"Have cure, accomplished last night. Been giving it in single doses, time consuming, too slow. Would work with airborne administration but problem; environmental controls down, air circulation down, cut by vorcha or gangs an hour ago. Most efficient way to spread cure but also, sector is sealed, cannot survive without air circulation. Twelve hours, entire district suffocates."

Solus had only seemed to slow down moderately. Shepard was thinking about that boy out there, Tivel…and dozens of others like him as her eyes roamed about the lab. When they fixed back on him, he was looking at her intently. His gaze was calculating, measuring. It was the gaze of someone with a great amount of intelligence but also someone who knew how to do what had to be done. There were facts, and there were facts, and nothing ever changed them.

"You are a soldier, well-armed, made it this far," he continued, and held out a sealed bottle holding half a liter of a cloudy looking liquid. "Enough cure here for entire district, entire station. If put directly into air circulation, if fans restarted…everyone gets better."

"Right," Shepard replied, taking the bottle and passing it back to Miranda. "We'll get it done. When we get back, you and I are going to talk about the Collectors."

He blinked once, so rapidly she almost missed it. "Collectors? Yes! Not coincidence. Can't be coincidence."

"What isn't coincidence?"

"Plague manufactured, released. Only species not affected: human and vorcha. Vorcha do not have technology to manufacture plague, but suspect vorcha are distributing, not humans. Collectors have technology to manufacture as well. Collectors may have created plague, using vorcha as couriers."

"Why would the Collectors create a plague and release it on Omega?" Jacob asked.

"Why would they kidnap human colonies?" Shepard asked him. "I think Dr. Solus is right, I think this is linked. The vorcha are immune because the Collectors needed someone to spread the virus and they'd be no use in that capacity if they were at risk of dying themselves. Humans are immune because the Collectors want humans alive so they can sweep in and take them. I think this plague is a test run, to see if their virus, their distribution method, was successful."

"Even if that's true, why Omega?"

"Because nobody would care," Miranda answered, shaking her head. "Most of the galaxy would stand up and applaud if everyone on Omega either died or disappeared. And if it was successful, the Collectors could then sow their virus in a dozen different stations or cities across the galaxy before anyone knew what was going on."

"So what's to stop them from doing that even if we stop what's happening here on Omega?"

"No, not efficient," Mordin replied. "Plague cure developed, easily synthesized, no further risk. Collectors will abandon project as failure, turn to other means."

"What other means?" Miranda wanted to know. Mordin shrugged.

"Unknown. Impossible to speculate without knowing Collector motivation, thought processes, agenda."

"Doesn't matter right now, we're wasting time. People are dying," Shepard ordered. "We're moving out."

"Yes, must hurry. One more thing," Solus blinked again when Shepard glared at him in irritation. "My assistant, Daniel, took vials of cure before you arrived. Told him to wait, didn't listen, was going to fix environmental controls himself. Clearly did not make it. If you find him-"

Shepard nodded her understanding, but said nothing as she turned and strode back toward the clinic. Wading carefully through the throngs of sick and dying, they soon found themselves back on the deserted streets.

"This whole mess just gets stranger and stranger," Jacob shook his head as they walked, Shepard fastening her helmet down once again, checking her rifle. "What the Collectors are doing is unfathomable. Why are they so obsessed with humans, to the point they'll create a sickness to kill everyone else just to get to them?"

"I have a theory, but we can discuss that later," Miranda replied. "Right now we have to concentrate on getting that cure in and those fans on before anyone else dies."

"Minds on recreation," Shepard murmured, and Jacob blinked at her.

"What?"

"It means keep your head in the game," she replied. "Liara used to…never mind. Just keep moving."

In order to reach the environmental systems they had to cross two more small district neighborhoods. Since nearing the clinic they had seen fewer and fewer of the gangs but more and more vorcha. Shepard hated to think ill of any creature simply for its race, but even she couldn't help but hate the little bastards.

Barely more than that final primeval step between animal and sentient creature, vorcha had not even developed traditional flight, let alone space travel. Socially developed to an early Bronze Age level, vorcha had first ventured off their own world by stowing away in the vents and cargo holds of other space-faring races. They had since spread like wildfire, instinctively seeking out the slums, the dark corners, the dangerous places. Smart enough to use weapons and technology but not smart enough to develop any on their own, vorcha lived like parasites, and were often used as shotgun-fodder by gangs and merc groups, easily bribing them with food and guns and then sending them off as sacrificial infantry to keep the more important, more trained soldiers out of harm's way.

