Written 03/23/11

Disclaimer: I only write this so I can sleep at night, not for money.

Author's Note: This chapter got away from me a little, but the reviews I have received excited me so much that I'm posting it and starting the next immediately. Thank you Kudara, thiefkingbakura1 and Titus Tatius. Hint: More reviews more writing. They're like crack for me. Seriously, three words, I'll love you forever.

All men by nature desire to know.

-Aristotle

Inventory

It took me the better part of an hour to convince Mordin that I should stay on Omega. I had trouble convincing him, without hinting too much at what I knew of the future. He relented, reluctantly, when I promised that if I had too much difficulty adjusting I would accept his offer and go to the much safer Citadel. He also made me promise that I would not let 'typical human ego' prevent me from admitting my mistake.

By convincing Mordin I convinced myself as well. When I first refused, my plan had been pretty rough and half-formed. I knew I wanted to help, but I knew that I did not possess the... necessary skill set to be of much use, to Shepard that is. It was a little egotistical on my part to think that I could make a difference, naive even. But I just could not let me doubt rule me. People say it is only those who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, who do change the world. Something similarly insane must be applicable here, I was convinced. Not to mention Shepard can use any help she can get. In my playthrough of the game alone she died many, many times. Just imagining all the various times she has died in other people's games, the odds were definitely against her.

Not to mention that if I was here by chance, that meant I would likely never go home again.

But if I did this, if I survived Omega, if I became... more, I could help. I could make sure the story went right. True enough I doubted I could help with the first part of the story, but that would make sense. If Shepard could not defeat Saren in the first place, without my help, then I doubt she could stand up to the Reapers. Or something like that. I did not want to ponder what would happen if she did not stop Saren, that seemed like it would be a very poor twist of fate. So I would wait on Omega, and keep a close eye on Mordin. I believed I could survive Omega, and grow strong. Strong enough to make sure events unfolded properly after Shepard's resurrection, when the stakes would be highest. It was all that was left to me now.

Or at least I was thinking something to that effect. I was also thinking very bad things about Mordin as I alternatively, shivered, sweated and vomited, violently. The moment I promised Mordin I would not let my human ego prevent me from admitting defeat, I was hit with a powerful, hot wave of nausea. It was very fortunate for Mordin's footwear he was quick with a bucket, because I was caught entirely off guard.

"Ah. Side effects of injections. Expected. Will pass as body adjusts," He offered comfortingly, "Symptoms may include nausea, increase or decrease of body temperature and pain at injection site."

Mordin had an interesting way of simplifying things. I spent the next five or so hours in that little room, going between bone chilling lows, and brain melting fevers. He also failed to mention the massive and painful cramping, everywhere. And that my eyes would start itching and burning like I'd just stuck my face into a cat's pelt (I have a cat allergy.) It was, however, consistent with how my day had been going so far, but trying not to complain to Mordin as the hours wore on was difficult. I have never been much for suffering in silence, but it would hardly assure him of my fortitude if this defeated me. So I held back, mostly. I was not able to prevent myself from crying and whimpering during the violent vomiting, but he refrained from making any comment.

Mordin went in and out of the office over the course of my five hours of suffering. He gave me a few things to drink that he said would help lessen the symptoms, which made me wonder what the full effects would have been like, and he brought me a few things. First he brought a blanket when the first wave of chills hit me, a blanket that was very nice and warm and fuzzy, that I still recall quite fondly. Did I mention there was a touch of delirium to go with all the other symptoms? What was in those injections? Mordin never adequately explained. He also brought me three of the necessities for living in this galaxy.

I think at first he was searching for a way to distract me from my nausea, and to keep me talking about my world. He asked a lot of questions about the differences between our universes, and I think I may have slipped a few things that I should not have. His curiosity was difficult to curtail. He was also very sneaky about it, as he questioned me he distracted me with the gift of my very own omni-tool. It was a very basic model, a few years old and may or may not have come from a deceased patient, he hinted, and I stopped asking.

My eyes had adjusted enough so I could see the omni-tool projection. Mordin showed me how to access the basic functions, translator, extranet and most other basic programs that my computer used to do. It even had Tetris! Sadly if I tried focusing too intently on the blocks my stomach started to move up my throat. Mordin set me up with a few various tutorials, not just about the omni-tool, but also on some day to day skills that I needed. These included, but were not limited to, how to use modern plumbing, how to recognize dextro-amino foods, how to use a sky car and how to avoid offending krogan. I think the last one was supposed to be funny.

