Wrex

Wrex's bones ached. His plates ached. His arms sometimes shook whenever he picked something up, a worrying symptom of the weight of both ages and injury slowly ruining his body. When he fully unfolded his right hand and stretched out the fingers, it felt as if a sharp nub of bone jutted out from two of the joints, threatening to rupture his skin. And sometimes, usually at night, his primary heart would start beating very quickly, flooding his body with pain and warning chemicals, as if he were in a battle rather than a bed.

This is not how I imagined my homecoming. Not that I ever bothered imagining much before. Wrex grimaced, sending another dull throb through his crest at the prolonged motion. He stared dully at the tiny cockpit, wondering if the terran cripple's legs felt any better than his did. I can stand without crutches, at the least. But I am krogan. Such is to be expected. And really – what use am I when my body is broken? The terran at least knows how to pilot.

"You sure you gotta hover back there?" The pilot displayed no fear, did not even turn to face him as he spoke. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you're less irritating than Anderson, but I keep worrying we'll hit some space turbulence, you'll trip, and then you'll break something important. Like my body."

"You do not fear my temper?" Wrex half-stepped out of the cockpit, partially to give the pilot some room, partially so that he could get a better look at him. "On most of you terrans, I smell fear when it comes to close quarters. But not you." Nor Shepard. But Shepard runs into battle without a real weapon. Even I would think before doing so.

"You know that elcor, Xeltan? The one back on the Norad II?" Joker looked back briefly at Wrex, as if to check he were still there. "I, uh, almost patted him on the head. You know – four-legged creature … didn't seem like a person. But he asked me, uh, how I would feel if he started touching me. Told me I'd freak out. And you know, I agreed. So I'm trying, I'm trying to treat the aliens I meet as people." Joker looked back again, scanning Wrex quickly, lingering on his thick arms. "You got clearance. I know your name. And I'm not doing anything important. So … what's the difference between you standing there or Jenkins? Hell, you haven't even asked me to do a barrel roll, so you're better than Jenkins in my book."

"Hmph." Wrex cocked his head a Joker turned around again, focusing on his controls. A strange view for anyone to have. Let alone these … Earthers. But then, I have seen no other Earther with a disease such as his.

"And, if we're going off "favorite krogan on this vessel," you're probably the one I'd pick." Wrex narrowed his eyes, recognizing the playful tone in the terran's voice. "Grunt only likes you and Shepard and Okeer freaks me out. You're just, you know. Quiet."

The pain contributes to that. There's feeling old, and then there's feeling old and … borderline useless. Wrex stared down at his hands, turned them over, straightened them out. Pain stabbed through him again. When my body breaks, there will be no great mind left behind. No worthwhile skills past the killing. I want to say that krogan were not supposed to live this long … but then I look at Okeer. Okeer could have his legs amputated and I would still fear his knowledge.

"Wrex." The Captain, more tired-looking by the day, despite his injuries healing far better than Wrex's. Wrex backed out of the cockpit and turned to face the man, already armored but with the helmet retracted, noting the long scar that now ran across the left side of his jaw, the skin raw and pink like a fresh kill. "We're touching down soon. Shepard and Grunt are waiting by the armory – how do you feel?"

"Never thought I'd be coming back here." Wrex paused, trying to dismiss the old memories and emotions and uncover just what he really felt, to come back to his old stomping grounds at the behest of an alien power rather than his own volition. He shook his head. "A few aches and pains from Korhal. Otherwise, fine." Confused. Disappointed. I will have to hide such when I come face to face with Wreav.

Anderson checked briefly around him to see if anyone was paying attention before stepping closer to Wrex. "What kind of reception are you expecting?"

Wrex snorted. "Wreav has wanted me dead since before I left Tuchanka. Now he's in charge of our clan, and I have to wrest control from him. If it weren't for a handful of traditions and the Council orbital platforms, he'd try to have us blown out of the sky." Mostly the latter, knowing him. Though he will cite the former.

"Should we expect hostilities?"

Wrex resisted the urge to outright laugh in the Captain's face, instead simply settling for a steely grin.