They had not evolved as a species for millennia, each vorcha capable of a small amount of individual 'evolution', their bodies adjusting to whatever environment they are most exposed to. A vorcha in a constant high gravity locale will grow denser muscle fibers, where another in a low oxygen environment will grow more fine capillaries and wider vessels in the brain. As such they were able to survive almost anywhere and were tough fuckers to kill.

By the time they reached the second residential area, Shepard was so full up of snarling laughs and bright grinning teeth that she wanted to spit.

Fucking rats, all of them, she thought as they finally finished taking down another wave of particularly tenacious vorcha. Goddamn fucking ra-

A sound, faint but clear, moved through the air, making her pause. She strained to listen, and when it repeated she pulled off her helmet, trying to focus on it.

"Shepard?" Miranda asked, only to halt when the Commander held up two fingers.

The sound was gone again. "Did you hear that?" Shepard asked.

Both Miranda and Jacob concentrated, listening a moment, before Jacob shook his head. "I don't hear anything."

Just at that moment, the noise repeated. "That," Shepard urged. "You had to have heard that."

"Shepard, we can't hear anything," Jacob said, baffled as he exchanged a look with Miranda.

"Shepard, it's your senses. They're still going through periods of hypersensitivity thanks to the experimental growth procedures on your brain. We can't hear it like you can."

The sound, fainter, echoed one more time, allowing her to pinpoint a direction, and she strode past Jacob toward a doorway leading into an apartment block. "Here. It's in here."

Carefully the three moved forward, weapons ready. It wasn't long before they heard voices, and edged toward an open door. Gesturing at the other two silently as she flanked the doorway, Shepard risked a quick glance within.

A human man, surrounded by armed batarians. He was wearing a lab coat, and even in her brief glance, Shepard knew exactly who he was.

Looking at Jacob Shepard held up four fingers, then pointed toward the right, indicating the number and position of the assailants. He nodded grimly. Closing her eyes a moment, fixing her motions in her mind, Shepard then smoothly rose and stepped into the room, her gun-site fixed on the head of the first batarian, the one holding his weapon on the human.

"Don't move," she ordered.

All four of the aliens looked at her in fevered surprise. Seeing Jacob and Miranda, the former also with gun raised, the latter blue with biotics, the last three wisely did not reach for their weapons…but neither did their leader lower his.

"Please, no one needs to get shot," the human said frantically. "We can just all talk this over-"

"Get out of here," the lead batarian growled at Shepard, never taking his eyes off the doctor. "We know what he's up to, and we won't let him do it."

"Just calm down," Shepard ordered. "This doesn't need to turn into a mess."

"It's already a fucking mess!" The batarian spat. "People dying, Aria locking us in this quarter to die, gangs roaming around, looting homes, killing people…and now what do we find but the very man spreading the goddamn plague!"

"I'm not spreading the plague!" the doctor said frantically. "I'm here to help…those bottles in my bag, that's the cure!"

"You expect me to believe that?"

The batarian kicked aside a small bag on the ground, taking a step menacingly toward the terrified medic.

"Hey, hey!" Shepard lowered her gun a little, holding her free hand out toward him in a universal 'wait' signal. "If he's spreading the virus I'll shoot him my goddamn self."

"What?" the word came from three different quarters…in surprise from Miranda, in suspicion from the batarian, and in terror from the medic.

"Just listen to me," Shepard urged. "Tell me your name."

"My…what?" the batarian's suspicion was now colored with confusion, and for the first time he took his eyes off the medic, blinking at her. She could see how gray he looked, fevered, weak. She lowered her rifle, then nodded.

"Yeah, your name. I'll even tip you mine…its Shepard."

"I'm…Karvak."

"Karvak," Shepard nodded, and completely shipped her rifle. "You don't look like you're feeling well, and your boys here look even worse. Look, I'll make you a deal. He says he has the cure, you all are sick. I say we put it to the test. Let him inject you with a dose."

"What?"