When I was too tired to look at vids anymore I took a very brief nap. Brief because after fifteen minutes my muscles started painfully spasming. At that Mordin seemed briefly concerned. "Unusually severe reaction," he scanned me again with the orange light, "No organ failure. Must be caused by minute differences caused by one-hundred and ninety years difference in physiology."

That was not as comforting as he surely intended it to be, but the muscle spasms did pass after a few minutes. Most of my symptoms seemed to begin ebbing at that point, right around the four and a half hour mark. It is amazing how aware of time's passage I become when sick. Even despite the delirium.

"Tell me you didn't know I'd suffer like this?" I asked Mordin, moaning through the last of the cramps.

"Did not know," he admitted with humour, I think he was mocking me. Then he added a little sheepishly, "Was perhaps hasty. Should have made more thorough examination. Suppose lucky." He ignored my glare and bustled out of the office, "One moment." He came back with the other two gifts that were essential to surviving Omega.

A credit chit, and a gun.

He put the gun down on the counter and handed me the chit, "Know how to use chit?" he asked. It was a small circular metal disk, it was thick and round, with a digital readout on top. A thirty degree section of the disc was indented, black and rough, different from the smooth steel of the rest of the chit. The display was set at zero.

"No, the game was always a little inconsistent about credits and chits," I shrugged, "Will you show me how please?"

He smiled, "Happy to," He pulled another chit out of his coat pocket. He had changed into uniform after I had begun vomiting earlier. "Hold out chit," he told me gesturing. I held out my chit towards him, with the black section pointed towards him. He held out his chit, it was different than mine, white and shiny like a pearl, and pressed the depressed section of his against mine.

"Transfer one-hundred credits," he said. The chits chimed twice than made a small beep. I pulled back my chit and looked at the numbers. It read one-hundred now. Mordin smiled, "One-hundred credits should be enough to establish self. If at all capable," he teased.

I smiled, "Thanks Mordin," then with a smirk, "I'm sure it will be enough. In fact once I make my fortune I'll pay you back, double," I promised arrogantly. I probably was not reassuring him about my 'typical human ego.'

He chuckled, "Hope to see that," then asked, "Any experience with firearm?"

My smile dimmed and I gave a hesitant nod, "A little, but I have pretty good hand-eye coordination." He did not need to know most of that coordination was through video games.

He handed me the gun and I held it gingerly, remembering enough about the safety rules to point it at the floor. Honestly I remembered more about archery than guns. I had taken several weeks worth of lessons in archery. The gun lesson had just been a bad date that only got worse. It was cold and large in my hands. It had TFX written on its side and a few glowing buttons. So far as I could tell the safety was on. When I put my hand around the grip it hummed to life, and a few small holographic readouts popped up.

I pointed to a switch on the butt, "That's the safety right?" I asked Mordin.

"Yes," he nodded, then he pointed to the various buttons and displays, patiently explaining them to me. He was very serious about me learning exactly how the gun worked and how to use it properly. After I could recite all of what he had told him back to him perfectly, he showed me how to change the sink, "Be cautious of used heat sink. Stores energy run-off. High temperature when spent. Several thousand Kelvin."

At that point we had reached about five hours into my symptoms and they had mostly dissipated. He led me out the back of the clinic. I think the quarian from before was watching us. I suppose Dr. Solus did not often bring 'personal not professional' patients to the clinic. As we walked out a question occurred to me. "Mordin, how long have you been running the clinic here?"

"Arrived on Omega thirteen Earth standard months ago. About four galactic standard cycles. Acquired clinic before arrival. Established two months after arrival," then his mouth twisted into a small dissatisfied frown, "Still not trusted. Handful of patients. Omega suspicious of free clinic," then he smiled and joked, "Should charge perhaps. Might increase patient number."

He led me to a small area behind the clinic with various dusty containers lying around. He stood me at one end of the room then set up a few small cans the length of the room. The cans all had this extremely happy looking Turian on it. He was giving a three fingered thumbs up and smiling with a mouthful of sharp fangs. The picture was a very distorted caricature of a turian. It was honestly one of the most disconcerting things I had seen all day.

