Valyria stood before the mangled remains of a trophy displayed at the far end of the wide hall, gazing at her reflection in the large circular lens. Its glossy surface was cracked, the strange metallic material of its housing components were blackened and pitted, scratched and dented. Broken and lifeless appendages lay beneath its great dead eye, their function beyond her understanding.
It was monstrous, even in death. She felt a chill race up her spine, her unease growing with every passing second.
A Reaper, she thought. How could such a thing be killed?
"Shepard summoned Kalros to kill that on Tuchanka," a low, quiet voice spoke. Wrex' son, Mordin. She glanced at him as he joined her. His resemblance to his father was obvious; glaring red eyes under a thick brow, hard orangish skin, his bulky mass layered with armor the color of blood. He was already big, despite his age – and Wrex had called him whelp.
How could something so big move so quietly, she wondered.
Wrex and Bakara had given them leave to explore the ship. Crichton had chosen to return to the Farseer, seemingly put off after their short conversation with the Krogan leaders. She had been wandering this hall of remembrance for nearly an hour, alone save for the few guards posted, who paid her no mind.
"Kalros is a maw," Mordin answered her unspoken question with a nod, "the maw."
Valyria took a deep breath, lost for words. What other impossible acts did she achieve?
"I am overwhelmed," she confessed, as her eyes fell.
The young krogan shrugged. "Why," he asked. "You descend from the strongest line of warriors the galaxy has ever known, just like me," he grinned.
Valyria shook her head. "I do not feel strong. I feel…crushed," she gestured to her broken reflection, "under the expectations of living up to such a legend."
The krogan laughed, a gun-shot bark that echoed through the hall. "Impossible," he crossed his arms over his chest. "We live to remember their deeds – not surpass them." He spoke as if the very idea was simply ludicrous.
Perhaps, she thought. "I am beginning to understand why my mother never spoke of such things."
His face pulled into a scowl as he turned to face her. "What? Why," he asked, clearly confused.
"Because I feel lost, and alone," she hugged herself tighter – knowing that he probably wouldn't understand but unable to hide her emotions any longer. "And I don't know what to do with this," she gestured to her surroundings with one hand, as the other cleared stinging tears from her eyes.
"I'm not like her," she whispered, "I'm nobody."
"Hnnh," Mordin growled. "Maybe – maybe not," he shrugged. "You're tougher than you look, going into that skittar nest."
She scoffed as she shook her head. "That was foolish."
Mordin laughed. "Yeah, but you're still breathing, and were holding your own – regardless what Grunt said," he shook his head. "He's a glory hog," he muttered.
She smiled at his words, despite herself. "Yes, I suppose."
"C'mon," he gestured for her as he turned to leave. "There's something else you should see."
"Alright," she sniffed, glancing back at the Reaper remains one last time before walking off to join him.
He turned over his shoulder before the doors opened, flashing a toothy grin at her. "Don't let them swarm you," he chuckled, "they're young enough to think you might be food."
Before she could answer, the door hissed open. Noise and the scent of spoiled milk assaulted her at once, along with the overwhelming sense of thousands of eyes upon her.
Oh, Goddess, she thought.
A great wide cavern stretched out before her, seeming to run the entire length of the ship. A living tide of Krogan dominated the scene; an ocean of little naked Krogan, clustered around adults, being fed, pushing and biting each other, wailing and growling.
"This," Mordin gestured before him, "is Shepard's true legacy."
Valyria covered her gaping mouth with her hands. Goddess, they're adorable!
Little pudgy krogan chased each other around her, no higher than her knees. They barked and growled, wrestled and pushed. A pile of them slept off to her left, snoring as their little bodies huddled together. Two off to her right were throwing rocks at each other – breaking them against their heads and barking laughs.
She grinned despite the noise and odors, utterly amazed.
"How old are they," she shouted to Mordin.
He moved closer so she could hear. "Most are a few weeks. We keep the infants separated, until their hides harden."
"Incredible," she breathed as she shook her head. "How do you manage them all?"
Mordin laughed. "Hell if I know. Ask them if you really want to know," he gestured to the few adults in view, surrounded by the horde of younglings. "I figured this would explain things to you easier," he shrugged. "My father told me how things were for us before Shepard saved us. Without her – and my father," he shrugged again as his voice trailed off.