"If it's really the plague, you already have it…nothing changes. If it's the cure, you get better. Your boys get treated, we can distribute it among the sector and everyone goes home happy."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she could see his gun arm lowering. She kept her hands up. Miranda, never having been a marine, would not attribute the same meaning to it as Jacob would, but she would not attack unless Shepard did or gave the order. Jacob's instinct would be to take the batarian out of the equation the moment the hostage wasn't in immediate danger, and by keeping her hands up, Shepard was making it clear to him that's not what she wanted. Had she lowered them, the batarian would have already taken his last breath.

She could see the man was weighing her solution. He was sick, but clearly not stupid. He knew that he and his men stood no chance against the three healthy, armed humans…not in their condition.

"And if it is the plague? If he injects me and I don't get better?"

"Then you can shoot me right in the fucking head," she said. Reaching up she pulled off her helmet, dropping it to the side, before she unshipped and dropped all her weapons as well.

"What are you doing?" Miranda hissed, alarmed. Shepard cut a hand toward her sternly, a clear indication to shut up.

Moving over she stepped carefully in front of the medic, the batarian stiffening his arm again, his gun now pointed at her face. Shepard lifted a brow, then took a slow step forward, hands out to her sides, making no quick motions. Without hesitation, she moved until the barrel of his weapon pressed into her forehead, fixing her eyes on his.

"Right. In. The head," she stated carefully.

Karvak's gaze shifted a little, the tension in the room palpable, before he canted his head a bit. "Nuka, bring your gun."

One of the others moved forward, pulling his side arm and going over to Karvak's side. Jerking his chin at Shepard, Karvak then lowered his weapon as Nuka's pressed against her temple.

"She moves, or this doesn't make me well, pull that trigger," he ordered.

Shepard remained still, watching solemnly as the medic crouched and shakily reached for his bag. Drawing out an ampoule of the same foggy fluid that Mordin had given them, the prepared a dose. "It's…it's fairly fast acting. You won't get completely well immediately but you should feel markedly better within a few minutes."

"I'd better, or she dies and then you do," Karvak warned.

Daniel was notably nervous as he finished preparing the dose, offering up the ampoule attached to a small mask. "You…h-have to inhale it," he said. "Push the end there, and then take three deep breaths."

Watching the medic closely, Karvak placed the mask over his nose and mouth, then pressed the ampoule. Instantly the mask fogged as the liquid evaporated. Shepard watched as the batarian took three deep breaths as instructed, then lowered the mask.

Daniel accepted it back before running his forearm over his damp brow, watching intently. The batarian coughed a little, sniffled once, and then took a deep breath. A few tense moments passed.

"Well?" Nuka asked weakly, gun still held to Shepard's skull. "Karvak, did it work? Do you feel better?"

Karvak took another deep breath, gave a faint cough, then nodded. "Yeah…yeah, I can breathe right for the first time in days, don't feel as dizzy. I…think it worked."

The gun lowered from Shepard's head, Nuka's attention now on the medic. "Can…can I have some of that?"

Shepard smirked, glancing over at Jacob and Miranda as they relaxed their stances. Jacob just looked relieved, but Miranda looked pissed as her biotic aura vanished.

As Daniel prepared another mask, the other sick batarians closing in, eager to feel better, Shepard crouched at his side.

"Th-thank you," he told her. "They wouldn't listen to me. I just wanted to help them."

"Dr. Solus sent us after you. Coming out here on your own was a hell of a foolish thing to do."

"Yeah, I…I realized that when I had a gun shoved in my face," he replied.

"Finish treating these boys and then get your ass back to the clinic. Dr. Solus needs help there. We've got a bottle of the cure and we're heading toward environmental control, so we'll take care of that problem, don't worry."

As he nodded, Karvak looked at her. His color was much improved, and clearly he felt more comfortable. "You got some serious balls, human. Didn't think I'd ever see one of your kind taking a chance like that. Thank you."

"Well, you can repay me if you'll escort Daniel here back to the med clinic once he's done fixing up your friends. Shouldn't run into too much trouble but you've got guns…he doesn't."

"Yeah, I think we can handle that," he agreed.

Straightening, Shepard went over and picked up her guns, reshipping them and then taking her helmet. As soon as the three had stepped back into the hallway Miranda glared.

"That could have gone very badly very quickly, Commander," she said.

"Hey, I'm doing what you brought me back to do. You can't bitch about it now."

