The start of the bad news had been Joker's confirmation of the presence of Reapers on TuChanka – but, as with most things in Shepard's experience, it seemed one piece of bad news was only the tip of the iceburg. Closer inspection of the Reaper forces present on the planet's surface revealed that the Reapers had deployed something Shepard had deemed a Destroyer, a new type of Reaper which no one on board the Normandy had seen before and which none of them knew how to defend against. This Destroyer, it seemed, had been sent to the surface of TuChanka in order to block the Normandy's access to the Shroud, as well as to poison TuChanka's already-dismal atmosphere.

The outlook for the successful deployment of the genophage cure seemed to be going from bad to worse, and the chances of the mission going off without a hitch diminishing at an alarming rate.

The plan they had decided on was simple but concise: the krogan teams would hit hard and fast from the ground, while the turian fighters would deploy air support to attack from above. Between the two factions, it would hopefully buy Shepard, Mordin, and Eve enough time to sneak past the Destroyer to the Shroud and disperse the genophage cure, before coming back to rejoin the fight against the Reaper on the ground. It was a risky move, and one they were not positive would actually work, but with time running out and the entire galaxy at stake, it was a risk they knew they had to take. One less Reaper might not have seemed like much in the grand scheme, but it still counted for something.

Shepard splashed water on her face, steadying her nerves, before letting out a sigh and straightening to look at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes betraying her lack of sleep, and her shoulders seemed almost to slump under the weight of her recently-snug armour. Grabbing a hand towel, she wiped her face with it, pensive as she dragged the towel over her damp, freckled skin. Up until this moment, she had been so certain of what she had wanted to do, but now, now that they had actually reached TuChanka, now that she was so close to this anticipated mission she could almost taste the dust of the planet's surface in the back of her throat, she could not help the nagging feeling of finality from billowing up in the back of her mind.

Tossing the towel at the side of the sink, she dropped her gaze, guilty, and leaned on the bathroom counter, propping her free hand against her hip and looking down at her getup. She was in no way a romantic, and had no ambition to marry Garrus. At least not now. Still, she could not help subconsciously going back to the conversation she had had with the turian, and to his comment about wanting to start a family. He wanted a family, he had said. But not now, she reminded herself, shaking her head and taking a deep breath. Someday. When this was over. Not right now.

"Commander," Traynor's young voice suddenly came in through the speaker system, causing Shepard to look up, surprised. "You've just received an incoming message marked 'urgent'. I've patched it through to the comm room for you."

"Thanks," Shepard answered, taken aback. "Why are you telling me this and not EDI?"

Traynor hesitated, though her quiet breathing could still be heard, letting Shepard know that her finger was still lingering on the comm button. "EDI said you'd prefer if she didn't talk to you for a bit," Traynor finally answered, sounding just as mystified but trying to be professional. "I… didn't ask for details. Figured it wasn't any of my business."

Shepard felt a well of guilt pressing to the surface of her conscience, but quickly pushed it down again, wetting her lips. "Thanks, Traynor," she said. "I'll go see what the message is about."

"Of course, Commander," Traynor replied, and severed the comm connection.

The door of the comm room slid shut behind Shepard as she stepped into the reader panel in the middle of the floor, feeling the gentle hum of the scanner against her feet as it mirrored her image across the connection. A moment later, a returning blue image flickered into being in the hologram pit behind her comm console. Shepard hesitated, surprised at her digital visitor, before asking, uncertainly, "Dalatross?"

"Commander Shepard," the Dalatross returned, bowing her head in greeting. "We know you've reached TuChanka, and by now I suppose by now Mordin Solus has proposed using the Shroud."

"Are you spying on us?" Shepard asked, curtly, unable to keep a hard frown from creasing her brow.

"Hardly," the Dalatross returned, snidely. "The Shroud is the only viable course of action open to you. Commander, you can't allow your misguided sympathy for the krogan to cloud your judgement. Do you honestly believe curing the genophage will end in lasting peace?"

"We have to give the krogan that chance," Shepard answered, determined. "We can't condemn an entire race to extinction based on what might happen."

