Jarrod scrutinised the blackened remnant of the thermal clip and noted the curved blobs that formed the design logo. "It's an Elkoss Combine manufacture!" he shouted. "Someone check Griduk's weapon!"
A quick pilfering of his belongings confirmed that his gun was also an EC weapon. He was truly fucked now. Every other krogan present drew back, like ripples in water. None wanted to be close to what was about to happen.
Jarrod tossed his own gun aside and cracked his knuckles. Then he began a slow, deliberate walk towards Grudik. "I'm going to give you some advice I gave to a group of asari one time, years ago. Don't. Fuck. With. Me!"With a roar he set himself upon Grudik and started pounding him with his fists. The krogan-made-turncoat tried to shield himself from the blows, but Jarrod lashed out and deftly snapped both his wrists with brutal twists of his arms. Then he really got to work, smashing and pummelling until bones audibly snapped and blood splattered from the wounds. Crunch. A rib shattered. Crunch. Pelvis jarred. Snap. His entire right arm, now bent and useless from the shoulder down. Through it all, Grudik simply whimpered, the same noise made by all beings when they were slowly, surely, processed into dead meat.
After what seemed a punishingly stretched-out minute, Jarrod ceased his beatdown and stood above his clansman, hatred and fury etched on his weathered face. "You always were a slow learner, Urdnot Grudik, "he snarled, and brought his whole foot down. CRUNCH. His skull was pulp, the caved-in skull revealing the oozing brains matter beneath. Already, the gore-fleas were coming to feast on the unexpected bounty.
Silence.
Jarrod grunted derisively as he pushed the corpse over with a foot, hiding the brutal injuries he had inflicted. Then his eyes scanned the crowd, and his eyes alighted upon his intended. Wreav blanched noticeably, but managed to hold his ground. Even as the chieftain stalked towards him, much in the same way he had towards the late Grudik. He came face to face with the young warrior, breath coming out in gusts. He said nothing for a time, playing up the suspense. Then he spoke. "You're lucky."
Wreav stared back, baffled, angry, but saying nothing.
"You're lucky." Jarrod made to turn, then swung about with a fist moving so fast that it whistled through the air. "That I don't fucking kill you right here!" Wreav managed to take most of the blow on his shoulder, but it still rocked him backwards, made him stagger. He cast a vindictive glance at the chieftain's back, now turned away for real this time. Everyone listened as Jarrod spoke, something like calm seeping into his tone.
"You all got a good look at what happens to deceitful, backstabbing cunts like him." He motioned to Grudik's body, now blackened with carrion. "But we've wasted enough time here already. We've a duel to witness, rites to observe. So enough.
"I've thought about it, considered things. My decision is this: Urdnot Wreav, you are not permitted to wear that armour." The son of Urdnot Drachus vibrated with rage, face trembling, but wisely stayed silent. "My son is already at a disadvantage with his wound, "Jarrod continued, "and to add to it would be too much. That is final."
Before he could realise what he was doing, Wrex said, "No."
Everyone turned to look at him. Jarrod surveyed him with bewilderment. "What?"
Wrex pushed himself forward on both legs, though the injured one gave him trouble. "This runt will need all the help he can get. I say, let him wear it. Let him use it." He curled his lip. "Won't make a piss-stain of difference."
The tension, so long held in abeyance, shattered. Many krogan laughed and roared approvingly at this show of traditional bravado, while others booed and snorted with contempt. Eventually a chant started up. "Urd-not Wrex! Urd-not Wrex! Urd-not Wrex!" The fact that they were willing to look past his lack of adult status spoke volumes.
"Alright, enough!" Jarrod bellowed, though a hint of amusement remained on his face. This is what he wants, Wrex thought, to tip the odds even more in his favour. Makes it seem fair. The chant ceased and quiet prevailed yet again. The old chieftain pointed down to the circle far below. "Let's get down there." He set off, first down the trail as tradition demanded. The krogan assembly began to break up, and move in twos and threes down the treacherous slopes. Kibera gave Wrex one more piercing stare before donning her hood again and joining the rest. Uptight bitch. Needs a good lay.Wreav had two other krogan to lug down the armour crate, but before he went he gave Wrex a curt nod. They still hated each other with a passion, each seeing the other as the source of their present ills. But Wrex's gambit had taken a real quad, something even Wreav could respect if not admire.
Seeing he was the last, Wrex rubbed his leg once more and set off, leaving the body of his supporter and that of his detractor to rot in the hot sun.
*******************************************************
"We have ourselves a challenge this day! To all who would watch, still your tongues and take heed!"
The sandy-bottomed floor of the crater was packed with krogan, arranged in a rough ring. A few females who had attended sat up high on boulders, one nursing her swollen belly. All but her sisters kept a respectful distance, as was right and proper for a pregnant female. The rest, uniformly male, gave their final roars and shouts before complying with the shaman's words.
The old krogan jabbed a finger at Wreav, already grunting and snorting. "You have leave to speak, young warrior."
The arrogant bastard strode forward, chest swelling as his voice boomed out. "I'm Urdnot Wreav! Son of Urdnot Drachus, brother of Urdnot Kibera. My mother died before her name was given to me, and now I am without! My will is strong, but my fists are stronger. Today, I will show you, all of you, that a change is needed. Clan Urdnot has been set in its ways for too long! The few have been placed above the many. Worthy warriors have not been given their dues! I speak, and I fight, on behalf of them! After this battle, we will have to be recognised as the future of this clan!" He stepped back, his little speech over. Cheers and shouts vied with snarls and curses for supremacy.
What a crock of varren shit.The shaman nodded, and then pointed to Wrex. "You may speak, young warrior."
Wrex had done this before, and unlike, Wreav, didn't need to waste his time with grandiose ambitions for president of the youth barracks or whatever the fuck he wanted. He took a step forward and stood tall, his voice loud and commanding. "You all know who I am. Urdnot Wrex. Son of Urdnot Jarrod, son of Urdnot Tarisa. Through my veins the blood of a true krogan runs." He folded his arms. "I have no need of big words, or tall claims. My history speaks for me. Since my birth, I have striven to be the strongest!" He pounded a foot into the turf. 'The fastest!" Again. "The toughest!" Again. "The best! And I'll be damned if some big-mouth with an attitude problem is going to take that away from me today! So I stand ready to fight, ready to bleed, because nothing is keeping me from the future!"
Again, the spectators let their allegiances be known. Wrex couldn't help but smile as they did. This was what he lived for. This remained krogan, no matter what their race endured.
The shaman called for quiet, and brought them closer, about twenty steps apart. "You have spoken. Now the time for words is past. Now is when muscle, and bone, and fire, and strength become your weapons! The circle is the true test of a krogan's character. Here, you may rely on nothing but yourself. Your skills. Your cunning. Nothing else! Do you understand?"
"We do!" they shouted.
"Good!" The shaman held up his hand, then let it drop. "Begin the circle!"
Wrex glared at Wreav.
Wreav glared at Wrex.
Both snarled, rage coursing and filling their limbs with desire to inflict pain.
You're going down, fucker.And they went at it.
-plays 300 music-
Fuck yeah. Wrex vs Wreav. Fight of the century.
Hope you liked this chapter! If you did, pretty please leave a review. Heck, if you didn't, leave one so I can make the next one better! Could really use em, guys. Anyways, peace out!