Mordin came back to my end of the room and gestured at the cans, "Shoot them."

I had figured things might be going in that direction. So I picked the first can, tenderly switched off the safety and carefully levelled the pistol. I tried to recall how to stand and compensate for the recoil. I looked down the barrel at the can, the Turian grinned back, mocking me. My hand was trembling a little, I breathed out trying to steady myself. I glanced at Mordin from the corner of my eye. He was looking at me expectantly, at my glance he asked, "Waiting for something?" he pointed at the can, "Need to evaluate proficiency. Unless decided to relent and will go to Citadel? Pistol skill irrelevant then."

I glared for a second then turned back to the can. I lined up the shot, squeezed the trigger and... Blam! The recoil was less than I expected, but the gun still slammed up in my hand. The can had a hole dead center through the Turian's mouth. That is, the can five feet away from the one I had been aiming at. It fell to the ground with a tinny clang, and rolled away. Mordin coughed, drawing my attention. He was struggling to keep a straight face.

"I meant to do that," I assured him and turned away. He did snicker a little at that, but he smothered it behind a cough. I clenched my jaw and shot at the original can again. The shot flashed and left a hole burned into the storage container just below the can, I shot again and knocked it off.

"Good. Now the rest," Mordin said. I nodded solemnly without turning to look at him. I shot the next two closest cans in four shots, hitting the first immediately and missing with the next two shots. The last three cans were further back, the closest was about ten meters away, the other two about fifteen meters away. The first of them was tricky, it was half hidden behind the lip of the container, the turian's thumb on the can peeked out, just in sight. My first shot was too high and I left a small scorch mark in the back wall. I'll admit the excitement of using a laser blaster was getting to me a little. I was worried I was going to start quoting Star Wars any minute, which would have been inappropriate. Mostly.

The second shot was too low and I winced at hitting the container, I had been trying to avoid that. I would not be prepared to do any sharp shooting anytime soon. I sighed and sighted the shot again and squeezed. The gun clicked ineffectively in my hand. I grinned ruefully and turned to Mordin, "Do I lose points for running out of shots?"

"No points. Learning process. Doing well. Change sink and continue," I began to change the sink cautiously as he continued, "Informal learning adaptive to individual strength. Learn by doing. Not by instruction. Practice creates skill. Requires persistence."

"I wish I'd had more professors like you Doctor," I snorted humorously. Then I jerked my head up in stunned realization. I waved one of my hands in front of my face and the searched my face for my glasses. I had never put them back on, but I could see the entire length of the room clearly. "My eyes! You fixed them! That's so cool!" I said with excitement.

Mordin chuckled good naturedly at me, "Yes. Eye issues resolved during preparations. Wondering when you would notice. Surprising amount of time. But perhaps excusable by adjustment to corrective lenses?" he pondered.

"Ha, yeah. I only ever think about my glasses when I get up or go to sleep, or if they're dirty," I admitted. I was a little perturbed that I had not noticed, but still very pleased. I had been dreaming of getting corrective surgery for years. Sure this was a little unexpected, but I was taking whatever wins I could today, all things considered. Mordin had even said my vision would be better than average, which had to count for something. Total expulsion from the only world I had ever known, for good vision. Talk about an offer you could not refuse.

I turned back to my target, taking a second to marvel at the clarity of my vision. My grin faltered when I looked at the turian caricature again. Then I blanched in realization, I was going to associate that turian, with the memory of being able to see again, for the rest of my life.

"Oh bugger," I swore softly. I let myself visualize the shot obliterating the can, and then I squeezed the trigger. The shot glanced off the side of the can, and it spun a little to the left away from the shot. Without hesitating I shot again and hit the can dead center. It crumpled from the force of the shot and jumped off its perch. I kept shooting and hit the next can without missing a beat. The last was flush against the opposite wall, my first shot hit a centimetre away on the left and my second shot missed on the right. My third shot hit and my fourth that came a second after. The can was shredded. I had slain all the psychotic turian caricatures. I fought valiantly not to strike a victory pose.

"Good for novice. Will need to continue to practice, but good enough," he said, "Would you like to try more targets?" Mordin was surprisingly patient for his hyperactive personality. I could not, however, shake the feeling that he was studying me with a certain amount of scientific curiosity. Sure enough when I switched the safety back on, and looked over at Mordin he had focused all of his attention on me.