"This is Tuchanka. The krogan homeworld. No one should walk on its surface without … expecting hostilities."

"From one radioactive hellhole to the next." Anderson sucked in a deep breath. "Well. We'll back you. All we need is a foothold here, and then we can start sending in the SCVs and experts. I will see you down by the cargo doors, once we've touched down."

Wrex nodded slowly and let David past him, into the cockpit. He heard some mention of "protoss vessels," but decided against hanging around to find out what it meant. How will those plans of yours go if the protoss decide to get involved, Stukov? How far have you accounted for them?

Wrex thudded his way through the bridge and towards the elevator, trying to resist his body's impulse to limp, trying to mute the occasional gasp of pain. People still gave him a wide berth as he walked, but that would likely have been their reaction even if Wrex was some buxom asari maiden. Joker and Shepard … two relative xenophiles in a herd of bigots. Wrex grinded his teeth, waiting on one leg for the elevator down to the armory. Not that the krogan are the most hospitable towards aliens either.

When the elevator doors shut behind Wrex, he openly leaned against the wall while the elevator descended, taking deep and controlled breaths. Fear not. If nothing else, you will still have your combat suit to prop you up. How many krogan can afford a suit of the same caliber down there? Aside from Wreav, I mean…

Wrex almost stumbled out of the elevator, catching himself just barely. Grunt watched from the corner of the cargo bay with interest, his own face unscarred from the gauntlet on Korhal. And he was even there for the hour of the zerg and Reaper. Shepard, meanwhile, kneeled on one knee, the right wrist of her combat suit disassembled before her. She waved Wrex over with a quick smile, still mostly intent on her task.

"Still in pain?" she asked, giving Wrex pause as he approached. "Nothing to be ashamed of, me noticing. Seems to be a bit of a universal sensation. Even those Reaper things screamed a little as they got filled with bullets." Shepard snapped her wrist back into place, pulling back the metal and sliding it until it clicked. "I checked your suit, too. Might actually be in better condition now than it was going in. Alenko's doing. Make sure to say thanks."

"Grunt." Grunt lifted his head at Wrex's greeting. "What does Okeer say about Tuchanka?"

"A planet robbed of its potential beauty." It sounded so strange, hearing Grunt say that. His voice was far higher than Okeer's low rumble, and the way he stepped forward and looked so eager to please was a far cry from Okeer's … detachedness … but Wrex nevertheless heard the doctor's influence. "A long time ago, the tank mother claimed the planet did not suffer under self-inflicted nuclear winter. That the rubble did not extend as far as the eye could see. Now there is only dust, and the handful of creatures tough enough to endure. The krogan among them."

A curious view. I would have called it "home" and left it at that. Unless I were speaking to an alien.

"It is a harsh place, with harsh rules. A fine place to start before stepping into the galaxy at large." Wrex shrugged. "The rest always comes easier. We found the bellies of rachni nests far more hospitable than we did the planet of our birth. If you are truly krogan, you will adapt and persevere." He stepped into the armory and found his suit standing in place, almost scraping against the ceiling. A fresh red paint job made the thing almost shine, and Wrex could see little to no indication of just what a wreck the thing had been just weeks ago. Ammunition packs dotted the belt, and when Wrex turned the suit slightly, it was to see his massive gun planted on the back. Hmm. Should be enough to survive Tuchanka.

Wrex activated his omnitool and cracked it open, bowing his head as he clambered inside the massive armor. It will amplify the vestiges of my strength, turning it into something mighty enough to pass as krogan.

"He looks like a krogan to me," said Shepard, standing as Wrex hunched his way through the door. "And, nice. Not so easy to notice the limp now. So … what's the protocol for meeting with your old clan?"

Wrex sighed and briefly closed his eyes, putting the list in order. "I meet with my brother. We insult each other. I challenge him for leadership. He asks me where my krannt is. I point to you. He laughs. He consults the shaman for some reasons to block us. Eventually we'll have to face him down." Wrex laughed, a booming croak. "To save my people, you will have to end scores of them."

