The Citadel Charge
Several months passed since the incident on Omega. The station had succumbed to Cerberus control, to the dismay of many (especially Aria), but also the two vorchan brothers, who now had no idea if they left the oven on in Star Enterpies. A minor worry, all things considered, but their hearts and souls were tied to that shop.
Thinking about their now-possibly-reduced-to-cinders café was also a welcome distraction from more pressing concerns. Life on the Citadel was challenging to the point where the brothers often wondered if they should have gone elsewhere to try their luck. In fact, they almost weren't allowed to board the station; Xegg and Segg especially were initially denied entry because they lacked the necessary paperwork and were treated as "typical vorcha stowaways" before Gavorn and several other good-natured passengers from the same escape shuttle insisted that they too were refugees.
Aria had made it out of Omega as well. Segg had seen her sitting—or fuming, rather—in Purgatory. It was a pale shadow of Afterlife. Too clean. The body count per year was still less than a single evening's in Afterlife.
The Pirate Queen was pleased to see that some of her people made it out of Omega alive, but was also quite clear that she would refuse audience with either vorcha brother if they tried to talk to her.
In any case, prejudice on the Citadel was the least of their worries. The fate of the universe now sat with threat of Reapers hanging over oppressively, betting all their odds on one Commander Shepard to gather every species into forming a united front. This meant that geopolitical tensions were at an all-time high. Never before did Xegg ever care about relations between the krogan, turians and salarians, or the quarians and the geth, but when that was all every person on the Citadel could talk about, he too was swept up in the overwhelming wave of solemn news feeds and anxious conversations.
On more personal matters, no one could deny that Xegg's health had deteriorated to a point of no return. It was for this reason that they were on the Citadel in the first place: to visit Huerta Memorial Hospital, the so-called pinnacle facility for medical treatment for (most) alien species.
There was still no improvement after many trying days of treatment. Someone had to throw in the towel eventually.
The first to do so were Xegg's doctors.
"I'm sorry, but we can't do anymore for him," a doctor had said to Gavorn. "He only has a few weeks left."
According to the medical charts, Xegg's organs were failing from overexertion and eezo. The cursed poison had been left in his system for so long, it was shutting off crucial functions in his heart, lungs, and liver.
After the incident with Brogan, Xegg only had to sleep off the effects for a few days before he could practice using biotics again—with the help of any leftover 'blueberry' pies. But suddenly, mere days weren't enough. And he wasn't recovering back to 100%. Worse, even his non-biotic injuries weren't recovering anymore.
Huerta Memorial's doctors reached the same conclusion: the toxicity of pure element zero caused permanent damage to his regenerative abilities. And without regeneration, any lasting damage he sustained wouldn't heal by itself anymore.
He'd lost the identifying trait of all vorcha. The one thing that made his race have any power or respect at all.
"What do you mean a few weeks?" Gavorn yelled. "You aren't even gonna try anything?"
Gavorn had grabbed the doctor by their shoulders and shaken them vigorously.
"We're truly sorry, but there's nothing we can do. We don't treat many vorcha patients to begin with. Most don't even seek medical treatment. …And we don't have a steady supply of transplants."
When the news broke, Xegg didn't quite know how to react. For once, he was the least expressive vorcha in his family—Segg was in tears and causing a ruckus inside the hospital, devastated, while Gavorn uncharacteristically chose violence. Part of him knew that he brought this onto himself, what with gorging on all the funny tasting pies and wreaking havoc for the power surge.
But health never really was a priority. In a way, was his present situation very different to typical vorchan lives? If not for the pies, Xegg was quite sure that he would have ended up dying in a ditch somewhere in Omega anyway a long time ago.
It was his biotic abilities that saved him from Brogan and Kai Leng, and allowed him to make it all the way to the Citadel. Coughing and fainting aside, wasn't this something to be proud of?
Maybe that's why he was the first of the three to give up, or rather, accept his prognosis.
"Hate the food here anyway," Xegg said to his doctors eventually. He packed what little he brought from Omega and asked Gavorn to handle the discharge paperwork. "Weird human show on TV. Not funny. We leave!"
A patient accepting their fate was typically difficult to reverse. To respect Xegg's decision, Segg and Gavorn dropped all protests and the three turned to leave.
"But sir, you haven't told us your health insurance policy number!"
Xegg, Segg and Gavorn left faster.