"What will happen is that the krogan will reproduce out of control," the Dalatross countered. "We uplifted them specifically for their violent nature, not their diplomatic skills. Another war is inevitable."

"Is that why your people moved on to the yahg?" Shepard asked, crossing her arms. "Less chance of them forming an unanticipated government syndicate? What were you planning on using them for, Dalatross – living weapons? Frontline cannon fodder? If that didn't work out for you, were you planning on sterilizing them, too?"

"Sterilization of the yahg would be a great loss for no one," the Dalatross commented, venomously. "Regardless, the yahg are none of your concern, Commander. And none of mine, either, any longer." Folding her hands together in front of her, the Dalatross shrugged her thin, veiled shoulders. "My peoples' scientific involvement with them was short-lived," she explained, dryly, as if almost bored with the topic. "Cerberus saw to that. And we have not made efforts to reengage our uplifting on the yahg after the destruction of our research tower. We consider it to be an ill-fated foray, one best forgotten."

"I'm sure the yahg don't feel the same way," Shepard commented.

"I don't care what the yahg feel," the Dalatross answered, curtly. "They are no longer my peoples' wards, therefore they are no longer my concern."

"What do you want, Dalatross?" Shepard gave a hard sigh of breath, quickly growing tired of the conversation.

"Years ago, our operatives sabotaged the Shroud facility to ensure what you are planning on doing couldn't be done," the Dalatross explained, straightforward, as if she saw nothing wrong with what she was saying. "Mordin will likely detect this malfunction and repair it. But if you ensure that he doesn't, then the Cure's viability will be altered just enough so that it fails. No one will notice the change."

Shepard faltered, taken aback. "You mean… trick the krogan?" she asked, not sure if she had heard correctly.

"They need not be any the wiser," the Dalatross confirmed. "Let Urdnot Wrex believe you fulfilled your promise."

"Mordin would never stand for that," Shepard told her, shaking her head.

"How you deal with him is up to you, Commander," the Dalatross said. "We can provide you our very best scientists to build the Crucible, and the full support of our fleets."

"If I sabotage the Cure," Shepard answered, frowning.

"Think about it, Commander," Linron told her. "The choice is yours." Then, without another word, the Dalatross' image flickered out, and she was gone.

Urdnot Wreav was dead.

It had happened so suddenly that even now, after the fight was over, Shepard was still not sure she could wrap her head around that fact. The fight on TuChanka had been as long as it had been hard, and many lives had been lost, but for some reason that one stuck with her the hardest. She had not known Wreav particularly well, and knew that Wrex had not been terribly fond of him despite their shared blood, but he had still been a leader, admired by his troops, fighting for his people. It was never easy to lose someone like that.

Running an anxious hand back through her hair, she brushed free a stray flake of Cure powder that was still clinging to it, watching as it drifted lazily to the floor, resting against the cool metal for a moment before melting into nothingness. The Reaper had stood strong, the firefight had raged on for what seemed like an eternity, the smell of burning flesh and the thick cloud of kicked-up dust had threatened to choke her, but when the genophage Cure had been released, time itself seemed to have stood still. The faces of Eve and Wrex were still fresh in her mind, the way their eyes lit up as the Cure had filtered down on them, freeing them from an uncertain future and giving them a new one to look forward to. They had looked so happy, so completely at peace, as if it were something they had never expected to experience in their lifetimes.

The door of the infirmary slid open, and Shepard instantly looked up, raising her brows, expectant. Chakwas leaned a hand against the doorframe, slick with green blood, and let out a tired exhale of breath. It had been a good three hours since she had started her duties up again, when the battered and bloody crew had returned from the surface of TuChanka, and it was clearly wearing on her, but she was a strong woman, and Shepard had never known her to back away from a challenge, no matter how dire. Looking up at Shepard, Chakwas hesitated, observing her, before finally smiling at her, gently. "Don't look so worried, Commander," she said, peeling her gloves off and folding them together. "He's doing just fine. A minor concussion and some breaks, but he's going to live."