Shepard frowned. "Are they really that … tribalistic? No … I remember the dossier. The Genophage has done a number on you."

"The salarians enabled us to do a number on ourselves," boomed a deep voice from behind Wrex. He bared his teeth and turned to face the bound Okeer, an armored Jenkins and Williams to either side of him. Despite his wrists being bound together with thick steel, he still sneered and offered a mocking gesture to Wrex. "The future of the krogan, still clinging to his ill-conceived notions over what our people need. Do you plan to shatter the clans' strength with a combination of your personality and the assistance of these terrans? Hmm? Do you plan to acquiesce to their inevitable demands to begin expanding on their behalf?"

You know nothing of what I plan. Wrex watched Okeer's bared teeth turn to a contemptuous smile, his eyes darting towards Grunt behind him. Whatever the future of our people, it will not be brought about by staying the course … or listening to you. And these humans … they will play their role. And then we will see what their appropriate due will be.

"Coming in for a landing, ladies and gentlemen." Wrex's hearts beat a little faster. At last. A proper homecoming. "Local protoss garrison wants to see us groundside." Joker said it casually, but the reaction among the others was immediate. Jenkins looked to Williams and sighed, Okeer snorted in disbelief, while Shepard just looked thoughtful, slightly excited. Yes … this will likely be the first time any of us have stood face to face with a protoss. I certainly missed my chance on Korhal. The homecoming grows stranger.

"Shape up, people." Anderson strolled from the elevator, Alenko in tow. "Protoss want to get a look at us, not sure why." He nodded to Wrex. "It's your show. We're just here to provide the muscle where need be. I'll leave the talking to you."

Yes. I am well renowned for my communication skills. Wrex clicked his tongue, but still bowed his head in acknowledgement. My neck aches.

"Really hope this doesn't turn violent." Alenko, stepping up next to Wrex, flexing his fingers, both flesh and false. "Say what you like about him, but I felt better knowing Duran was out there, cutting throats."

"Not gonna miss that smile of his." Williams's helmet covered her face once more with a snap. "But yeah, it's nice to have a ghost on your side. Hoping he hasn't gone AWOL with the intent of putting a knife between our ribs. Now: how likely is this gonna get violent?"

"Likely." Wrex listened to the whine of the ship's engines change in pitch as it screeched through the atmosphere, leaving the black behind. Wrex spared a glance for Okeer. "Mouth shut. Or I break a limb of my choosing."

Okeer opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again once Wrex narrowed his eyes almost immediately. I'm tired, I'm falling apart, and I'm probably not the krogan for this … but at least I'm not a prisoner. At least I am not totally hated on the planet by those who remember me. At least I did not unleash infested krogan upon the galaxy.

"With me, Grunt." The younger krogan strode up to him, smaller and yet of such a more confident stride. The whining increased in pitch, and Wrex sensed the ship beginning to slow. He looked back at the assorted armored terrans. "Don't make eye contact. They will see it as a challenge. Do not back down if a krogan insults you or makes threats. They despise weakness. If in combat, do not stop firing into the skull once you've downed one. They tend to get back up."

"You heard the man," barked Anderson, emerging from the armory with a rifle slung over his back. "Everyone stocked up on the new medigel shit?"

"You sure you're not out of a job, Commander?" Williams nudged the medic with her elbow while everyone else muttered the affirmative. "All you have to do is slap this stuff on … doesn't even require any training."

"Right. I'll just let you stuff your intestines back in where they came from, then." Shepard folded her arms. "You can hold them in with one hand, apply medigel with the other."

"Point taken."

Normandy bounced once, and then a grinding clank echoed from below as the docking bay applied its clamps. It's been two hundred years since I've been to this planet, last I checked. Almost six hundred since I've been here, where Clan Urdnot lies.

For a few moments, all went still. Then, slowly, the cargo bay doors parted, their muffled creak signaling the return of Urdnot Wrex to his ancestral home. He stepped forward, Grunt at his side, Okeer and the terrans behind. As he crossed the threshold from ship to shore, he breathed in the lingering dust of his homeworld, tainted with so much ash and blood, and sighed.