Like all other refugees, the trio were now bunking in emergency civilian housing docks. They were packed like sardines in uncomfortable metal containers, with dwindling emergency supplies and dirty bathrooms keeping morale low. There were some lighter moments of course, with groups breaking out into song, or weekly 'casino nights'—which the vorchan brothers were excluded from most of the time anyway.
Not that they were going to speak up about it. It simply wasn't the time or space to start arguments. Any day now, the Reapers could be knocking on their front doors.
Although Commander Shepard had won significant battles since Xegg's pie-eating days on Omega, a war was still a war. People die when they are killed. And with the Reaper's omnipotence proven daily every time an obituary was published, or casualty counts were updated, things didn't bode well for ordinary civilians who had no choice but to hope for the best or wait for the worst.
Xegg was lying on the ground, his head propped on an old pillow, when Gavorn handed him a nutrient pack.
"They ran out of the levo-protein ones unfortunately." Gavorn decided not to tell him that this was the last dextro-pack that was allocated for him specifically.
Xegg sat up to eat. Dietary suitability was not an issue. After eating eezo, anything tasted good.
Gavorn took a seat next to Xegg. The two sat in a palpable silence.
"Where is Segg?" Xegg asked.
It was a little bit awkward with just the two of them, especially after the last fight from Omega. Segg usually balanced the group out.
"He said he was going to look for that bag again."
Segg had hauled something with him from Omega when they boarded the escape shuttle. He wouldn't tell either of them what it was, but got unexpectedly heated when customs informed him that his bag was in quarantine. They sat in silence again, until…
"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," Gavorn said suddenly. "I'm sorry about… your…."
Gavorn's voice trailed off as his shoulders slumped. Experts in body language, the vorcha understood Gavorn perfectly.
"I wish I could have done something. We always knew that the eezo was making you sick. I should have stopped it. I shouldn't have asked you to keep the pies. Then you wouldn't be in your current state."
Then we'd have more time together, Gavorn thought to himself. His mandibles shook with sorrow so he turned to hide his face.
He cursed silently. As much as he wanted to, it just didn't seem appropriate to tell Xegg how he felt about him now—not while he was so sick and unassuming. Gavorn thought back to all the times he had cold feet, or made excuses, or when the words got stuck in his throat. For so long he made sure that his feelings went unrequited, promising to find the courage again another day.
And now it was going to be too late.
He couldn't be so selfish; what did he expect Xegg to say in response? Why should be expect Xegg to react positively? Did he really want to burden Xegg with such heavy feelings in light of the bigger picture? Gavorn would only be benefitting himself if he expressed his love.
Love?
Was this love? His whole career was dedicated towards controlling vorcha populations, usually through violence. He had never hesitated to pull the trigger on them before and received more than his fair share in return. They were a violent race that could not be reasoned with or tamed.
But something about Xegg just broke all these preconceived notions. He ran a pie store, cleanly with minimal incident. He cared for his brother and friends. He stood up to bullies like Brogan, and dickhead opportunists like Kai Leng. He was proof that the vorcha were more than just vicious nuisances if they were given the chance.
If it wasn't love, it was the deepest form of respect for Xegg and contrition towards his misunderstood species. If it was love, it wouldn't change anything. Gavorn was going to keep this revelation to himself.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts of Xegg that he almost forgot he was mid-conversation with the vorcha himself. Xegg was absentmindedly patting him on the back. The turian felt bad being comforted by someone who was terminally ill, but appreciated his gentle touch all the same.
"No need to be sorry. Not Gavorn's fault. Not anybody's fault." Despite everything and after a few coughs, Xegg managed his most assuring smile.
"All vorcha die fast. We don't live a good life. Always fighting with everyone." Xegg raised his arm weakly to the other refugees. "Everyone hate vorcha, yes?"
Gavorn opened his mouth to argue but changed his mind. Anything he said now would come off as patronising.
"I think I lived good life," Xegg said. "No ragrets."
Did he mean 'regrets'? Gavorn returned the smile.
"Not even the blueberry pies?"
"No! Xegg strongest vorcha because he eat special pie! Xegg charged!"
Xegg mimed a biotic charge. Gavorn helped him make the sound effects. They laughed together.
"Xegg sick now but it's okay. Not afraid of dying. Can still fight until the end."
Gavorn didn't think Xegg would be fighting anymore in his condition. But a white lie here and there wouldn't hurt anyone.