"Bringing you back was pointless if you get yourself shot in the head by a delirious batarian," Miranda retorted, then straightened as Shepard started away, heading not for the street but deeper into the building. "Wait, where are you going?"

"That sound I heard? The one that brought us in here in the first place?" Shepard reminded her, then shook her head as she pointed back at the room they'd just left. "Wasn't in there."

Baffled, the Cerberus pair followed her as she mounted the stairs, moving up to the second floor. When they reached the landing, the sound repeated and this time, they heard it as well. It was faint, but unmistakable…the sound of exhaustion, confusion, discomfort, pain, and misery.

Another door stood partially open, and Shepard had her pistol in her hand as she approached it. A limp hand, a smear of dark green blood, were on the floor just within. Scanning the room quickly with her pistol, Shepard eased through the gap, gingerly stepping over the dead salarian man just within.

This was no plague victim. The man had been shot at close range, probably by a group of looters, judging by the mess in the apartment. Furniture had been overturned, items thrown everywhere. Shepard shipped her weapon the moment the place was clear, just as that heart-breaking, plaintive sound moved weakly through the room.

Pinpointing its source, Shepard tore off her helmet, throwing it aside as she crouched and gingerly moved a large bassinette that had been overturned. A knot of blankets and bedclothes greeted her, and she carefully drew them away, baring the infant.

The little girl was asari, probably only a few months old. Her little nostrils were caked with mucus, her breathing a thick, burbling sound. The blue of her skin had gone ashen, a darker blue over her tiny cheeks and forehead, the flush of fever. She looked shrunken in her little pajamas, and as Shepard gingerly touched her, she shifted a bit, snuffling wetly before letting out another weak cry.

"Shh…shhh, it's ok," Shepard whispered, ever so carefully lifting the child. How long she had lain there could not be said. She may have had the plague before the looters broke in, shooting what was probably her father as he innocently answered the door. She may have gotten it later, as she lay beneath the carelessly tossed aside bassinette…where she had probably been peacefully sleeping when those greedy, uncaring bastards had come in.

Shepard trembled with fury at the thought that the looters had thrown the bed aside, sleeping child and all, completely without hesitation or remorse. She had not escaped the overturning unharmed. Even as Shepard cautiously lifted her, she could see the bruises on the child's forehead, the swollen arm that had a peculiar angle.

She had been laying there, alone, for at least a day, probably longer. The child was very ill, hungry and dehydrated, soaked through, hurt. Had she not been found she probably wouldn't have lasted more than another hour or two.

Gently wrapping the baby in one of the blankets, holding her carefully, Shepard straightened and turned, heading for the door.

"My God," Jacob murmured as he caught sight of the little girl, feeling fury rise up in him as well as he reached Shepard's same conclusions.

For the first time, Miranda's cold shell seemed to crack, her blue eyes swimming as she strode along at Shepard's side, forcing the door open a bit more so that the commander didn't have to squeeze to get out.

Daniel, Karvak and the others were still in the room downstairs. The batarians had been treated and all looked much perkier than they had. Daniel was just packing up the rest of the vials in preparation to head back to the clinic when Shepard entered.

His eyes widened when he saw the infant and he instantly rose, striding over and gently easing her from the commander's arms. Seeing the mucus, hearing her breathe, he went back to his bag and crouched, Shepard at his side. Preparing another dose he fit the mask over the little girl's face, the huge contraption nearly covering her from chin to forehead. She moved weakly, crying a little, but after a few more breaths the cries turned far more lusty.

"Her lungs are easing," Daniel said as Shepard sighed in relief. Removing the mask he gently wiped the thick clogging snot from the tiny nostrils, gingerly touched the bruises on her head. "She is still dehydrated, hurt…we have to get her back to the clinic right away. Did you find any parents?"

"Just her father, I think," Shepard said. "Dead. Didn't see any sign of her mother."

"A lot of families were separated in the quarantine. If her mother lives we'll find her."

"She going to make it?" Shepard asked softly. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes seriously.

"I don't know," was the honest response. "She's very young, and very sick. But she has a chance now, and if anyone can help her, it's Dr. Solus."

Reaching out, Shepard gently touched the little girl's cheek. As she did, the baby opened her eyes. Weary, pained, the child's sky blue gaze met Shepard's for just a moment, before they closed again.