The predominant color remained gray, except of course when krogan spilled each other's blood. Then it became either bright red, or a horrible pink. The main feature of the landscape remained scorched rubble, except where krogan rested, there it became a sea of makeshift tents and sturdy prefab huts. The main cause of death among krogan remained, "krogan," unless of course they were in the vicinity of a thresher maw. My home.

The hangar remained much as Wrex remembered it from his time long ago: the rubble was piled off to the corners and edges and forgotten about, the guards eyed the new arrivals with barely concealed suspicion and malice, and the only thing that looked even remotely maintained was the landing platform and actual docking mechanisms. And that's more courtesy of the salarians and turians than anything else. If many krogan had their way, all other aliens would be unable to land on this planet.

There was one major new element, however. A great blue crystal banded by a strange metal ring hovered to the left of the entrance to the clan proper, its function unknown. In the far corner, a small squat golden structure sat against the squalor, something nestled in its center. And, of course, before the strange crystal, blocking their access to the rest of the clan, there he stood.

"I am Praetor Karass, legend among Templar, leader of the garrison here." Wrex and company paused. That is not a boast. That is a mere statement of fact. The Templar floated half a foot off the ground, his gold armor as innate as it was thick, a cloak of deep blue flowing behind him. His red eyes crackled with energy, but the protoss's demeanor otherwise appeared as calm and self-assured as his voice. He inclined his head and pressed his hands together. "I bid you welcome to this shattered world, although I do not know your purpose, nor your names."

"Urdnot Wrex," boomed Wrex, making the docking bay guards' heads turn. "I am here to reclaim my rightful place as leader of this clan, and lead the krogan race into the future."

Murmuring sprang from the krogans, while the protoss displayed no visible reaction, simply watching Wrex with what might have been idle curiosity.

"A bombastic claim, and not one I was anticipating." The protoss floated idly upwards, leveling with the docking platform and staring down at the assembled group of krogan and terrans. "My charge is that I prevent any outbreak of conflict amongst the various groups here, as well as to gradually cull the numbers of the infested. You fall outside the scope of my orders." We're even, then. I never expected to meet one of your kind face to face … let alone on my homeworld.

"The apocalypse is coming. You will want the krogan. You will need the krogan." Wrex bared his teeth in a grin, trying to ignore the sharp and unexpected jab of pain in his jaw as he did so. "You have seen our people. Would that we had been mobilized for the march on Thessia."

"Indeed." Karass turned his head slightly, examining the terrans behind Wrex. "These Directorate humans … why do they tread upon this harsh land? I see into their mind and bear witness to their suspicions … they suspect their leadership sends them here for unsavory reasons, rather than to deter the darkness." Karass rose slightly higher in the air, his enormous armored feet now held above the landing platform itself. "What say you, Wrex?"

"I cannot speak for the humans. I came to claim my birthright and save my species." Wrex shrugged, irritation genuine. "I brought them for their strength of arms. Their agenda has no place here unless the krogan choose it to be so."

Wrex thought he heard Okeer cough, but when he turned to the doctor, he had given no sign of having opened his mouth. Grunt stared in open awe at the protoss, his expression unexpectedly mirroring Shepard's. The rest of them only stood their ground, staring at this … "legend."

"I have little experience in dealing with matters of arbitration." Karass lowered himself slightly, bringing himself almost level with Wrex, which meant that he got a very good view of just how tall the protoss were. "You intend to speak with Wreav, your brother, and expect conflict. I cannot permit this, but I bear little love for … that one. I will send Taldarin. He is wise in such matters, and will help defuse any potential violence." The protoss began to fade, his final words possessed of an ethereal echo. "Go in peace … but tread lightly. I have little patience for aggression, naked or otherwise."

"Is this normal?" asked Wrex once the protoss had fully dematerialized, his question directed at the docking guards, three pairs of them huddled together across the hangar. One, clad in dull red armor and larger than the others, stepped forward from the strange golden structure he stood near.