"I'll be right behind you when you do."
Caught off-guard, Xegg's eyes began to water. He took Gavorn's hand in his without warning.
"Forgot to say. Thank you for saving me on Omega."
Gavorn's heart did several somersaults. Too much physical contact! Did Xegg feel the same way!? Should he say something now!?
He was a weak-willed turian. "I need to tell you something. This whole time, Xegg, I—"
Angry footsteps and a looming shadow cut Gavorn off. An irate Segg was glaring down knowingly at the turian. In fact, Segg had known this whole time why Gavorn kept hanging around.
That didn't mean he liked the thought of them being together.
"Stop touching my brother!" he snarled.
"I didn't! He—! I just…."
Some vorcha never change. Segg dragged Gavorn by the crown away from Xegg and laid into him with a few nasty threats involving his manhood.
Gavorn was the first to sense that something was wrong.
For a period of time, the days rolled on torturously slow and without event. That night—notwithstanding the Citadel's permanent blue skies and artificial sunlight—the trio were tucked into a small corner, trying to catch some shut-eye, when Gavorn could have sworn that the ground was moving.
Standing at almost thirteen kilometres long, with a gross weight of over seven billion tonnes, the Citadel was hardly one that could move without the whole station fussing.
Must just be a dream, he thought to himself, or that weird reflex that kicks in when you sleep.
Sitting up, he took a moment to scan his surroundings. The bright fluorescent lights helped. It was pretty much the same, with refugees lying on the floor, occupying every inch of space to evidence the ward reaching maximum capacity. Segg and Xegg slept nearby. He could see Xegg's laboured breathing from his silhouette.
Just then, he felt it again. The slightest of tremours told Gavorn that he wasn't imagining it. And it wasn't a dream. The accompanying groan that rung the station awake was another indicator.
Gavorn was standing up now. They had always tried to prepare for the worst—for when the Reapers finally lay siege on the Citadel. Leaving his corner, he ran to the nearest window to look out into space. Several others had gotten up when he did, and they too ran to look for themselves. But there were no Reapers in sight.
Commotion near the elevators caught his attention next. A couple of C-Sec—Citadel Security—guards were talking in hushed whispers. It was a blue-toned salarian and a couple of turians.
"What the hell is going on?"
"You tell us! You were nearest!"
"It just ran! I dunno what happened!"
"Then why are the arms closing?"
As a defence mechanism, the Citadel was designed to be able to close itself by folding in its five petal-like arms on its central ring to form a thin bullet. Its armoured case outside was impervious to most attacks, even high-powered beams and explosives. But no one had caused the station to close since Saren's attack with the geth.
The 'it' that the C-Sec officers were referring to, as Gavorn later found out, was a keeper—one of the major mysteries on the Citadel, and a strange bug-like semi-organic species that walked the station answering to no one. The best minds of the galaxy guessed that they operated through some ancient, pre-programmed list of behaviours, as they wandered around being the Citadel's caretakers. Or so they wondered, watching the keepers interact at various equally mysterious hologram screens on the station.
Typically a slow species, it would have been quite alarming to see a keeper running. And somehow, they were being linked to the Citadel arms closing.
Unknown to many, the keepers were installed onto the Citadel by the Reapers. Tipped off by the Illusive Man and Cerberus, the Reapers caught on to plans of a superweapon being fused with the Citadel to wipe out their species. Kickstarting the keepers into motion, the Reapers ordered them to close the Citadel—an order that the keepers were more than willing (if sentient) to carry out with ease.
Gavorn woke his vorcha companions. The holding area was moments away from being overrun with panic, Gavorn suspected, and he wanted to be somewhere else when that happened.
"Wake up. Something weird is going on and I think we need to go."
He quickly summarised what he managed to learn so far while the brothers rubbed sleep out of their eyes. As if his suspicions came true, a few other refugees were already on their feet and pointing, raising their voices, demanding answers from C-Sec.
Xegg was too weak to walk, so Gavorn quickly hefted him into a clumsy, but caring piggyback while Segg carried a few of their belongings in his trusty bag—which he'd since gotten back from Citadel customs. Their first point of protocol was to see if any news was being relayed in the Presidium. It took hours just to navigate through the growing crowds—stopping every so often to make sure Xegg could rest.