Shepard let out a heavy, relieved sigh, finally allowing herself to relax. She had not noticed how rigid her anxious posture had been all this time, but now she could physically feel the tension leaving her shoulders and back. "Is he awake?" she asked, hopeful.

"Awake and chattering up a storm," Chakwas chuckled. "I could hardly convince him to stay in bed, even for his own good. He's a stubborn old man. I can see why you like him." Tucking her folded gloves into the pocket of her white coat, Chakwas turned, beckoning for Shepard to follow her back into the infirmary. "Come on in," she told her. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see you. It'll give him a little break from dealing with me, at least. I'm sure he'll be thankful for that."

"Just him, huh?" Shepard joked, eagerly getting up from her seat, tucking her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she passed Chakwas into the infirmary.

"Well, and me as well," Chakwas returned with a small laugh. "I'm afraid another hour of just the two of us and we might just kill each other."

"Which would be counterproductive," Mordin chimed in from his hospital bed. "As you just spent last three hours making sure I lived."

"It was my pleasure, Doctor," Chakwas told him, nodding in response. Then, turning again, she let the door of the infirmary slide shut behind her, leaving Shepard and Mordin by themselves.

Shepard hesitated, awkwardly staring at Mordin from the far end of the infirmary, hearing the repetitive beeps and hisses of the monitoring machines Chakwas had hooked him up to. Then, pulling Chakwas' chair from behind her desk, she rolled it over to Mordin's hospital bed, dragging it up right beside him and allowing herself to sit down in it, folding her hands anxiously in her lap as she stared at him, observing him. "How are you feeling?" she asked, tentatively, unsure whether it would be appropriate to ask what she was really thinking. She felt selfish to even be thinking about it at a time like this, but, knowing Mordin, she was sure he was thinking it, too.

Mordin pondered on her question a moment, as if unsure if he really knew how he was feeling. Then, reaching up with his good hand, he gingerly touched the bloodied bandage that had been wrapped around the right side of his head, before retrieving his hand again and letting it fall back to his bedding. "Minor concussion," he answered, straightforwardly. "Falling rubble. Big chunk. Right on the head. Broke off what was left of my horn. Now just a bloody stump. Bleeding stopping quickly, however. Will soon just be a stump." Raising his patterned brow then, he grinned at her, optimistic. "Was lucky, really," he joked. "Was afraid other horn had broken. Current situation much more preferable. One horn still better than none."

"That's good," Shepard told him, unable to withhold a smile at his bizarre, somewhat morbid sense of humour.

"Broken arm, too," Mordin added, glancing over at the bandaged appendage in question. "Bad break, so I'm told. Several places. Will take some time to heal."

Shepard frowned, trying not to look too disappointed, but she could not help a sinking feeling from welling up in the pit of her stomach at this news. She felt guilty to be thinking of herself when her dear friend had just nearly escaped a brush with death, but she could not help the feeling of anxiety sitting like a rock in her chest. "So, when do you think… your arm… will finish healing?" she asked, tentatively, trying not to be too obvious in her question, but it was hard when she knew that they both knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Unsure," Mordin answered, truthfully. "Salarian bones, brittle. Part of reason we do not live as long. Also, I am… older. Even with medicinal help, healing time takes longer. Immune system not what it used to be."

"So you don't think you'd be able to do my…" Shepard glanced over her shoulder, still uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing out loud, before turning her attention back to Mordin. "My procedure," she said, her voice lower. "Anytime soon?"

"Unlikely," Mordin returned, shaking his head. "Am very sorry, Shepard. Cannot risk doing procedure when hampered. Have improper medical equipment for procedure already. Trying to do risky procedure with improper equipment and only one useable hand… beyond dangerous. Rash. Foolhardy."

A silence fell over the infirmary, finalistic and uncomfortable, and Shepard sat back in her chair, fidgeting anxiously with the hem of her hoodie. Mordin looked down, worrying at his lower lip, thoughtful. Then, looking up again, he took a sharp breath, getting her attention once more. "There is… alternative," he told her, his revelation halting, as if unsure if he should even be telling her about it. "On the Citadel, there is available an… injection. Will definitely cause miscarriage, is designed to do so, but… was still in testing phase before war with Reapers began. Had to be sidelined. Was almost ready for distribution, but only problem was… is not exact science. If injected, would probably work sometime in following one to seven days, but… no way to tell exactly when it would take effect."