"The protoss banished all the salarians and turians from the orbit, cut up any krogan who resisted their coming, and planted a bunch of these … turrets … all over the planet." The krogan shrugged. "You picked a strange time to return, Wrex. None of this is normal."

"How fares Wreav in this new order?" Wrex descended the ramp, feeling the way his boots sunk into the dust atop the concrete. "Chafing?"

"Frustrated. Clan warfare was his life, and now the protoss have taken that all away." The krogan sounded uncertain. "More effective than the Umojans at ending conflict, I suppose, but at least the Umojans respected our traditions."

"Change does not come overnight. It is an arduous process, and it tends to begin and end in blood." Wrex shook his head. What did the shamans tell me? Conflict is bred in our bones … to ignore or deny the bloodrage is to fail to accept our very core. Tuchanka bred us to be hard. We did not ape the salarians once we left this planet; we did not become effete creatures who slaved themselves to their females for the right to mate. We must accept and channel our instincts and biology, not suppress it … which is precisely what the protoss want.

"Take me to him." Wrex knew better than to phrase it as a question. He stared down from his suit into the eyes of the Guard Captain, seeing a glimmer of recognition in the krogan's eyes. He might remember me from before I left. He certainly looks old enough. Probably one of the children…

The captain knew better than to resist. They passed the strange protoss crystal in single file, a strange procession of armed humans and krogan striding through what little civilization Tuchanka had to offer. Past the pylon came the familiar cramped tunnel, which Wrex could see had plainly been widened in recent years, likely to account for the proliferation of CMC armor amongst the people. Even so, Wrex bowed his head at the entrance and exit, wary of inflicting dizziness upon himself. I must maintain the appearance of strength.

The tunnel gave way to gaping space. In ages past it might have been the underside a krogan superhighway, built to survive both the passing of enormous krogan vehicles and the occasional barrage of artillery from rivaling clans. Now, it formed a vast enclave for the Clan Urdnot. Tents stretched in every direction that Wrex could see, broken only by mighty pillars that stood as a testament to long absent krogan engineering ingenuity, or occasional crushes of males, all of whom turned to face the interlopers.

And of course, to their right and at the head of it all, there stood the Urdnot throne, surrounded by towering krogan in CMC armor, skulls and ancient krogan runes painted on to their shoulders and the barrels of their guns, upon their lowered red-tinted visors.

Krogan laughed and pointed, gnashed their teeth and jeered as Wrex's retinue approached the throne, some in recognition of who he was, others simply on principle. At the very least, they would recognize the (poorly imitated, bloody terrans) Urdnot clan symbols splashed upon the back and left shoulder of his armor, know him for who he was. This is my homecoming. Trailed by a clanless, the progenitor of viscerators, and a squad of aliens.

Wreav sat upon the broken concrete throne that, had Wrex remained, would have been his. An elbow rested against one of the jagged arms, supporting a massive head as it casually turned to watch Wrex and his people ascend the dais without any apparent interest. Wrex lifted a hand once he deemed they had drawn close enough, causing a halt in the sounds of shuffling behind him. The guard captain stepped forward and kneeled before the throne, muttering introductions. Wreav was quick to shush him, instead rising and taking a few ponderous steps towards his guests.

"Well now," Wreav said in a voice as deep as Wrex's own, salted with contempt. "This is interesting." He stepped forward again, drawing close to Wrex and sniffing. "Hmm. I smell a thousand worlds upon you, brother. Yet barely any scent of Tuchanka!" Krogan yelled and pounded their fists together at this, either approving or acknowledging the challenge.

"You speak of remaining idle as if it were strength, Wreav." Wrex sniffed. "Where were you on Korhal, as the Earthers rained from the sky and the zerg made their resurgence? Where were you on the day Thessia fell, the hour the krogan should have proven their worth to the galaxy once more? What wealth and greatness have you won growing fat atop your throne?"

Ringing silence fell for a brief moment, followed by even louder hooting and a litany of muffled thuds as krogan fists knocked together. Wreav cracked a grin that was entirely without humor.