To their dismay, when they finally made their way to the upper planes of the Citadel, they were greeted with further confusion and a lot of hearsay bouncing between alarmed civilians.
"There was a group of keepers going into a tunnel near the Dark Star Lounge!"
"C-Sec isn't doing anything! Commander Bailey just left us all here!"
"The Citadel's moving to London!"
Indeed, the station was making its way for some reason towards earth where the fighting was heaviest. From the few reports trickling in, they learned that ground forces were entangled in costly firefights to carve a path open for Commander Shepard. What the Commander was trying to do, or what was going to be done with the Citadel, was frustratingly left out.
Their second point of protocol was to try and get off the station. Aria had recently headed back to take control over Omega again. If the Citadel wasn't safe, then most places weren't, and they'd much rather take their chances back home in a familiar environment.
But it didn't matter—the Citadel arms closing certainly made doing this difficult. How would ships leave a closed station? Like many others who were thinking the same thing, the trio were stranded in the middle of the docking bay, clamouring for answers. They were met with resistance from C-Sec and transport crew, who looked as afraid and confused as everyone else about the present situation.
Xegg was waving to get their attention. Talking took painful efforts these days due to his weak lungs. Gavorn scanned wildly for a seat to let him catch a breath. If it was possible, he looked even worse than before. His gaunt cheeks were skeletal. His skin yellowed. There was occasional blood from most orifices now. The stench of death followed him more closely than ever.
After so many days of waiting, Xegg knew his body better than anyone. He wouldn't live to see his home after all, let alone the next day.
Between huffs and several choking coughs, he managed to wheeze out a final plea to his two most trusted and beloved friends.
"I don't want to die here."
Segg and Gavorn were understandably upset, but they were expecting this for some time.
There were few counterarguments, none that would hold weight in the present scenario anyway, that could be said to a vorcha that was accepting its demise.
For a long time, they'd known that Xegg wasn't scared to die. He was scared of how he would.
"I don't want to die like this," Xegg continued.
"Xegg…."
"Xegg strongest! Xegg is not weak!" he protested, a few tears beading in his shadowed eye sockets. He pointed angrily at the end of the Citadel bay, at the Reapers beyond.
"I'll kill the Reapers! I'll kill them all!"
If he was going to die, Xegg wanted to die a hero. His biology demanded vengeance and bloodshed, but it was more than that. Here was a vorcha who spent much of his life living in fear or avoidance of other alien species, and the rest of it without their respect or sympathy.
And yet, in his final hours, even he knew that his purpose that fateful day was to do some damage to the one threat that united them all regardless of race, language, or religion.
But intentions aside, short of a miracle, there was no way to accede to his request. How would they, firstly, open the Citadel to get safe passage off the station; secondly, find a way to get close enough to the Reapers before they were destroyed in the process; and….
How was Xegg, who was seconds away from crossing the damn Styx, supposed to take down a Reaper?
Blinking back his own tears, Gavorn opened his mouth to try and soothe Xegg, but stopped himself when he saw Segg's face break into a solemn smile.
"My brother," Segg said. Never before had he been prouder of his twin.
With both hands, he presented the bag he carried all this time to Xegg.
Smooshed at the very bottom of the bag was a terrible, bright blue pie of questionable viscosity. The final blueberry eezo pie had been sitting in the bag, stewing all this time: enough time, they realised, for the pie to ferment into threatening levels of potency.
It all led up to this momentous day.
Just like that, there was a miracle. No one was sure, but maybe, just maybe, there was enough biotic firepower in there for Xegg to blast out of the Citadel arms and kick the Reapers in the ass.
"I kept this for you. Waited to see if you needed it." Segg wiped his own face fiercely before saluting Xegg. There wasn't a single member of the army or security forces that Segg would salute. He had no respect for anyone on this goddamn station except for his dearest brother.
"If you want to fight, you fight them good! Vorcha strongest. Xegg strongest!"
Segg's voice finally cracked saying his brother's name. It would be the most painful but uplifting farewell he would give in his life.
Xegg stumbled forward and hugged Segg with renewed strength. For a moment it seemed he wouldn't let go, but with a shuddering gasp, Xegg finally did.
He saluted back. "I'll kill the Reaper. The big machines. Reapers weak and stupid. Vorcha strongest! Vorcha strongest!" He repeated the last phrase with the sort of dignity that only came before one's death.