"One to seven days?" Shepard repeated, frowning. "That's…" Stuffing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie again, she scuffed her shoe against the floor of the infirmary, making a face as she thought, weighing her currently dwindling options. "That's… too much risk," she finally decided, shaking her head. "I can't risk… that… happening on a mission, or in the middle of a political meeting, and I can't… ask the Alliance to wait around for me for a whole week. I just can't do it."

"One week of downtime very little compared to eighteen years of responsibility," Mordin reminded her.

"I know," Shepard answered, sighing. "I know it is. Don't worry, Mordin. I'm… I've… I've got this covered." It was almost the truth, after all – she did not want to worry Mordin while he was still in such critical condition, and, if nothing else, she still had the contact information of the geneticist on Illium that Miranda had sent her. She figured it was not too much of a stretch for them to make a quick trip to Illium under the guise of picking up needed supplies, and she could get it taken care of while she was there. It was a precarious plan, but it was preferable to waiting around for a week or more for her body to let go of something it seemed obstinately resistant to letting go of up until now.

Mordin stared at her, sceptical. "Are you sure, Shepard?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically slow, testing her.

Shepard faltered, then, taking a deep breath, she nodded affirmatively. "I'm sure," she told him. "Don't you worry about it, honestly. You did a great service to the war effort by curing the genophage. You deserve to just live in peace and quiet from here on out." She smiled then, raising one brow teasingly. "I'll take you to the Citadel," she told him. "And from there you can catch a shuttle to that tropical beach planet you were talking about. Get you started running tests on those seashells like you wanted."

"Much appreciated, Shepard," Mordin returned with a smile, finally closing his tired eyes. "Will be sure to send you the results."

The war room seemed quieter than usual. This made sense, as it appeared to be almost empty apart from the Primarch and Garrus, who were standing over the war hub, consulting on something Shepard could not quite pick up. They spoke in hushed voices, likely discussing turian politics, but both looked up at her as soon as she entered the room, tucking her hands interested into the pockets of her hoodie. She looked over at Garrus, hoping to get a read on the topic of conversation from him, but his expression remained passive, dutiful to a fault. She supposed it made sense that he would be talking with the Primarch after the events of TuChanka, and so, letting it go, she turned her attention back to Victus as she came to a stop in front of him, allowing him to close the rest of the way between them.

"Commander," Victus greeted her, moving away from the console to stand over her, folding his hands respectfully in front of him. "Urdnot Wrex has begun sending troops to Palaven. You kept your end of the bargain, and now I'll keep mine." Offering her his hand, he lifted his chin, proud, before giving a short, approving nod of his head as she accepted his hand and shook it. "The turian hierarchy will stand with humanity against the Reapers," he told her, retrieving his hand again.

"I'm glad we can help each other out," Shepard replied, starting to move past him, watching as he turned to follow her around the lip of the war hub. "It's the only way we're going to defeat the Reapers."

"That much is certain," Victus agreed, moving to stand beside Garrus, who had been silently watching the conversation up to that point. "To that end, several dry-dock ships are ready to help build the Crucible. Garrus will coordinate them."

"Yes, sir," Garrus said, nodding in confirmation.

"And when it comes time to deploy it, the full measure of our fleet will be there for Earth," Victus added, turning to look at the slowly-spinning hologram of the Crucible-in-progress. Then, turning to look at Shepard again, he took a deep breath. "May the spirits watch over us all," he said. Then, turning away from the two of them, he made his quiet exit from the war room, leaving them to their own devices.