"I have remained with my people, keeping them strong even in the face of an ugly galaxy." Wreav inclined his head. "But I will acknowledge your prowess as a wandering mercenary, brother, if nothing else. Why do you come here? I thought your exit following the massacre in the Hollows was to be permanent."

"This clan can no longer afford my absence." Wrex balled his fists, ignoring the jab of pain. He gestured to his companions. "With me stand the United Earth Directorate, the terrans who conquered the Koprulu Sector in a matter of months. With me stands Grunt, a disciple of myself and the terran, Commander Shepard, a representation of our strength and the future of our species. And, of course, an old foe, cunning and intelligent, now at your mercy." Wrex reached for Okeer and pulled him forward, catching a glimpse of slight fear in his eyes. Okeer stood before Wreav, not cowering, but certainly nowhere near as at ease as he had been before. And, if I've judged my brother right…

He had. Wrex watched Wreav's eyes scan Okeer at length, the naked fires of greed and ambition alight in his beady little eyes. You look to him and do not see the criminal that everyone else sees, a madman who unleashed the horrors known as viscerators upon the galaxy … you see a genius with no scruples and every reason to comply with your requests.

"An interesting gift, to bring one so hated." Wreav's eyes did not leave Okeer, who straightened, understanding what Wrex had done. If I had tried to hide your presence or identity, it would go poorly for us. Mutters rose from the krogan bystanders, a ripple of anger at the presence of one who had brought them all a great deal of pain. "I shall think on what to do with him." Not for long you will not. The guard captain stepped forward again, head bowed, and Wreav turned to him, irritation written on his face.

"Clan Chief, the protoss wish to send Taldarin to arbitrate. I suspect he will be here at any moment."

Wreav's irritation turned to shock and … fear? Now, that's a sight to see. Yet Wrex could not help but feel slightly ill-at-ease himself, his belly beginning to wriggle. Karass described him as wise … but I sense that protoss wisdom comes hard-earned. Just as ours does.

Wreav turned to a well-lit corner adjacent to the throne dais. Light streamed in from a sizable gaping hole in the above surface, one Wrex did not recall being there during his last visit to the camp. As if on cue, the air began to shimmer, something enormous hurtling towards the empty space…

Krogan and terrans alike gasped and yelled as a massive quadruped made of shining gold metal materialized before them. Gargantuan twin guns protruded from the machine's arms, and the air hummed with nascent energy, the very air itself in anticipation for what this colossal protoss construct would do. The … thing, turned towards the dais, its guns twitching but nevertheless not facing towards any living thing in the camp, instead pointing resolutely above them all. From the machine, a great voice boomed:

"I am Taldarin! First of the dragoons, first of the immortals! I am he who spoke with Adun a millennia ago, who tutored mighty Templar such as Tassadar, Artanis, and Fenix. You know little of protoss lore, but through my myriad titles, I hope you gain a glimpse of my purpose and intent: to instruct, and if necessary, to castigate."

"I am Urdnot Wrex, would be chief of Clan Urdnot, older brother of Urdnot Wreav!" Wrex stepped forward immediately, trying to control the limp, the pains riddling his body, the fear in his twin hearts. "I come here alongside the United Earth Directorate to seek the title which is rightfully mine!"

"He has no place to do this!" Wreav stepped forward as well, but Wrex sensed that the clan had noticed just who was first to recover. Leaders such as Wreav only have brute force and tradition to prop up their rule. And those are two banners so easily taken up by others, particularly when one of them flags … "He fled this planet long ago, in shame and in infamy! He forsook his duty to Clan Urdnot, defiled the sanctity of the Hollows, and even murdered his own-"

There came a moment, every now and again, of perfect clarity, one where Wrex's purpose and the will of the people around him coalesced into a beautiful instant of perfect recklessness coupled with overwhelming force. Wrex's vision flashed red and he turned Wreav around by the shoulder, all pains forgotten, the watching protoss death machine all but irrelevant. Holding Wreav in place, Wrex pulled his head back … and then forward, full force.