Shepard clenched her teeth. "Go, take her. Get her there as fast as you can," she said, clasping Daniel's shoulder before she rose. The child was in his hands now, his and Dr. Solus's. Shepard had her own work to do.

The asari Matriarch stood in the doorway for a long while, watching the girl within as she spoke to the human woman, Osco.

He said her name was Eír, claimed her mother human. Buhto should have known better. He never thinks of subtleties. The girl is sixty if she is a day, and if my judgment of human age is correct, this Osco is not yet that old herself. She could not have sired this child...nor could any human have done so. Sixty years ago, they were unknown to the asari, to the galaxy.

Buhto had told her of the strange little family…the krogan boy, the asari girl, both who called a human woman 'mother'. Both, Buhto had said, incredibly strong both physically and biotically.

Strong, but untempered, untrained, foolish still with youthful bravado. There was a story here…a story that piqued her curiosity. How had this strange little family come into being? How was it that two such powerful children of two separate races called each other brother and sister yet shared no actual bond of blood?

Done with silent observation, Misira stepped into the room, the motion drawing the attention of the pair waiting there.

"Good morning," she greeted with a solemn nod of her head. "I am Matriarch Misira Seko, bond-mate to Dundrin Buhto."

The girl lifted her chin slightly, before inclining her head respectfully. "I am Eír Osco. This is my mother, Gellian."

"I am pleased to meet you both," Misira said politely. "My bond-mate has agreed to train you and your brother…and by extension, I have as well. As you are asari, I and my youngest daughter Shrive will be seeing to most of your instruction, while Buhto concentrates on Thug."

Eír glanced momentarily at Gellian, before she returned her gaze to the Matriarch. "I am honored, Matriarch."

"Misira will do," she replied with a faint smile. "Come. Shrive awaits us in the athenaeum."

"May…mother come as well?" Eír asked. Misira lifted a brow.

"I do not mind if she wishes to observe."

Leading them into the rugged complex, Misira was silent until the girl ventured with a question.

"What is an…athenaeum?" she asked.

"In short, it is a place of learning," Misira explained patiently. "On other worlds an athenaeum would be a library, part of a university or temple. Here…it is my place. Tuchanka is a hard world, Eír, and most of its beauty must be sought for. I built the athenaeum to display this beauty, to provide a refuge of peace and serenity and study, both mental and physical. Most of the krogan think it is silly, a pointless lark, but Buhto and Frek know its true worth. Battle is not always about simply hitting the hardest, charging the fastest or shooting with the biggest gun. Battle can be subtle, graceful, lyrical. It is about strategy, form, guile and wit as much as about brute strength. Even beauty can hide the most deadly opponent, and strength alone will never win a fight."

"That is why mother wanted us to come," Eír said. "We are strong, but we must learn things she cannot teach us."

Misira glanced at Gellian with a somewhat bemused expression. "Then your mother holds wisdom. It is a rare soul who can admit that some things are beyond their ability, that they are not all their children need in the world."

"You mentioned that we were going to meet your youngest daughter," Gellian ventured. "Do you have many children?"

"Four," Misira told her. "Two girls, two boys. My eldest daughter, Fier, is on Thessia with her own bond-mate."

"How is it possible you have sons?" Eír asked. Misira smiled at her.

"They are Buhto's boys, of course. We have been bond-mates since we were both young, but Buhto is a great battle master, heir to the clan of Dundrin. I could not begrudge him continuing his krogan line and strengthening his kind."

They moved down a set of steps and outside, soon passing through an archway and into the courtyard of a small building.

The courtyard was the first green they had seen since arriving on Tuchanka, and Eír felt her heart stop in wonder as she took in the sight. Soft grass carpeted their feet, draping curtains of emerald spilling over walls, blooming with tiny white flowers that looked like foam. Elegant sculptures almost seemed to grow from the very soil, stretching with impossibly delicate swirls, spires and waves. A fountain was part of the far wall, spilling water in a continuous flow into a pond ringed with purple and yellow blooms.

Ivy curtained a wide doorway that led into the building itself, spotted with flowers the same as the growth on the walls. As they headed that direction, an asari girl stepped through those curtains, arms outstretched to allow the draping plants to brush over her, draw along behind her before they finally slipped free and hung still once again.