His eyes shone with unshed tears and purpose. The vorcha turned to Gavorn, who was still struggling to accept what was happening.
"Please," the turian said, shaking. "I don't—I can't—"
Xegg had only seen this done a few times in his life, but he knew that for turians, it was only done between the closest of confidantes and most precious of times. Xegg placed both hands on Gavorn's face and tenderly bumped their foreheads together.
"Goodbye, Captain Gavorn. You are a good man."
Without further delay, Xegg forcibly swallowed the last eezo pie, ignoring its pungent, burning taste and the bursts of pain from every cell of his body. All he had were his instinct and a few seconds of autonomy. Before he combusted, he had to get off the Citadel.
His final charge would be his greatest. Biotic power pooled once more with a heaviness and strength that respected his last wish.
He felt like screaming but had no voice. And at last, there was a blinding supernova, and the vorcha flew up into embrace of the Citadel's arms.
Several years after the war came to an end, the Citadel learned to accept peace once more.
It took a long time before the Council managed to reestablish order and calm. Huge donations and official funds flooded in towards recovery and rescue efforts. Once hospitals were well-equipped to care for the aftermath, the money went towards rebuilding the Citadel and mass relays. As ironic as it was, being Reaper-structures in origin, both were crucial symbols representing the well-being of their spacefaring society, and it was only once they were overhauled that galactic life returned to normalcy.
Commander Shepard and the Normandy's crew returned to the Citadel as legendary heroes. The lengths that the Commander went (singlehandedly, in some cases) to rewrite ancient wounds and reunite the galaxy, were not regarded lightly.
The Commander wasn't too forthcoming about what happened during the final hours of the war. It was a traumatic experience for sure, which further affected recall. According to some sources Shepard had made it through the beam on London to the Citadel and was seconds away from activating the Catalyst to finish the Reapers once and for all. But the Catalyst was never activated by Shepard, who fainted on one of the upper decks of the Council Chambers, and woken a few hours after by C-Sec officers—after the war was won and the Reapers collapsed altogether all at once.
But just before everything faded, Shepard was sure there was a white light, unparalleled in brightness and splendor, heading right towards the Catalyst. The mysterious light became the most talked-about 'whodunnit' case on the Citadel.
Above all, the Council wanted to make sure that the galactic peace Shepard secured within the past chaotic year was not consigned to oblivion: reform works included new seats on the Council for greater representation of all alien life, even once-vilified species.
Most recently, there were talks of appointing the first vorchan Councillor—whose identity was kept out of public channels—and thereafter, the first vorchan Spectre.
New memorials were constructed in the repaired Presidium embassies—stark reminders of just how many lives were collectively lost to the Reapers. Statues of heroes lined the Presidium's fountains. The salarian who risked his life to cure the genophage, ending centuries of injustice. The Alliance soldier who led forces on London to buy time, only to pass on mere seconds before the war ended. The Primarch's son, solemnly respected as a leader within Turian high command and a symbol for observing one's duty. The unnamed drell who fell during the Cerberus coup but saved a Councillor in the process. The voice behind "Battlespace" who had the pivotal responsibility of hosting talk shows about the war. Platoon leaders from Palaven, Sur'Kesh, Tuchanka, Rannoch, Thessia...
Just as the Citadel mourned each and every loss, it celebrated each and every survivor. Huge, month-long celebrations took place on each of the station's five arms. Families reunited. Soldiers put down their weapons. There was always some sort of party somewhere no matter what hour it was. When the mass relays became fully functional again, huge queues of ships of all shapes and sizes waiting to dock caused round-the-clock traffic jams that made Alliance control want to rip their hair, mandibles, tentacles, et cetera., out.
And at the middle of the financial district stood an illustrious, refurbished Star Enterpies. With white walls, hand-painted furniture, fresh flowers and adorable pink uniforms, the café kept few elements of its past glory. But one thing didn't change after all this time—every service staff in Star Enterpies was still a vorcha, no exceptions.
Its menu spanned over thirty pages of different flavours, catering to all known species in the galaxy. It was without question that habitants and visitors on the Citadel alike all loved it. There were even talks of branching out to the Andromeda cluster, under a new shop name—"The Piefinder"—an endeavor that the Shadowbaker (who also safely survived the war) was more than happy to fund.
Its success was so resounding that the café held a charity pie-eating contest every fortnight. Thus far, no one has managed to break the record of fifteen blueberry pies—a record held by a particularly voracious tank-grown krogan.