Wreav staggered backwards before falling flat on his ass, his hands grasping for the already blossoming bruise atop his head, nestled neatly between his eyes. Taldarin's weapons swiveled, suddenly locked with Wrex, but Wrex did not care. He towered over Wreav, who moaned in pain while the crowds behind him roared.

"You whine like a quarian with a belly ache, Wreav. Always have." Wrex pounded his chest plate. "This armor has seen countless battlefields, felt the blood of terrans, batarians, turians, salarians, asari, vorcha, even zerg splash upon it. It is paid for by a legacy of success, of a string of jobs well done across worlds you will never see." Wrex traced the symbol of Clan Urdnot on his shoulder with a single armored finger. "They know not the name of this emblem, but everyone who crossed me knows what it means for them. Death. Defeat. My travels have afforded Urdnot respect, for all that gaze upon our symbol know that strength flows from it. Strength through my actions. I proclaim my might and my intent to this protoss, Wreav. I do not beg. I do not point fingers." A ripple of laughter and approval reached Wrex's ears, barely audible over the roaring of the blood through his veins.

"There are two ways this can proceed: either we struggle through whatever methods the protoss deem acceptable, a struggle in which my victory is assured, or I thank you graciously for acting as regent in my place, keeping the throne warm." Wrex glanced up at Taldarin. "I will not decimate this clan through a struggle. There are rites of ascension that do not require open conflict. This is to be the beginning of a new age of unity for us, not another hour of bloodshed."

Wreav opened his mouth to respond only to vomit forth a vile brown and green mixture, making Wrex curl his lip in equal disgust and satisfaction. I may have concussed him. Shepard may have to apply medical attention. I'd rather not kill my brother unless there were no other option … a sentiment I am sure he does not share, but nonetheless.

"I sense truth in your words, but I remain unfamiliar with your customs." Taldarin did not move his guns from Wrex's body. "Shaman of the Urdnot clan! Come forth and speak of what the traditions would have of these brothers Urdnot!"

"I swear these protoss talk like a bloody romance novel…" The Captain, likely palming his face with his hands. These are matters of import, human. Lofty language is appropriate here. Even if the protoss seem unable to speak any way else.

The shaman stepped forward, his cloth adornment simple, scars crossing every inch of his visible skin and plate. When his eyes met with Wrex's, Wrex noted the moment of recognition. Ah. I remember your name, although I am forbidden to even speak of it. I am pleased you made it to shamanhood at last.

"Long have we awaited the return of this wayward son, the Battlemaster, Urdnot Wrex!" boomed the shaman. "His accomplishments have reached our ears and pleased both the clan and his ancestors, yet his return is overdue. Many rites need to be performed to make certain that he remains krogan in mind and body, that these alien allies of his have not polluted his spirit. It is not enough to simply claim the throne of Urdnot, it must be earned."

Wrex heaved a sigh, eyes rolling towards his terran allies, those with opened visors looking like they were about to burst into either tears or laughter. Of course. It can never be so easy.

"You bring a clanless before us!" continued the shaman, stepping off the dais towards Grunt, whose skin flushed slightly as the older krogan approached. "One who you claim is of a twin heritage, taught by terrans and krogan both. How came you here, whelp? What can you offer to Clan Urdnot?"

"I am born of the tank mother, a contraption of Okeer, the father I reject." Wrex wished he could turn around to see Okeer's face at that, but this was Grunt's moment, and he would not miss just what the young one would say. "I am the product of his research, once he discarded his plans for the viscerators. I am everything a krogan should be, and more. I am distilled from the ideologies and bloodlines of Krelag, Skarr, and Shiagur. I am studied in krogan history and architecture, stretching before even the Uplift. I can fire and maintain weaponry, clean wounds, hunt prey, and match wits with any amongst you. I am his vision of what a krogan should be, modeled after the Old Ways and the zerg: adaptable, knowledgeable, and strong."