It was not a dramatic act, not grandiose or put on for show or flattery. It was a simple joyful motion, the unconsciously tender gesture of someone who simply loved the brush of the flowers.

Misira gestured as the girl saw them and approached. She was dressed in a leather hunting coat that was short in front but draped in the back almost to her knees. Her trousers looked like soft, well-worn velvet, a dull brown in color. The girl herself was probably just a century in age, looking only slightly older than Eír. She was a shade or two lighter blue, her eyes a deep color bordering on purple, made more vibrant by the streaks of white face paint she had adorned herself with.

"Shrive, this is Eír and her mother Gellian," Misira introduced, then gestured at the girl. "This is my youngest daughter, Shrive Seko."

"My pleasure," Shrive replied with a polite incline of her head. Gellian returned it with a murmured greeting but all Eír seemed able to do was stare. If Misira or Shrive noticed the girl's rudeness they both ignored it.

"Shrive, Eír will be with us for training. Her brother Thug was just accepted into the clan and Eír is his krant."

"Father mentioned something about that," Shrive nodded, scrutinizing Eír with weighty measure. "He said she was strong, even for an asari."

"Strong, but undisciplined," Gellian agreed, then nudged her daughter. "And incredibly rude."

Eír stiffened, her cheeks heating as she scowled a little. "I am sorry," she murmured. "I am pleased to meet you, Shrive."

Shrive's lips flicked into a smile. "See if you are still pleased after you have been tossed around the yard some," she said. "I will not coddle you as your human mother might."

Eír glared. "Don't speak of mother that way. You will not find it so easy to toss me around the yard as you might think."

"Oh?" Shrive lifted a brow, then looked at Misira. "It seems you were mistaken, Mother. This one does not seem in need of any training. She is already strong and wise enough for anything."

Eír lunged forward, hands wreathed in blue…and suddenly found herself launched back, sailing through the air before she crashed to the grass. Gasping for air, she rolled to her feet, turning toward her attacker.

Misira had drawn Gellian a few steps to the side, both older women watching silently as Shrive strode toward Eír, her own hands lit.

"Never attack a foe in blind anger," Shrive stated. "An angry mind is a clouded and wasteful mind. That is your first lesson."

Eír let out a growl of fury and launched forward again, swinging a biotic slam toward her opponent. Shrive ducked into a crouch, batting the force of the biotic fury away a with a sweep of her hand and sending Eír sailing to the ground again.

"Every attack, no matter how powerful, can be defended if your opponent is clever enough," Shrive said as she straightened, the other girl struggling back up to her feet. "There is always a way to win."

Eír, blind with rage, drew in every ounce of power she could muster. A flare of biotics grew into a shield, into a wall, then into a roaring tempest. With an angry cry she flung it toward Shrive but the girl was no longer there. Enveloping herself in her own biotics, Shrive lifted up off the ground out of the path of the wave, arching elegantly high in the air, her coat flaring around her as her as her legs lifted over her head, toes pointing toward the sky. Completing her arch she landed on her feet behind a stunned Eír, snapping her arm around the girl's shoulders as the blade of a dagger dug lightly under her chin.

Eír was trembling, exhausted, having thrown so much power into that attack that she now could barely breathe. She could do little but stand there, weakly clutching the arm gripping her tightly, panting in impotent fury.

"And sometimes," Shrive whispered in her ear. "It is the smallest tool at your hand that will gain victory. Wars have been won with needles…or daggers."

"Let go of me," Eír grit out. The arm around her loosened, allowing her to drop to her knees. Her whole body was shaking, and she felt her muscles had been set afire.

Shrive stepped back, sheathing her dagger as Gellian and Misira approached. Gellian resisted the urge to rush to the girl's side, knowing such an act would only wound Eír's pride further. Misira looked at her daughter, then almost tenderly at the panting Eír.

"You are young, Eír," she said. "You have much to learn, but there is no shame in this. Loss gives us more power than victory. If you are wise you will never lose the same way again. If you are foolish, you will ignore our teaching and experience, you will turn a deaf ear to what we say, and in the end, you will go into the galaxy and you will fall."

Eír sat back on her heels, a brooding pout on her face before she let out a slow breath and looked up at Misira.

"I am not a fool," she murmured. "I will listen, and learn."

"Good," Misira smiled. "Then you have won."