When he won, he burped with gusto. "Could be spicier."
Star Enterpies's now sole proprietor, a suit-wearing, top hat sporting, rich beyond belief vorcha with sunglasses, was leaving a bar on the Presidium Commons. Hurriedly, he made a quick stop at the pie shop, before running to catch a taxi.
The cab pulled up to a small, but beautiful cemetery park. Tall, looming willows and stretches of neatly trimmed Kentucky bluegrass welcomed the bereaved to its hallowed grounds. Although artificial, the Citadel spared no expense to emulate a real cemetery after the war to properly honour those that had given their lives for the war. Different burial rites across all walks of life were respected.
Once filled with countless families, friends and a heavy atmosphere, enough time had passed for the cemetery to be quiet and restful once more. Segg easily spotted his friend a few distances away.
"Sorry I'm late," Segg said when he arrived. "I was with the girlfriend."
Segg sat down next to Gavorn, who was paying his respects at a grave. Neatly carved into the headstone was "Xegg – Beloved brother and friend. Hero of the Reaper War."
Gavorn spluttered. He was midway through some nice oolong tea when this uncomfortable suggestion was dumped into his lap. He poured a fresh cup, and another for Segg.
"I'm sorry—you have a girlfriend?"
Segg placed a small hankerchief on the grass before sitting down and puffed out his chest proudly. "Her name is Liara. She's smart and she likes my butt!"
Segg and Gavorn met once a year on this day at Xegg's grave. With each visit, their once-immense loss grew easier to bear. Now, they often played card games or exchanged stories for a few hours in Xegg's presence. Things sometimes got heated—like if Gavorn cheated at UNO or if Segg tried to play his bass guitar—but they were both sure Xegg enjoyed their visits all the same.
"I don't believe you. Show me a picture."
Segg showed Gavorn something on his omnitool that made the turian gasp. A buxom, freckled asari was smiling with her arm lovingly draped around the vorcha.
"You've got to be kidding me…."
"Believe me or not, I don't care," Segg said, putting his sunglasses away. "Shut up and eat."
Segg produced two large pastry boxes that he took from Star Enterpies. In them were the real deal: blueberry pies with actual human-sourced berries and cross-referenced human-written recipes. After the accursed disaster long ago, Segg and Gavorn realised that they both haven't had a chance to eat an actual blueberry pie yet.
Gavorn took a box. He'd be shitting his pants later, but an old friend taught him to live life to the fullest.
"So this was what started it all then, huh?"
He dug a forkful and raised his arm to his vorcha companions. "Cheers."
Segg didn't see the need to bother with formalities and snubbed Gavorn by scarfing his own pie down within four quick bites.
The two chewed, pondering its flavour in silence. Eventually…
"This tastes pretty bad," Gavorn said apologetically. "Kind of a let-down after all this time."
"Yucky," Segg agreed. "Eezo pie yummier."
Gavorn spluttered for the second time that hour. "You ate it too!?"
The vorcha laughed heartily, his tongue and teeth stained blue.
BONUS JOKE ENDING
Like a small meteorite, Xegg shot ass-first towards the first Reaper he could find. Gathering the same destructive force that shattered his toilet many moons ago, he let rip the loudest, foulest, and longest fart ever released in the history of all synthetic and organic life. The fart broke several rules of physics, including the sound and olfactory barrier in space.
The Reaper stood no chance. Even looking at the noxious fumes caused internal machinery to shut down. Even before the first atom landed on the fifty-foot sized capital ship, the Reaper had succumbed to the present-day notion of death. The cloud continued its lethal crusade, coursing through every cluster, eradicating the universe of all Reaper life.
Who knew it only took one big fart to end the Reapers and dumbfuck Starchild? Shepard immediately got back on the SSV Normandy safe and sound and flew off, never wanting to deal with any species' bullshit ever again.
The force of Xegg's fart pushed him back onto the Citadel, where he landed quite safely, free of all biotic energy—including its side effects.
"Wow, feel good now!"
He was welcomed with open arms, celebrated as a hero, and lived to the ripe old age of 45 with his boyfriend Gavorn. With his legacy, he ensured a seat on the Council for his beloved race—the Space Rats were taking over and no one even objected t-o it.
And that, dear reader, is the "brown" ending for Mass Effect 3.
THE END