He looked concerned as I handed him the gun, "Done with practice? Did not enjoy? Expected to continue. More targets available," he gestured to the open storage container that he had been leaning against. I looked in and shuddered. The container was filled with cans that all had the creepy turian caricature splashed across them.

"Ah, no. I mean, hold on a second. I'm gonna get my bag," I told him and trotted back in the clinic. I had left my bag in the office. It was not far from the back entrance. I passed the blue quarian from before. She looked at me, I think, it was difficult to tell through her helmet. I gave a tentative smile, a small wave and kept walking. Her face was of course unreadable, but she leaned back with her hands on her hips. I think she disapproved of Mordin spending his day off from the clinic, at the clinic, with some strange human girl. It was not a stretch of the imagination to think that Dr. Solus kept long hours.

I found the office and slung my bag on my shoulder. After a second thought I grabbed my coats too. This was Omega after all, it might not hurt to keep my possessions in sight. I went back out in the hall, passing the quarian again. This time she was talking to an asari and leading her into another room. I was not surprised that Mordin's assistant could move fast, she needed to keep up with him. I could only imagine that would be exhausting. The past six hours had been the longest of my life. But perhaps Mordin was not solely to blame for that. Although I probably could get away with it.

When I went back into the building behind the clinic, Mordin was setting up some of the cans in a pyramid. He was talking to himself, I stood in the doorway and watched him, listening, "Unexpected outcome. Dimensional disturbance probability statistically infinitesimal. Shows no signs of deception. Answers consistent. Extroverted. Humorous. Alliance or Cerberus special operations agent would be older, less genuine. Elaborate set up? No cause. Not STG anymore," apparently Mordin was more suspicious of me then I thought. I let him ramble on to himself, and he finished stacking the cans. He walked to the front of the room, and still deep in debate with himself, he did not notice me. He drew his own sidearm in a sudden movement. The instant his arm was level with the cans he started firing. One by one the cans were knocked off the pyramid, each one falling without disturbing the other cans. It was awesome.

"Whoa... Suddenly my own limited success seems more... limited," I sighed from the doorway. Mordin spun towards me, gun still aloft. I held up my empty arm in surrender, "Hey! Hold fire!"

Mordin blinked, and then hastily pointed the gun up at the ceiling, "Forgive me. Did not notice you," he apologized and holstered his gun. He had left the pistol I had used on one the many storage containers. I wondered briefly what was in the containers. Hopefully not medical supplies or mechs. Probably just more junk like the empty cans... I hoped.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. I was watching you shoot. You're really good," I told him. I put my coats down next to the pistol and hefted my bag on top of them. I unzipped it and pulled out my laptop. I explained, "I realized something after I shot those targets," I flipped my laptop upside down on the container, "I have a better target right here." I popped the hard-drive out of my laptop and flashed it at Mordin.

"This needs to be destroyed. It has information about me, about this universe and about mine. I really don't ever want this to get in to the wrong hands, or the right ones for that matter," I pulled my wallet out of my pocket, "Also have some Ids that need to get vaporized."

I walked over to the container Mordin had stacked the can pyramid upon. It was completely barren, he had hit every can. I stood my hard-drive on the surface, making a good target. I also pulled out my Ids, credit cards, Cineplex membership, and anything else in my wallet with my full name. I leaned the cards against the hard-drive, facing towards the line of fire.

"Ammo not incendiary. Will not completely destroy. Remains will need to be incinerated," Mordin commented, "Not utilitarian need being fulfilled? Symbolic? Seeking to distance self?" Mordin frowned at me, "Dramatic. Not necessary. Simpler to incinerate. Clean."

"A little drama never hurt anyone Professor," I said with a half grin, determined, "And we humans happen to like symbolism. Mostly. There's power in symbols." I calmly retrieved the gun and walked over to the firing line. The little shrine to my old life was nearly ten feet away. I supposed by that point, if no one had jumped out claiming I was on candid camera, this was, very likely, for real. And I had not woken up during the painful muscle spasms either, so almost certainly not a dream. Still when I raised the gun to the remainders of my identity, my name, I hesitated.

Then I took a deep breath, let it fill me, exhaled and pulled the trigger.