Wrex could tell by the sag of his jaw and the many scars that gridded his pale face: Starg was old, even for a krogan. Why such a supposedly wise and experienced creature had chosen to remain with a gang of bloodthirsty, credit-hungry berserkers, Wrex didn't know, but already it reminded him of his own father – an old warlord who never understood when to stop fighting and try thinking.

"Starg?"

"Well met, Urdnot," the pale krogan answered.

"I'd like to know why you gassed our pod the minute we were brought aboard – and why you knew to retrieve us in the first place."

The lackey – Weyrloc Tersh – pulled a seat from the side of the room and offered it to Wrex. He sat without moving his eyes from Starg, who remained planted at the end of the room, his armored hand atop an asari skull on his armrest.

"You're in a hurry for explanations, I see." Wrex only glared in response. "Very well," Starg said. "We had expected only a turian to be delivered to us. Your inclusion on the escape pod was a mistake on the part of the specialists we hired."

"So you were also after Taltik Nirian?" Wrex asked. "Because I have some interesting news for you. Your batarian 'allies' have made more than one mistake-"

"No," the old krogan interjected, raising his hand from the skull. "We asked that Kypranius Teptus be removed from his hiding place on the Citadel. He has a history with me – with the Blood Pack – and it will be redressed."

To the side of Wrex, Tersh nodded, grinding his teeth. He thought back on Krent, on those scheming, oily eyes. All along, the batarians had been serving the Blood Pack; they had only been stringing Wrex along for easy credits in the meantime. With one client paying them to capture Taltik, Taltik paying for them to capture a decoy, and the Blood Pack paying for said decoy….

Wrex had a headache, and it wasn't just from being knocked out. Everyone was making off with a good deal except for him. Him and – with an internal chuckle – Kip, who might already be dead.

The image of sleazy batarians throwing credits in the air rattled his brain.

"This is news to me," Wrex gritted.

"Kypranius is a hated enemy of the Blood Pack. When we encountered him on Illium, his squad had already lost track of us. But he foiled our disappearance. In the process, he murdered my son. My only son."

Wrex could see it on Starg's face, the primal fury that had only been further stirred by centuries under the genophage. He couldn't argue with that sort of emotion. But that didn't mean he couldn't argue at all.

"Your batarians cheated me out of a fair deal. They told me they were going to capture Taltik Nirian, a turian who plundered artifacts from our homeland. Once I'd paid them, they shot me into space with the wrong damn turian. Who's to say they aren't fooling you as well?"

"I am no fool," Starg answered, though his eyes shifted sidelong all the same. Tersh shifted from one foot to the other.

"Either way," Wrex said, "The batarians owe me the real Taltik. But I doubt they'll have the honor – so I'll kill them for my trouble."

"I'm afraid we can't help you with that. The batarians are reliable. At least for us they are."

"So you think. But I doubt the turian they gave you is actually your son's killer. He can't walk – how's he supposed to kill a vorcha, let alone a real warrior?"

Starg lurched to his feet, Wrex followed him as they made for the hallway.

"We will investigate this at once," the old krogan said.

Kypran could picture her in this half-consciousness: Laysa'Rillah vas Faaraka. Her hand – all gentle curves and tapered edges – in his own. The little wires that snaked across the muted reds of her suit. Her sharp eyes suddenly foggy behind her helmet as she told him the Flotilla needed her.

"To think – I was so happy that your adventures were over," she had said, then hurried to add: "Not the way they ended, of course…"

"I know."

"But that you would be safe. Palaven has asked enough of you."

Laysa had been close at Kypran's side in the hospital on Illium. How she had gotten there so quickly, he'd never know. She had remained there throughout his recovery, telling stories from her pilgrimage to keep his mind from the violence of the recent past. She would scrounge up dextro food for them to share each night, and slept with her arm across his chest.

Laysa had marveled at the new cybernetics. She'd run her hand down his back, fingers passing from gray skin to dark metal and back to skin again. When he took his first steps, she had hugged him so tightly….

"But now, my people have asked me back. The Faaraka needs researchers for the valuable tech they've brought aboard. If I'm not there to help study it-"

"Be there," Kypran had said. "They'll be lucky to have you."

Laysa had tilted her head. Kypran could hear a sniff behind her helmet, one that made her shoulders twitch, but there was a smile in the squint of her eyes.

"If I could just live quietly with you someday…it would be my joy, Kypran."

Her joy…her joy.

It made Kypran open his eyes – though the pain of waking drew a snarl past his gritted teeth. Fresh wounds stretched open as he struggled to move himself, and he found that he was held down with heavy bands. There was a bright light above him, but it did little for the stained black walls, and the wet floor that stunk of leaking fuel. A vorcha in red stood by the only door, absently inspecting the business end of its rocket launcher as if oblivious to the danger.

Kypran wondered if he was under some sort of curse. A curse to wake up in a slightly worse situation every time.

Voices, deep and krogan, sounded from outside the room. The vorcha scrambled to open the door with a rusty squeal. A pale-faced krogan, fury under his brow, thudded into the room. Kypran struggled, gurgling wordless alarm. Another krogan was following him, but Kypran couldn't bring himself to look; he stared in blank panic to one side, too afraid at the idea that one of them might hold the leash to another varren.

"The restraints are pointless. You'll see – the batarians cheated us both."

That was Wrex's voice. Kypran turned slowly to see him behind the pale one. He was looking back with what appeared to be revulsion, then turned his eyes up at the Blood Pack krogan, hard and judging.

The bands snapped open. Kypran slowly sat up. Everything hurt. Thin blue fluid dripped from his nose.

"On your feet," the pale krogan demanded.

Kypran shuddered as he positioned himself to slide onto the floor. His feet touched ground and immediately he had to lean forward and catch the nearby wall for support. With one shoulder braced against it, he could balance upright. Passably.

"He may just be tired," the krogan remarked, huffing a laugh. "Turians don't last in a real fight."

"I don't think it's him," Wrex persisted. "If he managed to kill your son, he could handle a few scratches."

"Hmph. Walk."

Gripping the wall, Kypran chanced a step. One leg buckled, and the other refused to move as he intended. With a thud, he fell forward, smearing the floor blue. Looking up, he could see that the krogan's fury was only magnifying. Kypran braced for a strike. Instead, he heard swift footsteps as it left the room.

"Weyrloc!" It bellowed. "Chart a course to intercept that batarian cruiser!"