No less than twenty years ago, a paragraph in the life of a Krogan, would he dreamed he'd have been on the Citadel. Now it was something of a habit. Part of his job as a security guard on transport ships meant ensuring cargo met their destinations. This one was a little different. He had dragged his son along. It wasn't an easy job raising a son on his own, but he had managed through a war. This was more of a vacation for the youngling. His first trip to the Citadel in all its glory.

Still, he could recall when he realized he was his.

"Were you around when the female camps sent the children over last week," he asked his friend.

"No I was out dealing with a varren attack. Why? Any promising warriors?"

"One of the children...probably five years from the rite? He had my eyes I think."

"Think you actually had a fertile female on one of your trips to their camp?"

"I...I must have…a child…my son. We played tackle the varren. It was...he was good. Fast. Strong."

"Of course he was. Any son of yours must be. Good for you. We'll get a ryncol to celebrate."

"Then they went back to the female camp...it was so fast. I didn't get to talk to him. Should I ask the female clan for rite of parentage?"

"Why bother with all the politics? You know you sired a son. That's enough."

"But I could teach him to hunt. The best way to shoot a gun. To fight with honor and savagery."

"You can do that next time they bring the children."

"It's not the same. I just wish…I don't know…that things could be different. That we could live together. Us, the women, and the children."

"You know we can't. We'd just be one big weak target. We have to keep the fertile females safe. The children safer."

"Damn the genophage. I think…I'll take you up on that ryncol later…"

That little glimmer of hope was everything he needed and he knew at that moment. All he wanted was a family. To be a father.

"Dad?"

His' son's voice yanked him from his thoughts.

"Why did you bring me all the way here?

The plates on his son's head had almost formed into a solid piece. His hump was slightly bigger than most kids his age. Already he earned scars from both the rite and those who thought less of him. The younger ones thought he was tainted being born during the genophage. The elders saw him as a strong breed for surviving at a time when few were conceived. In less than two decades things were drastically different than the six hundred years he'd been alive.

"This is the Citadel. Great warriors have come and gone. Monuments to their success stand tall, including your own."

His son looked at the giant Krogan statue. It paled in comparison to Tuchanka's and was far older and rugged.

"Doesn't look all that impressive."

"You young pup. When you get to be my age you'll appreciate how some things are still the same."

Despite passing by it numerous times it never lost its appeal to the old Krogan. It was merely a holo on the extra-net in his day. That's all. Something that was untouchable. Now he was standing before it.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't I have any other brothers or sisters? All my other friends have a lot of them."

The father sighed. His son was at that age where he was asking the big questions. Not about guns or explosives. Family and clan. Though the extra-net provided the answers about Krogan history, it was still customary to ask the elders; they had lived through the same history. And that footnote was always the hardest one to explain. Not because of the genetic witchcraft, but the feelings that resurfaced by its mention.

"Well you see...there was a time when Krogan fem...um...mothers couldn't have many children at once. It was very difficult."

"Didn't that mean they just had to try…harder?"

His father smirked to himself at the youth. This generation saw sex more for fun than offspring.

"It wasn't just a matter of nothing happening. Something always...happened."

His son watched his father's eyes fall to the ground.

"Many many piles of...stillborn...they covered Tuchanka. Can you imagine a thousand little corpses for every child you've seen?"

"...um no. I can't."

"And by the gods I'm glad thats something you never have to see. Laying a child that could have been yours amongst more of the dead. It demoralized so many. Left us with nothing real to fight for. It was a war we couldn't fight. Just a plague that loomed over us for a thousand years."

A relative silence was shared between the young and old until a question broke it.

"Was it true it was cured by a Salarian?"

He chuckled at the irony.

"Yes it was. Some of the elders shudder at the thought…as do some of the older Salarians…but the name Mordin is on the same tier as Wrex and Shepard."

He turned to his son and looked him in the eyes.

"Never. Take your life for granted. Respect every gift the gods give you. In an instant...they could be taken away just as quickly."

His son stood straight and proud, which was still something hard to get used to. It was hard seeing him grow up from the little welp he held in his arms not so long ago.

"So…I'm special," asked the young one.

His father's smile was shaky. Krogans don't cry. It was a truth because they didn't have the glands in their eyes. But if he could, he would have then.

"You're my son," he spoke with an iron voice as he patted his son's shoulder. It conveyed all the pride and love he had for him.

"Come on. How about we take you to the Fish Dog Food Shack like I promised."

The young Krogan nearly bellowed over.

"Still treat me like a kid, Dad."

He through an arm over and the two headed for the Citadel shops. They passed more memorials of both the old and the new scars. But he had his son. It was all he needed.