An uncomfortable silence settled on the room as soon as the Primarch had left. Shepard moved past Garrus, leaning her palms against the cool, sleek surface of the war hub, and stared at the holographic image in the middle of it, not wanting to meet his concerned gaze. Garrus did not react, wanting to allow her her space, but then, after a short moment, he finally cleared his throat, taking a tentative step towards her and taking a soft, readying breath. "I'll start managing turian support right away, Shepard," he told her. He hesitated again, not wanting to overstep his boundaries, before raising his plated brows, optimistic. "How is Mordin?" he asked, hoping to lighten the mood, if only a little.

"He's fine," Shepard answered, truthfully, still not looking at him as she spoke. "Concussion and a broken arm. Nothing serious."

"I doubt even a concussion could slow down that mind of his," Garrus joked, shrugging his armoured shoulders, relieved. "Always going a mile a minute. Just wouldn't be Mordin if he didn't."

"Yeah," Shepard agreed, distracted. Another silence fell between them, this one more dampening than the last.

"You must be exhausted," Garrus finally commented, breaking the silence once again. "That mission on TuChanka was no walk in the park. Maybe you should get some rest—"

"I'm okay," Shepard lied, cutting over him. Turning away from the console, she leaned back against the edge of the hub, pocketing her hands and looking up at him, tiredly. Garrus frowned, his mandibles giving a worried bob and twitch, before moving over to lean against the console next to her. Shepard did not flinch as his arm touched hers, letting it rest there, unintentional but still oddly reassuring.

"We both know you need a clear head to win a war," Garrus told her, looking over at her. His voice was not scolding, only informative, stating facts that both of them knew to be true. "There's no room for mistakes here. You should catch some shut-eye." He paused, and then shrugged again, nudging her arm with his elbow. "Besides, I know where you sleep," he added. "We'll wake you if anything comes up."

Shepard nodded, knowing there to be wisdom in his words. "Yeah," she agreed, softly. Then, slipping her arm around his, she pulled his arm gently towards her, resting her head against his shoulder and letting out a tired sigh. "I'm so ready for this war to be over," she told him. "I just want to go home."

"Home doesn't exist anymore," Garrus reminded her.

"Then I'll make a new home," Shepard answered, simply. "Home isn't necessarily where you're born. It's where you make it."

"Home is where the heart exists?" Garrus asked, wittily.

Shepard hesitated, before reaching up and pressing on her in-ear converter, making a face. "I don't think that translated quite right," she said, unable to keep a small smile from touching her lips. "But, yeah. More or less. Home is where the heart is."

Garrus nodded, thoughtful, considering this. Then, leaning over towards her, he lifted her chin gently with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, half-playful. "Then my home is right here," he told her, his mandibles giving a self-satisfied little tic.

Shepard turned, staring at him, her eyes wide for a long moment. Then, reaching up, she took hold of his face, bringing him down to her level and kissing him, deeply. Garrus fumbled against the edge of the war hub, accidentally pressing a few buttons and hearing them beep in retort, before encasing her in his negative space, one arm on each side, kissing her back just as deeply. Shepard grasped the back of his neck, her fingers sliding needily against the smooth scaly skin, gripping the ridge of small, dark plates that ran down the length of his spine as he pressed her up against the hub, causing it to give another loud beep of protest, his clawed hand pressing against the space between her legs, driving upward before massaging gently, pressing her up hard and letting her down easy.

Shepard exclaimed, her sounds muffled by his mouth, moaning in pleasure as he pressed the palm of his hand against her flesh. Withdrawing his hand from her legs, Garrus reached up, taking hold of the zipper of her hoodie, and started to unzip it, but he quickly found his hand slapped away, the moment ending as abruptly as it had begun. Clutching her hoodie to her chest, Shepard zipped it back up the rest of the way, pushing his arm out of the way as she turned away from him, almost cowering as she tried to repress the feeling of panic that had suddenly seized hold of her. She could hear her heart hammering in her ears, the sweat that had begun to form on her arms turning suddenly cold, and she ran a hand back through her hair, anxious, inwardly cursing her stupidity.

"I should go," she told him. Then, shaking her head, she turned and headed out the door, leaving Garrus standing alone in the war room, stunned and confused.

"Shepard, I'm sorry!" he called after her, but she was already gone.