She nodded, smiling as a little one waddled up to her. It blinked wide blue eyes up at her as it cocked its head in puzzlement, then barked before sitting down with a thump.
"Hello there," she waved to it as she approached, bending down to grasp a flailing claw.
"Careful," Mordin laughed.
No sooner had its fat, pudgy digits wrapped around her finger, the little krogan pulled her hand strait into its mouth.
Wrex leaned back in his throne as he ran a clawed hand over his face. "You're shitting me, right," he asked incredulously. "The boy's untested – he's not ready."
Bakara nodded her hooded head sagely. "All the more reason to send him out into the wider world – to temper him, to expand his knowledge and strength."
Wrex shook his head. "If we're doing this, I'd rather send someone who –"
"Isn't your son," Bakara laughed, "good luck with that."
He glared at her as a grin crept across his face. "Point taken," he laughed. "Still, the fact remains," he turned serious again, "he's untested. Besides, Grunt will want to go."
"Grunt," she replied, meeting his eyes, "will do as you say."
Wrex groaned as he stood, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. "Was this your idea, or his," he asked.
She blinked as she cocked her head up at him. "Does it matter, Wrex?"
"Hnnh," he grunted. "I'll talk to her – see what she thinks about it."
Bakara nodded. "Very well, Overlord," she grinned as she winked at him.
"Don't get any ideas," he grumbled as he seated himself. "I'm still sore from that last group of females you sent me."
She laughed as she walked away.
He found them standing before one of the dropships in the hangar bay, talking under one of the bulky munition pods attached to a backswept fuselage. Mordin was gesturing to the craft as he spoke – rambling on about the gunships weapons.
Heh, boy does like to talk, he shook his head with a grin. "Hey," he called out, grabbing their attention.
"What," Mordin asked, followed by a polite greeting from Shepard's daughter. He liked her immediately – she reminded him of Liara's calming influence and his Battlemaster's fiery tenacity. He grinned warmly down at her. "Been looking for you two."
"Well you found us, Grunt. He said she could look around, so she has," Mordin gestured to Valyria.
"I know that, smartass," he snapped. Annoying brat. "Wrex wants to talk, again," he jerked his head back towards the lift.
"Is something wrong," Valyria asked, concern crossing her face.
Grunt shrugged his shoulders. "Don't think so, but its hard to tell with the old fossil."
Mordin shook his head, muttering something about being treated like a pet varren as he stomped off, pausing when the others didn't move to follow.
"You coming?"
"Give us a minute," Grunt answered.
"Thank you for the tour, Mordin, and…for talking to me," Valyria nodded to him.
"See ya up top," he replied with a grin.
"He's a good kid," Grunt nodded as Mordin left. "Bit mouthy though," he added with a chuckle.
Valyria smiled at his expression, unsure of the meaning behind his words. "I want to thank you again, for your timely rescue."
"That was fun! I love that cannon," his eyes closed as if remembering the feeling of it in his hands. "Hnnh, wish I could use it more often," he grinned. "We don't get much in the way of fights anymore – the strongest foes are all dead."
He watched as uncertainty flashed in her eyes – eyes that reminded him of Shepard more than he wanted to admit. The first time he saw that shade of green, he had her pinned to the wall – ready to choke the life from her. Human. Female. Before you die, I need a name. He grinned at the memory.
"Was there something you wished to discuss," Valyria's voice pulled him back to the present.
He nodded as he pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from a compartment on his thigh plate, regarding it with reverence for a moment – then handed it to her.
"This was Shepard's. She carried it into every battle – including the last one. I found it when we…found her."
He watched as she carefully lifted the cloth, revealing the scorched and blackened Carnifex pistol.
"Its too small for me to use," he nodded to her, "and it belongs with you, anyway."
"I…this was hers," the girl asked, eyes wide as she turned the weapon over in her gloved hands.
"Yeah," Grunt nodded. "I pried it from her hand myself. I don't know what happened that day, but I know this – she died fighting," he slammed his fists together as he stressed the word.
Valyria nodded, unable to express anything more. He didn't seem to know that she had survived - barely - for several weeks after the Reapers' defeat. Perhaps he assumed she had already died? Did mother tell them that? More questions to ask her mother's ghost, stored for eternity in the Compendium.
"Thank you."
Grunt grinned, despite the girls somber mood. "Sure thing. C'mon," he shrugged, wary of the emotions nagging at his brain, "lets go see what the old man wants."