"Through Wrex I gain purpose and mighty enemies to fight. His clan name is the reason I stand before you today. I witnessed in awe his bloodrage upon the surface of Korhal, as he sustained wounds that would have felled any lesser creature. I followed him here, that I might continue in his tutelage." The young krogan paused, blue eyes swiveling to Shepard. He shifted in place. "From Shepard I learned of a new perspective, of staying the hand where it might prove beneficial, of finding strength not only through rage, but through duty and love of one's comrades; a krannt born of allied goals rather than blood. Without her armor, she is weak physically, but she is a warrior I cannot hope to match, for she has bested all foes without ever slaying them herself. Without her, I would have fallen upon Korhal." That … is not true. I was the one … ah. Clever whelp. But be warned: the protoss can sense falsehood.

Yet Taldarin remained silent, his guns slowly rising away from Wrex's body. Wreav moaned on the ground.

"An impressive speech," said the shaman to the approval of the crowd, "but your constitution must nevertheless be tested. If what you say is true … if you are truly as strong as you say, and you represent what might be gained through the acceptance of your fathers both false and chosen … then a change in leadership would be appropriate." The shaman stared back at Taldarin with narrowed eyes, daring to glare at the protoss. "So long as you find it … appropriate."

"The young Grunt will undergo the Rite, and if he passes, Wrex will be clan leader," boomed Taldarin, to muffled applause. "If not, then you may do with him as you see fit. So long as you do not war upon yourselves, there will be no call for me to take action."

"You must choose your krannt, Grunt," said the shaman, nodding to the krogan. "It is traditional to take two, two of those willing to kill for your name and honor." The shaman paused, staring at Wrex, sadness in his eyes. "Given the nature of these proceedings, it would be … inappropriate for you to choose Wrex. But anyone else will do."

"Shepard," called out Grunt immediately, bringing a smile to the medic's face, "and … Anderson."

"Oh for fuck's sake," muttered Anderson in disbelief. He was not alone in his confusion: krogan and his terran compatriots alike looked to each other in disbelief. Without any hesitation he selects two aliens. Unheard of. But … why Anderson?

"Then let it be so." The shaman raised his hands and the krogan dispersed; the Rite was typically a private matter once the krannt was chosen. The shaman pulled Wreav to his feet and roughly sat him on his throne. Taldarin looked on still, evidently not done "arbitrating."

Wrex approached Grunt alongside his krannt, pounding him lightly on either shoulder. "Well spoken, whelp. If nothing else, you've advocated for the value of a nutrient tank education." Wrex laughed, but Grunt only looked embarrassed. "Now – why these two?"

"UED medics will let me fight forever," said Grunt, nodding to Shepard. "And I know that Shepard will not abandon me, or flag if the going gets tough. And I chose the Captain because he is the best fighter, because he wants to go home the most." Well. He does at that.

"Yeah, but he doesn't handle the heavy weapons," grumbled Williams, actually sounding a bit put out. "Shit, I kinda thought you were going to pick Jenkins for the whole "too young and stupid to feel afraid," factor."

"Are people really fighting about not getting picked for alien death rites now?" Anderson shook his head before offering a small bow to Grunt. "It is … still an honor. I will do my best to see both of us home."

"I knew you would." Grunt gave a series of low laughs, cut off abruptly by the shaman stepping through the ring of onlookers.

"Whelps typically are not informed of the location of the Rite," said the shaman, casting a bitter look at Okeer, who waited on the dais with an impassive expression on his face, pointedly refusing to stare at Grunt, "but circumstances have changed this. The Keystone … you remember it, Wrex?"

"Of course." Staring down a thresher maw with little more than a shotgun and a belly full of rage … how could I forget?

"Once it was maw country, and the child would be forced to stand against them for as long as they could." The shaman paused, sucking in a deep breath.

"Now, of course, it is viscerator country. Whatever you might bring with you, be sure it includes fire. And a means of countering biotics."

Shepard gave a slow nod while Anderson let loose a small whistle. And Grunt, to Wrex's approval, simply laughed. Well. Grunt looks poised to have a far more exciting Rite than mine.

Next Chapter: Garrus

A/N: Bitch of a chapter to write ... but I've been really looking forward to the next two, so it all balances out.