Wrex looked up when the door to the Krogan/Elcor embassy hissed open. The visitor wasn't what he expected—a turian in a suit.
Well, most turians—most people in general—on the Presidium did wear suits. Except for the suit, they did kind of look alike. Not for the first time, he appreciated just how different humans were, one subgroup to another.
"Politely: are you lost?" the elcor asked when Wrex went back to his datapads.
"No, thank you." He spoke with the brisk efficiently that said soldier, the stiff formality that said first meeting, and the easy confidence that said leadership material.
Wrex looked up to find the turian standing squarely in front of his desk, regarding him beadily. "You're in my light."
"Apologies," but the turian didn't move.
Suddenly, Wrex recognized him: Adrien Victus, the turian Primarch who had been on the Normandy all those months ago. Wrex gave a snort, then stood up, watched the turian's posture stiffen, as if resisting the urge to brace for something. Anything. "Well, if you're not lost, what are you doing here?"
The turian's head cocked slightly to one side, then the other, similar to how Garrus did when sizing up an unknown. "I'm Primarch Adrien Victus, of the Turian Hierarchy." He inclined his head politely, as he might to another turian, clearly of the opinion that Wrex didn't recognize him.
"Clan Leader Urdnot Wrex. I remember you. Forgive me if I don't headbutt you. It might not translate." His grin said 'or maybe I should…'
The Primarch didn't rise to the bait. "It's wonderful to have a civilized conversation."
"There's a first for everything," Wrex agreed as sweetly as a krogan could. He also heard Bakara in the back of his mind: pissing contests don't make allies. He hated how often the real woman was right; it figured she'd probably be the voice of being right in his head.
"There is, isn't there?"
A sizing-up silence followed. Wrex finally broke it. "What can I do for you, Primarch?"
"That's refreshing—straight and to the point. I'd like to speak with your privately. Later, of course—"
"Helpfully: I require a beverage from the lounge. Politely: allow me to excuse myself," the elcor announced before lumbering to the doors of the embassy.
"Thank you," the Primarch offered.
"Courteously: you are welcome."
The Primarch waited until the doors hissed shut. "How often is this place swept for bugs?" he asked flatly.
"Daily. I make sure of it," Wrex answered, just as flatly. "And I change the squirt doing it day to day in case anyone intentionally misses anything."
"A sound strategy." The Primarch took a slow breath. "We're both soldiers…each after his own fashion."
Wrex chuckled. Mercenaries and 'real soldiers' often had friction. "Never bothered Shepard."
"And that would be the one thing we have in common: respect for Shepard," the Primarch agreed. He was silent a moment longer, and Wrex thought he might be reconsidering what he was about to ask.
"She doesn't like a lot of people, but that doesn't stop her from respecting them when they earn it. She respects you." In this, he was one up on the turian: she liked and respected him…
…most of the time.
The Primarch turned his full attention back to Wrex, as if surprised by this observation. "That's…gratifying to hear."
"So why don't we pretend she's standing outside that door and will try to kick our asses if we cause any diplomatic incidents?"
Victus gave a wry grin. "I don't know what…assets…you have here on the Citadel."
"Just the one I sit on."
Victus open his mouth, then shut it again, his mandibles twitching.
"You can laugh, it's funny," Wrex pointed out, chuckling himself. "Crack wise, it if helps."
The turian didn't laugh, but some of the guardedness eased from his posture. "Perhaps another time. You may not have heard that the…the big push, so to speak…will be happening soon. Very soon."
"Oh?" Wrex frowned. He hadn't heard, though this wasn't surprising. Nor was discovering that the 'big push' as Victus called it was so close. That explained Shepard's little party. Maybe it should have sent up more red flags than it did.
"Yes. Aethyta, Quentius, and Burns have already absented themselves from the Citadel."
"Hold up, stop right there," Wrex held up a hand. "I hope you're not going to ask me to keep an eye on that squiggly little pyjak, Esheel?"
"Far from it. I was going to invite you to park your asset on my flagship for a front-row seat."
It was Wrex's turn to blink and process. "Come again?"
"Your people aren't exactly overburdened with spacecraft. Most of their movement during this war has been facilitated by my people…and third party free agents."
Polite-speak for those pirates Aria was throwing into any system at which Shepard flicked her eyes.
"I promised Shepard I would be there to help her retake Earth. I'm inviting you to be my guest at this galaxy free-for-all ass-kicking competition. Bring a team, if you care to. We'll take bets."
Shit on toast. The guy was really serious. "You really think my Aralakh Company and your people can coexist on a spaceship for an unknown duration?"
Victus eyed him somberly. "It's not going to be a popular decision. But I meant what I said to Shepard on the Normandy, when supporting her decision to find and deploy a cure for the Genophage: I'd rather have a grateful ally than a resentful enemy. If change is to come…it must begin at the top, which means it must begin with me."
Wrex weighed the planet-killer bomb on Tuchanka, turian-krogan history for the past thousand years, the million injustices against his people, countless stillborn.
He heard Bakara, her tone gentle, unborn children reflected in her inward stare as she spoke. If we always do as we have always done, we will always get what we have always had.
"I never pass on ass-kick o'clock," Wrex finally said.