Valyria locked the pistol to her left thigh-plate, pausing to run her fingertips across its scarred surface. "Yes," she sighed, biting her lips to reign in her emotions. "Lets go."
Garrus shivered in his chair as he watched the stars peek through the vastness of the nebula beyond the Citadel. A low hum rattled from his throat as he pulled his blankets tighter around his frail form – he was freezing, despite the climate controlled air. He hated to admit it but the only thing capable of keeping him warm was the same thing his doctors warned him repeatedly not to use – alcohol.
Idiots, he grunted, taking another sip of brandy.
He liked this spot on the docks – it served as a reminder of happier days.
Well, his mandibles twitched in amusement, perhaps happy is the wrong word.
Bay D-24 was gone – ravaged by the Crucible explosion and never re-built. The Normandy was a relic preserved for posterity up on the Presidium. Most of his friends from those days were gone.
He glanced down at his withered talons, grasping his bottle in a shaking grip.
Soon enough, I'll be joining them.
He hoped it wasn't much longer of a wait. Retirement didn't suit him. He was tired of feeling old, useless.
His mind reached back, seeing his friend's face set in grim determination as he spoke. Go out there, and give them hell – you were born for this fight.
Ah, Shepard, he wheezed a sigh at the memory. Can't wait to see you again, old friend.
"Hello, Garrus," a soft, familiar voice broke his revere.
She hadn't aged a day since the last time he saw her – though the scars across her crest and face were new. She wore tight, form fitting armor that clung to her lithe body with tenacity – the leather creaked slightly with every sway of her hips.
He had always assumed Samara had never intentionally provoked sensual feelings in others – but the way she moved told him otherwise.
Or perhaps he really was going senile with old age.
"Justicar," he nodded, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. "Business, or pleasure," he asked, watching her approach.
She rarely smiled, even back in the old days, so he wasn't surprised when she simply inclined her head.
"It pleases me to see you, yet whether that becomes mutual remains to be seen," she answered cryptically.
"We're a little old for beating around the bush," Garrus eyed her as he settled back in his chair.
A faint curl of her lips preceded a curt nod. "Very well. You know what I am, what I represent. I seek information – or clarification, more like," she spoke calmly as she clasped her hands behind her back. "A rumor has reached me, and a purpose; one I hope ends amicably for all involved."
"Interesting," Garrus wheezed, "but I'm not hearing a question in there."
"You violated Shepard's tomb," she stated it as cold truth, yet offered no judgement. "Tell me why."
"I don't –"
"Do not endanger our mutual respect with falsehoods, Garrus," she warned.
He hacked a laugh, which turned to a fit of coughs. The Asari looked away as he struggled to regain his composure, offering no pity or empathy.
"If you know I did it," he managed to rasp, "then you know why."
Samara took a deep breath, nodding to herself. "Where did she go, Garrus," she asked, fixing him with her pale blue eyes.
His mandibles flickered as he took another sip to ease the hoarseness in his throat. "Why do you want to know," he cocked his head as he met her gaze.
"I am investigating her legitimacy."
"What? Why?"
The Justicar paused, returning her gaze out to the nebula. "We Asari hold many laws and customs as sacred, Garrus. Most would be familiar to you – others are more…obscure to those outside our society. There are doubts regarding the child, Garrus," she turned to face him once more. "Doubts that have put her in danger. I seek to find the answers first – and if judgement must be made," she dipped her head, "I hope to honor the memory of Shepard by being the one to render it."
Garrus shook his head. "You gotta be kidding me," he growled. "She's just a damned girl. What possible threat could she be?"
Samara cocked her head as her lips curled again. "A child born of humanity's greatest soldier and one of my peoples brightest minds," she asked rhetorically.
"She's no threat to anyone Justicar," he forced what little strength he could manage into every word.
"That, also, remains to be seen," she replied coldly. "Where, Garrus," she asked again.
He huffed a weak laugh. Well, might as well finish this off right, he thought, downing the rest of the bottle.
"I can tell you two things," he hacked, wiping his mouth of brandy and spittle, "one – never start off an interrogation from a place of friendship, and two," he paused, raising glacial eyes to hers – rendered even colder for the fact that she stood there watching him with nothing but earnest respect, even admiration. Samara knew him – knew he would never betray Shepard, or Liara, or anyone he deemed worthy enough to call him friend.
"Your not getting shit from me."
